“I won’t,” he promises immediately. “But does that mean you are okay or you aren’t?”
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly, voice strangled.
“Do you want Cillian?” Ares asks after a long pause.
The question catches me off guard. Cillian. Pale hair and ice-chip eyes. The way he looked at me in that basement, desperate and conflicted as Logan forced the bond. That he nearly died trying to protect me.
That I killed for him.
Yes, I want Cillian. The realization settles in my chest like a stone. Of all of them, he’s been the easiest to forgive. But wanting and trusting are different things, and I’m not ready to give any of them a chance to hurt me again.
“No,” I say, the word coming out sharper than intended. “I don’t want anyone coming in.”
“I know,” Ares says, and I can hear the understanding in his voice. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
Can he sense it? Even through the door, the change in my scent is likely something he can sense.
“I don’t need help,” I insist, even as another wave of warmth makes me shiver. This heat is mild compared to what it could be—what it would be without the suppressants in my system—but it’s still uncomfortable. Still demanding.
“Everyone needs help sometimes,” Ares says, his voice dropping lower.
I press my thighs together, trying to ignore the growing ache between them. “I don’t want to open the door.”
“I hear you.” There’s a smile in his voice now, something almost fond. “No one’s coming in. But that doesn’t mean you have to suffer alone.”
“What are you suggesting?” I ask, suspicion edging my tone.
“Nothing you don’t want.” His voice takes on a different quality—smoother, more deliberate. “Just talk. Just my voice.”
My heart rate picks up, understanding dawning slowly through the haze of early heat. “You want to talk me through it.”
“If you want me to.” The offer hangs in the air, neither pressure nor dismissal. “I still think about the last time we were together, you know. How responsive you were. How beautiful.”
The memory hits me with unexpected force—Ares’s hands on my thighs, his mouth at my center, the way he’d made me feel both vulnerable and powerful at the same time.
“You trembled when I touched you,” he continues, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Not from fear, though. From wanting. From needing. Your scent was so sweet, heady enough to get drunk on.”
My breath catches as heat pools between my legs, my body responding to his words as surely as if he were touching me. This is dangerous. This is exactly what I’ve been fighting against—the way my body makes me vulnerable, makes me need.
But he’s not coming in. He’s not taking. He’s just... offering.
“I remember how you tasted,” Ares murmurs, and I can picture him on the other side of the door, eyes closed as he recalls the memory. “Sweet on my tongue. The little sounds you made when I licked into you, like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to pull me closer or push me away.”
My hand moves of its own accord, slipping beneath the waistband of my loose-fitting pants. I’m already wet, already aching, and the first touch of my fingers against sensitive flesh pulls a gasp from my throat.
“That’s it,” Ares encourages, his voice a low rumble. “Touch yourself for me. I can hear how much you need it.”
He can’t see me, I remind myself. This is still my choice, my control. I can stop anytime. I can tell him to be quiet, and he would respect that. Wouldn’t he?
“Remember how I filled you?” he continues, seemingly unaware of my internal struggle. “How perfectly you stretchedaround me? You were made for taking Alpha cock, Maya. Made for taking mine.”
A moan escapes me before I can swallow it back, my fingers circling my clit in tight, desperate movements. I should be embarrassed—I am embarrassed—but the heat makes it hard to care. Hard to remember why I shouldn’t want this.
“That’s it,” Ares praises, his voice rougher now. “Let me hear you. Let me know how good it feels.”
I bite my lip, determined to stay quiet even as my body betrays me. Some stubborn part of me refuses to give him the satisfaction, refuses to let him know how much his words affect me. But my breathing grows heavier, more ragged, impossible to disguise.
“I know you’re trying to be quiet,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Always so stubborn. But I can smell you through the door, Maya. I can smell how wet you are, how ready. How ready you are to take a knot.”
