Page 38

"Your left elbow," I say quickly, reaching out to touch the spot where a geometric pattern swirls.

"The way the light hits it creates this fascinating interplay of shadows and angles.

And this spot right here—" My fingers trail up to the curve where his neck meets his shoulder.

"The tension here tells a story of responsibility and strength.

It's basically screaming to be rendered in oils. "

He's trying not to laugh, I can tell by the way his jaw twitches. "My elbow and neck are screaming for artistic immortalization?"

"Absolutely. The negative space around your elbow? Pure poetry. And don't even get me started on the metaphorical implications of the trapezius muscle in modern art. People write dissertations about this stuff."

His fingertips brush under the hem of the shirt, cool against my feverish skin as they settle onto my bare hips. The realization hits me: nothing shields me from his touch but the thin fabric of his dress shirt draped over my shoulders.

His fingers press into my flesh, each circular stroke of his thumbs igniting trails of electricity that race through my body.

My breath catches as he pulls me closer, the rigid line of his arousal burning against my thigh.

I try to look away, to gather my scattered thoughts, but his gaze holds me prisoner—dark eyes boring into mine, pupils blown wide with a predatory intensity that makes my knees weak.

"You can paint me," he says, his voice low and rough. "On one condition."

I smile, liking this playful side of him. "Name it."

He leans in, his breath warm on my cheek. "I want to paint on you first."

My grin stretches wider across my face. "On me?"

His head dips in a nod, and something dangerous dances in his eyes. I open my mouth, ready to dive into a discussion about brushes and techniques, but his fingers press against my hips, stopping the words in my throat. When I look up, mischief sparkles in his gaze.

"Yes or no, right now, Red."

Heat blooms in my chest as I nod. His fingers find my shirt buttons, each precise movement charged with intent. "I've got this brilliant idea," he murmurs, his voice a deep rumble that vibrates through my bones. "Something to recharge my supposedly depleted stamina."

I lean into his playful mood, warmth pooling low in my belly. "Is that so?"

A soft "mhmm" escapes his lips as the final button slips free.

My shirt whispers down my arms, cool air kissing newly exposed skin.

Silvery stretch marks thread across my breasts—battle scars of growing up—but the way Ares's eyes darken, pupils blown wide with desire, makes me forget every perceived imperfection.

His arm stretches and I watch, mesmerized, as his fingers wrap around the crystal pitcher of maple syrup. "What are you—"

The pitcher catches the light as he lifts it, amber liquid dancing against glass walls.

"You're my blank canvas, Red." His voice drops to a rough whisper.

"And since you think my stamina needs work.

.." He pauses, eyes tracing invisible patterns across my skin.

"Why not multitask? Create edible art while proving you wrong about my endurance. "

The pitcher tilts, and I'm transfixed. Golden syrup threads through the air like liquid sunlight, landing on my skin with a cool shock that pulls a gasp from my throat.

It meanders downward, drawing glistening paths from my breasts to my navel.

His tongue sweeps across his lips. "Perfect," he breathes, tracking each sticky droplet with predatory focus.

When he leans in, catching a golden drop from my breast with his tongue, my body arches and pleasure sparks like lightning under my skin, each nerve ending coming alive under his touch.

My fingers dig into his shoulders as his mouth blazes a sticky-sweet trail down my body. His tongue sweeps across my skin, gathering every sugary drop, and the world narrows to just this—his hot mouth, my sensitized skin, and waves of sensation that leave me trembling and desperate for more.

"Ares—"

He claims my mouth, silencing me with a kiss that tastes of maple syrup and raw hunger.

His hands grip my hips, pulling me flush against him, his hard length pressing against my core in a promise that makes me whimper.

The room spins as he deepens the kiss, his tongue exploring my mouth with an intensity that steals my breath.

The sweetness on his lips mingles with our shared desire, creating an intoxicating cocktail that has me drunk on sensation.

When he pulls back, his chest heaves against mine, pupils blown so wide his eyes are nearly black. "Ready for your painting lesson, Red?"

My pulse roars in my ears as I nod, every nerve ending singing with anticipation. The air between us crackles with electricity, with promise.

"Then lie down."

My eyes dart to the pristine white sheets. "But they'll get ruined."

