five -Ares-
five
-Ares-
I look down the stairs, half expecting to duck another bottle and half trying to understand how the fuck she got me to open the door.
She’s at the bottom of the stairs, on the floor, her legs curled beside her as if she collapsed, maybe even crying, judging by the redness in her eyes.
But it was too late. The murderous intent written all over my face doesn’t subside, and walking over shattered glass as I come down the stairs doesn’t help with my anger either.
She moves the second she sees me, trying to get back to her feet to face me, not like a hurt princess, but like the warrior I know she is.
I reach the bottom of the stairs, just as she rises fully to her feet, contempt in her eyes, her limbs shaking—not out of fear, maybe anger, or maybe she’s just exhausted. At this point, I don’t even care. All I care about is her learning a lesson. No one fucks with me.
I don’t expect her to say anything; I don’t even have the necessary patience right now to listen.
I just reach out and clasp my hand around her fragile neck, pinning her to the wall behind her.
Her eyes widen like she wants to say something, maybe fight me back, the hate obvious as she scratches at my chest and tries to hit me so I’ll release her.
“Let me fucking go,” she screams, fury—and something else—in her voice.
A hint of desperation as she realizes how powerless she really is in front of me. How easily I could break her.
Still, that doesn’t make me back down. The darkness within claims its prize, and I can’t be blamed. She awakened the devil inside.
I lift her higher against the black brick wall, her chest rising and falling as she struggles to breathe. Her heart thumps like a rabbit’s, and the predator part of me is fully turned on. So fragile and helpless right now. So completely at my mercy.
My arm goes higher, and she gasps as she tries to keep her balance, her wounded leg barely holding her up. She’s in pain, and even if a couple of weeks ago, I would have given anything to protect her, now I want to hear her suffer for me. To pay for what she’s done.
Then, the weakness in her eyes fades, and she takes her shot to claw me again, even shifting her weight onto her broken leg, as she tries to kick me in the nuts. I block it easily before she gets the chance, yet her will, her strength, her failed attempt does nothing but intrigue me.
I snarl a warning for her to stay still.
I can’t guarantee her safety or what could happen if she pushes my patience even further.
And she’s dangerously close to doing so.
I notice one of her hands slowly reaching into the pocket of her joggers.
The movement very smooth and controlled for someone who’s lingering on the edge of life and death.
Maybe if I didn’t have a trained eye, I would’ve missed it.
But I don’t, so my hand reaches into her pocket before she gets a chance to pull whatever she was hiding. I’m not surprised to find a knife. Now that I have… finders keepers.
“Were you planning on finishing the job?” I ask, my voice rough, barely human. She’s seen me like this before, and even so, she doesn’t seem to care about what I’m capable of.
“Let me go,” she fights back as I open the knife in front of her. At least that gets her to shut up, because there’s a devious intent in my eyes telling her I have no idea what I’m about to do next or if I’ll be able to control myself.
I’m a man of many resources and plans. If I want to hurt her, I don’t need a fucking knife. Yet she does. So, I pry open her palm and slip the knife into it, turning the blade toward me.
“Use it,” I press the tip against my chest. “If you think you can kill me with this, then do it already. I’m fucking sick and tired of your games.” I roar, anger seeping through every pore. I'm never the one to be fucking played.
Her eyes lock onto mine for a few seconds before she admits to herself how helpless she is in front of me.
When she finally comes to terms with the fact that she doesn’t make the call in this situation, she drops the knife and slaps me.
The loud sound filling the room, but just a small sting across my face. One that makes me return the favor.
I slap her back, not across the face. I slap her on the ass—well, as much as I can manage, since she’s mostly pressed against the wall.
My palm lands mostly on her thigh, and she’s lucky the brick behind her softens some of the impact.
Still, I know the sting is still there, as her whole body shakes, trying to handle the pain.
No matter how hard she bites it back, she can’t conceal a whine.
That sound does something to my senses, and all of a sudden, I want to do everything to her. From death to torture, to owning her, to loving her, to fucking her.
