Chapter 13
thirteen
-Brynn-
I close my eyes just for a second, trying to deal with the shit in my head. And there’s a lot of it.
I don’t know what I’m doing with myself lately, and to totally confuse myself, I glance up just to see Ares walking up next to me.
“I’ll be right back. I just needed a second,” I mutter, annoyed I have to explain myself to him, but I don’t want to wait for him to give me shit about abandoning my position.
“Something bothering you back there?” he asks with a certain intonation in his voice.
Was something supposed to bother me back there?
I tip my head back for a brief second, trying to bite back my tongue. “Yes,” I murmur, my voice raw with exhaustion.
“Do tell,” he presses, amused impatience in his voice, like I’m about to confess he can go screw himself, along with his new girlfriend—or whatever she is.
But if he wants an answer, I’m going to give him one. “My feet are killing me. No one can stand on these heels for this long.”
“Oh, I see,” he says, taking a step closer. His hands move gently to one of my calves, making sure he peels off my shoes first.
It feels like heaven. I didn’t realize how bad my feet hurt until they found freedom. He then lifts one of my legs, gently enough to make it extremely sensual. His eyes lock onto mine, making my pulse bolt like it’s a damn racehorse.
I fucking hate him for making me feel this way. But I can’t help myself from wanting him all over me right now. And I’m not talking about just his hands.
As if he’s listening in on my thoughts, he lifts my foot, his fingers brushing over my sheer pantyhose, then gliding along as he rubs to ease the pain.
It feels so fucking good—almost unreal. And maybe it is unreal because just a few minutes ago, he had that tramp draped all over his neck.
A surge of anger overcomes me again, just thinking about how he stood me up. Or maybe I set myself up to fail.
I never planned on being his conquest, but the princess treatment had an effect on me I didn’t expect. I never received gifts. Except for the things Elias got me. But nothing else. Definitely not anything as extravagant as this dress.
The main problem is that I was never cared for. I’ve always been on my own, at least financially. And it felt nice for a change. But maybe it’s all in my mind, and the dress is just his way of making sure I don’t embarrass him, since he paraded me out as his image for the night.
I don’t know what to believe about this man anymore, especially as he keeps rubbing my foot, then sets it against his chest while reaching for the other one, like he’s just making room to get what he’s really after.
Now would be the perfect moment to let my foot slide down his shirt, over his pants, to check out that impressive bulge and press my toes against it. I’d let my foot glide off the fabric until I’d feel him hard beneath it, his breath hitching and his muscles tensing.
But the very next second, I get the urge to kick him in the face. I’m no one’s toy. Nor am I a whore to be tossed aside for a better option.
He cut a man’s dick off for sending me a picture, yet he shows up flaunting another woman.
Well, fuck him. I pull my legs back. “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.” I snap, my feet hitting the ice box with a loud thump.
“You don’t, huh?” His brow furrows as he takes a step backward. The lust in his eyes turns into a shadow of anger. I’m guessing he doesn’t hear the word no that often.
I’m back on my feet before he knows it, scrambling to get my shoes back on.
“Then, if you’re fine, your break’s over. I expect you back in two minutes,” his words cut right through me, like he’d slash me right here if I dared to contradict him.
I let him leave first, then follow him back to the fucking table.
And if him ordering me around isn’t bad enough, my pussy’s damn reaction aggravates everything.
The treacherous hoe can’t stop thinking about him.
I feel it every time I’m near him. Maybe because he’s the only man who ever made her feel anything.
At least anything I haven’t forced myself to feel.
Because sometimes I try way too much to get aroused, to enjoy a man’s touch—or even sex.
Just so I won’t feel so broken for a while.
Well, I’m not going to let my cunt get me killed. People die from bullets, not from a lack of sex.
I return to the table and notice a bottle of Dom Pérignon Rosé Gold Limited Edition. Of course, he took out the good stuff for her. And the bitch doesn’t even seem impressed that the champagne in her glass costs more than my car.
What really gets me is how she seems to be extra nice to everyone, like she’s flirting with every damn human being in sight.
