Page 6

Chapter six

~ARES~

I hear her footsteps before I see her—soft and light, moving closer. My body locks up on instinct. My muscles go rigid. My breath stills. My pulse skips, then jolts back to its normal pace. And then I see her, standing in the doorway, watching me. There’s concern in her pretty big eyes, a small crease forming between her brows.

Shit. Did she see?

I was careful. I’m always careful. But for half a goddamn second, I slipped. Her eyes are sharp and filled with worry. A healer’s gaze. I fucking hate that.

“Something you need?” I clench my jaw.

What did you see, Irene?

She tilts her head, arms folding across her chest.

Defiant little thing.

“We haven’t scheduled your physical exam,” she says.

“Haven’t we?” My tone is lazy and detached, daring her to push more.

She does. She steps closer, tilting her head back to look at me.

“I think I know why,” she says, and my stomach tightens. She definitely saw. “The playoffs are coming up.” Her voice softens, turning quieter and understanding. “No one wants to get benched for an injury.”

“No one is getting benched for one,” I challenge.

Irene remains silent for a moment, looking up at me with a look I haven’t seen before. It’s unyielding, it’s defiant, it’s assessing. I remain silent, gritting my teeth.

“It’s your hip, isn’t it?” she whispers. “You don’t want anyone knowing you’re hurt.”

Yeah, she definitely fucking caught me wincing.

I step forward until there’s almost nothing between us.

“I don’t like people assuming things about me.” My voice drops low, hoping to scare her off. Surprisingly, she doesn’t flinch. There’s not a sign of the stammering girl from earlier. She’s in doctor mode, apparently.

“I don’t assume,” she says, her voice steady. “I see. And I see that you’re injured and need proper care. You’re only making it worse.”

She’s not stepping back. She’s not scared. She’s worried .

And I don’t like the way that makes my stomach twist.

“Show me where it hurts, Ares.” She moves even closer, her voice lower now. Like she’s speaking to a frightened child. I know that tone of voice. I’ve heard it a thousand times. I heard it whenever a new caseworker was sent to work with me. I expect her tone to send me back to that dark place, but instead, I find myself leaning into it, wanting to show her exactly where it hurts. And it’s not my fucking hip.

And then she reaches for me like she actually thinks I’ll let her touch me right here and get away with it.

Big mistake.

My fingers snap around her wrist as I grip it. Not enough to hurt but enough to startle her.

Her breath hitches, and the defiant look leaves her face.

Hello again, little thing.

Her pulse pounds too fast against my fingertips.

I tilt my head, dragging my gaze over her face. Wide eyes framed by long lashes and full parted lips. God, she’s fucking mesmerizing.

“You want me to show you where it hurts?” My voice comes out low and dark.

She swallows, her slender throat working up and down. Her chest rises and falls with each shallow breath she takes.

“Let go,” she whispers.

I don’t. Instead, I let my impulses drive me and tighten my grip just a little.

My eyes are locked on hers, expecting to see panic in them. But she doesn’t look scared. No, instead of panic, there’s fire in her eyes as her pupils dilate.

And I want to fucking stoke it. I should let go. Again, I don’t. Instead, I drag her hand slowly. And she lets me, not taking her eyes off mine. I guide her hand lower until her fingers barely graze my waistband right above my right hip.

That’s where it hurts, sweet thing.

Her lips part even more, and her breathing shudders. And then I lean down until my mouth is just inches from her ear, until I can hear the way her breath falters.

“Don’t try to touch me without my permission again,” I murmur.

Not because I don’t want her to. But because I’m scared of what I’ll do if she does. I’m barely holding onto my self-control without her hands on me.

She doesn’t move, snatch her hand back, or step away.

She just stands there, frozen, breath shuddering, her fingers on my waistband.

I let the silence stretch, let it wrap around her throat like a collar.

She swallows. Her lashes flutter. Her fingers twitch against my skin like she’s debating pressing them against me more.

That’s what does it. I can’t be in here with her. She needs to get the hell away from me before I subject her to everything I want to do to her. She’s too gentle, too sweet. She’s too…not for me. But fuck if that doesn’t make me want her even more.

She exhales, sharp and unsteady.

“You’re being extremely unprofessional,” she murmurs, breathy and weak.

“Mm,” I hum, leaning in. “Am I?”

I slowly let my fingers slide down, grazing over her knuckles and tracing the back of her hand. I want to see how much she’ll let me get away with.

And fuck me, she doesn’t pull away. I’m not holding her wrist anymore, yet her hand stays in place. I feel her fingers twitch again, just barely, like she’s resisting the urge to move. Like some part of her wants to touch me back.