His mouth curves into that devastating half-smile that makes heat pool low in my belly. "Then I'll buy you new ones." The casual arrogance in his tone shouldn't be this arousing, but God help me, it is.

I roll my eyes even as electricity zips through my veins.

Damn him for making that cockiness so irresistible.

The mattress welcomes me as I settle back, cool cotton kissing my heated skin.

Ares looms above me, pitcher and plate in hand, his dark gaze tracking every tiny reaction like he's memorizing me.

"Now, where to begin?" His finger breaks the golden surface of the syrup, catching light as he lifts it. My breath hitches as he hovers over me, radiating confidence and wicked intent. "How about... here?"

Cold sweetness trails across my collarbone as he paints, his fingertip leaving fire in its wake.

"And here," he murmurs, drawing sticky patterns down to my navel.

His face scrunches in exaggerated concentration, bottom lip caught between his teeth, and warmth blooms in my chest at this playful side of him.

"What masterpiece are you creating?" Laughter bubbles up, spilling from my lips. My body feels weightless, floating in this moment that's somehow both overwhelming and freeing.

"This," he declares, circling my belly button, "is the center of the universe. And these—" he adds little dots around it "—are the stars that orbit you."

My laugh echoes off the walls. "You're completely insane."

"Insane for you," he growls, his finger trailing lower, drawing a path down my inner thigh. "And this," his voice drops to a rough whisper, "is the river of life."

A moan tears from my throat as his tongue follows that sticky trail, hot and wet against sensitive skin.

Without warning, he drags that wicked mouth higher, pressing one long, firm stroke against my center.

My hips buck toward his mouth, fingers itching to tangle in his hair and keep him there, but he retreats.

When he lifts his head, his eyes gleam with dark promise. "Got a bit... distracted."

He hovers above me, fingertips dancing across my skin in teasing spirals. Each touch leaves trails of fire in its wake, turning this artistic endeavor into something far more intimate.

"On your hands and knees, Red," he murmurs, voice rough with desire. "I have more masterpieces to create."

The sheets whisper beneath me as I move, cool air kissing my heated skin. His palm connects with my flesh in a playful tap that startles a gasp from my lips. "That's for being a living work of art," he growls.

The mattress shifts as he positions himself behind me.

His body radiates heat against mine, close but not touching.

Syrup drips onto my lower back, trickling down in cool rivulets that make me shiver.

His fingers follow, spreading the sticky sweetness, their warmth a delicious contrast that pulls a moan from deep in my throat.

Nothing else matters now—just his touch, his presence overwhelming my senses.

"What are you creating now?" The words escape breathless and needy.

"This," he says, fingers tracing intricate patterns, "is a constellation of pleasure. Each point marks a moment of pure bliss."

I laugh softly, cherishing his playful creativity.

"Time to perfect my work," he whispers before his mouth follows the syrupy trails.

My back arches. "Ares," I gasp as my fingers twist in the sheets.

"Patience, Red." His breath ghosts across my neck, followed by the feather-light brush of his lips. His palm slides down my stomach, fingers exploring lower until they find sensitive flesh. My hips buck as he touches me with expert precision. "Just making sure you're ready for me."

His skilled digits dance across heated skin, drawing patterns that make my toes curl and sparks race up my spine. Each stroke builds the tension coiling inside me.

"Perfect," he breathes, his thumb finding that sensitive bundle of nerves.

My skin tingles, chest heaving with rapid breaths. Heat pools in my core as he plays my body like a finely-tuned instrument, each caress drawing out new sounds of pleasure.

"Are you ready for me?"

I arch back, my spine curving like a drawn bow as liquid fire courses through my veins. "Ready as a canvas waiting for its artist."

When he finally joins us together, the sensation steals the breath from my lungs. His deep groan mingles with my gasping cry, echoing off the walls. My body trembles, adjusting to his presence. "You're perfect," he breathes, each word rough with passion. "Made for me."

I roll my hips, meeting him thrust for thrust in our primal dance. "Show me how perfect we are together."

His palms spread wide across my hips, fingers pressing deep enough to leave tomorrow's memories as he moves with increasing urgency.

Our bodies meet in a primal rhythm, the sound echoing through the space.

When I drop to my forearms, the new angle draws him deeper, pulling a sound from his chest that reverberates through our joined bodies and sends electricity dancing along my skin.