And I know exactly why she’s doing that.
She wants the spotlight; she wants everyone’s attention so she can be the celebrity of the night.
I’m just surprised that Ares doesn’t seem the least bit bothered.
Especially, since I just watched her brush a waiter’s arm.
And that was no accident.
How the hell do I get an appendage in my trunk, while this one almost humps the first guy she lays eyes on?
That just pisses me off more. I feel like I’m going to pop a vessel while my feet explode because I spend another two hours watching that bimbo flirt with Ares, or whatever the fuck she’s doing. And he doesn’t flinch in annoyance once, unlike the 24/7 irritation I get out of him.
I think some of my blisters have ruptured by now, and the only thing that distracts me from this hell is trying to eavesdrop on the guards around me.
They’re talking about something big that’s coming in the next couple days, and I know exactly what that is.
Just another confirmation that Ares is elbow-deep in this.
It’s almost five a.m., and this damn party doesn’t seem to be dying. I guess dropping that much on a ticket makes everyone think they should party till sunrise. But just as I’m watching my watch—exasperated that I’ll have to stand for even longer—I see Ares signaling his guards that he’s leaving.
As much as I want this night to be over, I don’t want to watch him leave with her.
He offers Goldilocks his hand, helps her up, then escorts her out of the club without so much as a glance my way. Motherfucker.
They’re probably heading to his place, and I can’t stop these damn nerves from making me explode into pieces.
I leave as soon as I see him out of the club and head to a delivery zone in the back of the bar. I need to calm myself somehow. But all I seem to be doing is piling up more and more anger.
I’m not even angry at him. I’m angry at myself for being angry at him. For being this weak when it comes to this man, even if I know damn well what he really is—a killer.
My whole body is trembling. I just try to convince myself it's because he’s a jerk, not because I’m a fool. But there’s an attraction between us I just can’t ignore, and my fist slams the wall, not hard enough to break the drywall, but hard enough to hurt my hand.
I want to do it again because I feel the pain redirect my anger, maybe it morphs it into something else.
I’m hurt, and I don’t even know why. But just before I get to punch that wall again, someone grabs my arm and shoves me against the wall from behind.
“You should’ve told me you like pain. I enjoy provoking it,” a voice whispers in my ears, and I know exactly who it belongs to—Ares.
What the hell is he doing back?
“Aren’t you supposed to take your girlfriend home?” I mutter, unable to stop the jealousy from surfacing.
And of course, he instantly picks up on it. “My girlfriend… interesting choice of words. Is that what you think she is?”
“I don’t know, maybe she’s your fuck toy…” I mutter as he presses me harder against the wall, his taut chest molding to my back as his hard cock digs into my dress.
I try to fight him to break free, but he’s much too strong for me.
“She’s not my fuck toy,” he breathes, burying his nose against my ear. He lingers there, as if he’s breathing in my scent. “You are,” he suddenly spins me around, and even before I have time to process what’s happening, his lips crash onto mine as if they’re famished to devour me.
I want to fight the kiss, especially after he humiliated me earlier.
But I know that wasn’t humiliation. It was a lesson. At least that’s how he sees things. He’s trying to control me.
What he needs to know is that I can’t be controlled.
I bite his lips, my hands pressing in the center of his chest, hard enough to push him away. “I’m not your fuck toy,” I snap, ready to tell him to go straight to hell.
But fire sparks in his gaze as I defy him. Something tells me he doesn’t want a toy. He wants a challenge. Because the very next moment, his mouth crashes back onto mine. “Good,” he growls, deepening the kiss and lifting me to his waist.
The man’s fucking unhinged. His madness is the most alluring thing in the world. I want to fight him. But there’s something within me that won’t let me. All I can do is fight his tongue for dominance. Each pulse drags me deeper into a madness I never thought possible.
He groans with each one of my responses, and I want to fucking punch him as much as I want him to fuck me raw. Which leaves me dangerously undecided.
But my plan is finally back on track. And what’s so wrong with me finding some pleasure as I go along with it?