I lean down, my mouth near her ear, breathing her in. She smells like something sweet. Like vanilla and warmth and innocence.

“How am I being unprofessional?” I murmur, tracing my fingers up her wrist.

Her breath hitches, and her pulse jumps beneath my fingers.

And then she shifts. Her fingertips brush my hips on purpose. It’s nothing. A barely-there touch. A whisper against my skin. But it’s a choice. She just chose to touch me.

Something hot curls up inside me, and I know I need to let her go. I need to. I drag her hand away from my body and let it drop to her side.

“You should be more careful where you put your hands, little thing.” My voice is pure gravel. “Next time, I might not stop you.”

I step back, watching her suck in a breath like she just surfaced for air.

I look her over, slow and thorough, lingering on the pink flush on her skin.

“No one is getting benched,” I murmur, my eyes locked on hers.

Then, I turn and leave. Because if I stay any longer, I won’t be able to resist finding out just how far she’ll let me take this

It’s late. Too late. The room is dark. The air is still. The city below hums faintly, muffled by the rustling of the trees outside. We’re usually out on Friday nights, but we have a game on Sunday, so we need our wits about us. And I need fucking sleep.

Instead, I stare at the ceiling, wide awake and unmoving. My body is a fucking trap—

coiled, tense, and ready to snap.

And my dick? A fucking problem. It’s been hard for over an hour, a persistent deep ache.

I exhale through my nose, sharp and frustrated. I shouldn’t be thinking about her. But I am. She’s pulling me in, and I don’t know why. It’s not just the heat I feel whenever she’s near; it’s something deeper, something I can’t quite reach. That face, those eyes, that smile that lights up the whole room. She’s taken hold of my every thought, and it’s driving me fucking insane. She’s driving me insane.

She looked at me with so much care in her eyes, so much concern. For a second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to have her take care of me. What it would feel like for me to take care of her back the only way I know how. My jaw clenches as my fingers drag over my stomach—a slow, absent movement. My breath hitches, and my muscles twitch.

I can still feel her. That soft little wrist in my hand. The delicate bones. The heat of her skin. The way she looked up at me with her beautiful, wide eyes.

She should have been scared. She wasn’t. She wanted to help me. And that’s what fucking broke me.

I clench my jaw. My breath comes heavier, my pulse thick, drowning out everything else.

She doesn’t belong in my thoughts. She doesn’t belong near me. But fuck if I can stop imagining her on top of me. Underneath me. That same wrist pinned to the mattress, her breath shaky, her thighs trembling as I spread them open, as I press my weight over her, as I force her body to understand what it means to be touched by me.

Would she shatter when I push inside her, that small body struggling to take it? I groan, low and rough, and my fingers wrap around my cock.

My breath stutters as I stroke once.

I think about her squirming, her back arching, her little whimpers punching the air from her lungs. My fingers squeeze.

Fuck .

I stroke again, from root to tip. And then again, thinking about the sounds she’d make. About the way she’d look up at me, glassy-eyed, lips parted, her body overwhelmed.

Would she beg sweetly? Or would she be too far gone to speak? A groan works its way up my throat as my hand moves faster.

I imagine wrapping my fingers around her delicate throat and letting them sit there for a moment before I tighten. To feel her swallow under my palm, hear her breath catch as her eyes flutter back, her little body not knowing what to focus on. The way I’d push into her deep, so fucking deep—

I groan, sharp and desperate, as my hips lift into my grip. My right hip protests in pain, but it only heightens the pleasure. It coils—vicious, twisting, and tight.

I groan, sharper this time. My grip tightens, and my pace quickens. I imagine her wrecked and hoarse from screaming and moaning. Her body shaking as I drag her through it all again and again until she has nothing left. Until she’s only mine.

The pleasure surges, brutal and unforgiving.

My stomach clenches. My breath locks.

And then I fucking break.

I come hard. My body locks up, every muscle drawn tight as I spill across my stomach, pleasure crashing into me.

The orgasm slowly subsides, and I groan like I just lost my goddamn mind.

And maybe I have. Because the last time I jacked off over the mental image of someone was in high school.

I lie there. Panting. My heart pounding, skin hot, and head full of her. Still her. Always her. I swipe a hand down my face, frustrated, fucking disgusted. Because I know it’s not enough.

I have to see her again soon. And then I’ll have to eventually sit there in that exam room and let her put her hands on me and pretend like I haven’t spent every waking second thinking about ruining her. Like I didn’t just jerk off to the thought of having her.

I squeeze my eyes shut before pushing myself up and heading for the bathroom. I clean up the mess, but I can’t scrub her out of my fucking head.

Christ.