Am I really such a goner for kindness and compassion? I’ve seen her since I lost my shit at the gym over Thiago showing up again, but she hasn’t shown me pity. She hasn’t pressed me to talk to her or tell her what happened, and she doesn’t seem to be afraid after witnessing my fight with the wall.
She emanates strength. She’s strong in ways I wish I could be, and her softness, her gentleness... I want her more intensely than anyone else I’ve ever been with.
I realize I’m crowding her. Out alone late at night, she’s probably now afraid of me, the caveman, basically thumping his chest at the other guys who came out of the building. Except when I take half a step back, I could swear she leans forward.
“I can take care of myself, Ares.”
Fuck. Something about the way my name rolls off her tongue wakes me up in all the right places.
“You don’t have to.” You could let me. The last part goes unsaid, but my meaning is clear.
Her face softens, and she tilts her head like she wasn’t prepared for what came tumbling out of my mouth. I wasn’t either. I don’t do this kind of emotional… whatever the fuck is happening with this girl.
Instead of letting the silence hang between us, instead of answering the unasked questions lingering in her eyes, I slide my hand along her jaw and brush my thumb across her cheek bone.
It’s an asshole move.
She’s uncomfortable with her scars, and I’m touching her without her explicit consent, but I need her to know. I need to show her that her scars don’t bother me. We all have them, some outside on our skin, some inside. Scars remind us that we’ve lived, taken chances, endured,felt.Anyone who isn’t scarred, isn’t living, they’re just existing.
She sucks in a slow, trembling breath as her eyes flicker closed.
I can’t kiss her without her permission, and I can’t see her eyes to get even a clue as to what she might be thinking, so I lean into her, waiting. I need her to say something, anything: stop, go,what the fuck, Ares?I’ll take any of it.
I feel like an idiot standing caressing her face, but instead of tense muscles and her glaring up at me, she’s tipped her head back ever so slightly. It’s probably because I’m not holding the scarred side of her face, but a not-small part of me hopes she’s relaxing because it’s me holding her.
Her breathing has evened out, her tits sweep up and down my chest with every slow breath she takes, but her heartbeat flutters and races in her neck under my hand.
She’s like a duck on a lake—cool, calm, the picture of composure. But below the surface, her little feet are paddling frantically to keep her afloat.
“I want to kiss you, Eloise.”
Her eyes spring open, and her lips part enough to draw my attention back to them. Is her lipstick long-lasting? Or would I end up with hot pink smudges on my dick?
I can’t help my wandering thoughts. I tried to ignore it, but I’ve wanted this woman from the moment I saw her in my fucking manicure chair, and every time I see her, the want grows.
So does my dick.
“Why?” Her eyes have hardened, her lips are set in a thin line. Her chin tilt means something else now. Mistrust, cynicism, suspicion.
What does she mean, why? Why is she mistrustful now but acted like she wanted me to kiss her before I actually said it? Why does anyone want to kiss anyone? Because they’re attracted to them. What am I missing?
Maybe I’m not missing anything, maybe she’s been hurt before, maybe she’s just thinking about my reputation, who the fuck knows?
One thing’s for sure, though. I want nothing more than to press her into the wall so the bricks leave an imprint on her skin while I kiss her senseless. But if that’s not what she wants, I need to give her room to feel comfortable enough to say no. Creating a little more space between us, I keep my hand cupping her face, and decide to go with the truth.
“I think you’re beautiful, Eloise.”
Her breath hitches at my words, and she leans into me, exerting pressure on my hand. Her jaw quivers, and her eyelids flutter as though she’s struggling to hold back the tears welling in her eyes in the dim light.
“Now I know you’re lying.”
It’s not that this woman doesn’t want me to kiss her, but she thinks she’s somehow unworthy, and that’s a crock of shit I won’t tolerate.
Instead of dropping my hand and walking away, I cup the other side of her face too. She cringes and tries to flinch away from my touch. My thumb grazes over the bumps of scar tissue on her cheek as her tears trickle down her face.
“Look at me, Eloise.”
She shakes her head, making more tears course down her cheeks.
