That was the thing about Ares. He didn’t just make women fall for him; he rewrote their lives. He branded them. And no matter how many girlfriends he had, no matter how many names the blogs threw around, I knew I was stamped in ways the others weren’t.
Because the camera might’ve loved me.
But it was his gaze I lived for.
And when he walked onto set, the whole room shifted.
Even the lights seemed to bend toward him.
Black designer jeans, gold chain with a diamond MJ charm. He had a black Tom Ford t-shirt hugging his chest, and designer shoes. His eyes slanted and almond-shaped, and his mouth curved in that dangerous smirk. The billionaire from Compton that they couldn’t stop writing about.
And mine.
I straightened my spine, arching my back just enough to make him notice.He always noticed.
“Take five,” he said to the crew, not asking.
Commanding.
They scattered like roaches. My heart raced.
“You’re late,” I said, smirking even though I wanted to melt.
He stepped close, towering over me, voice low.
“I don’t show up on anyone’s time but mine. You know that, Leona.”
“I know, but I thought you would be here to clap for me.” I pouted.
He grabbed my chin, tilting my face up. His eyes roamed like he was inspecting property he owned.
“The world claps for you,” he said, thumb brushing my lower lip. “But you don’t belong to them. You belong to me. You already got my approval.”
I rolled my eyes, pretending I wasn’t trembling. “Do I?”
His laugh was deep, dark, cruel.
“Yeah. You do. Let me remind you.”
He dragged me into the dressing room, closing the door behind us, and pressing me against the wall before I could breathe. His mouth crashed onto mine. Our kiss was rough, consuming, the kind of kiss that stole everything.
I clawed at his shirt, his chain hitting my collarbone as he shoved his thigh between my legs. My moan slipped out too easily. He smirked against my lips.
“You love me?” he asked, voice arrogant.
“I hate you,” I whispered, lying through my teeth.
“Nah, baby,” he growled, sliding his hand up my thigh, fingers pushing my panties aside. “You love me. You love it when I fuck you in public.”
His fingers slid inside me, deep and merciless, while his other hand gripped my throat. My head fell back, lips parting as he fingered me and rubbed my clit, making me gasp for him.
His leg pressed against mine, and I moaned without shame. He pulled back just enough to smirk.
“Déjà mouillée pour moi?”(Already wet for me?)
The way it rolled off his tongue made me shiver. I didn’t need a dictionary to know what he meant.
“Dis-le, (say it,)” he demanded, voice sharp. “Whose pussy is this?”