I snarl back as I realize my hand is still on her thigh, my fingers running over the material of her pants, slowly slipping inside, pushing them down until they pool at her feet.
I shouldn’t be doing this, but somehow I can’t stop, like something beyond my will is guiding my hand, the temptation too loud to ignore. My fingers close around the bare skin of her thighs. If my slap didn’t leave marks, I sure as hell do now.
To my surprise, she doesn’t fight me back this time. Like when you throw your opponent completely off, and they know it’s checkmate.
Her lips tremble, but it’s not to speak, more like anxious to know my next move.
A logical move would be to tighten the grip around her neck and fucking kill her.
That’s what I do to my enemies. Although all reason tells me she’s one of them, my fucking heart says otherwise.
For a while, I even doubted that I had a heart, but now I’m all too aware of it—of how it threatens to fucking break.
So instead of doing the right thing and fucking strangling her, I do the stupidest damn shit in this whole fucked up world.
My fingers slip between her thighs and up between her legs, making sure to leave bruises along the way.
I need her to feel some kind of punishment for what she’s done, maybe to fool myself that I’m not weak.
That the fucking monster within isn’t too weak when it comes to her.
It’s the only way I can live with myself.
Her eyes hold the same surprise, but she doesn’t flinch, like she’s afraid of what might happen if she does.
That I might snap out of my fucking temporary insanity and actually live up to my role as the God of War.
Because right now, I’m a sorry excuse for a warrior, maybe even a man.
What's even worse is that I'm fully aware of that, and I still can’t fucking stop myself.
I want to scream out my rage. To break something, maybe even destroy the whole world, but all I seem able to do is search for proof that she still wants me.
For that wetness pooling on my fingers, coating them so completely that I feel like fucking Winnie the Pooh and her tight cunt is my honey pot.
Me, Ares, God of War, subdued by a fucking pussy. I still can’t help the internal vibration, the eagerness of my fingers, the tightness in my body as my cock twitches to get inside her, like that’s where it belongs, and I’ve been keeping it away for far too long.
I play against her folds, doing my best not to betray how fucked up I really am right now. How I went, in less than a minute, from wanting to rip her to pieces, to desperately needing her to scream my name.
Maybe I’d snap out of it if I didn’t recognize the same lost gaze in her eyes. She’s given up all resistance, as if her earlier goal wasn’t for me to release her, but to get me to take her to my bed.
I think it’s the first time in my existence I don’t fully understand what I’m doing, or even what I should be doing.
I only know I’m letting my body’s need take over reason as I feel her juices slipping over my fingers, and for some dumb reason, a part of me feels at ease.
Like I’m fucking relieved she still wants me, or maybe I’m just relieved that this part of us was true. Because the rest was a damn lie.
Anger flashes in my eyes as I let myself be consumed with that thought again, the rage so strong, I’m on the brink of committing murder.
But then I feel it. The slight shift in her breathing, so anxious to have me, even if it betrays everything she believes in.
It takes great strength to be so determined to kill a man like me.
Yet it seems it takes even greater strength to resist me.
I’m not declaring a night of peace between us. I’m just not declaring war tonight. Except for the war that’s already going on inside of me.
I want to be able to stop myself. To stop this madness from taking control, and the feelings that don’t align with my thoughts. I just can’t. I’m weak in front of her. Weak as I feel her tight pussy swallowing my fingers. Like it’s the only reason she even exists anymore.
She’s here as a product of the temporary insanity that’s taking control of me. Or maybe as a product of my deepest desires. All I know is there’s nothing I want more right now than to feel her rocking against me.
As if she’s listening to my thoughts, she does.
Her hips slowly come to life, grinding around my fingers.
I’m still trying to hold myself back, trying to stop myself from losing a part of me I never knew I had to share.
That makes my movements insufficient for her hungry pussy.
The slower I move, the faster her hips chase my digits.
Still, I can’t help but notice the pain streaking across her face. Her nose flinches, lips curve every time she forgets and puts her leg down harder than she’s supposed to. Like a reminder, that everything has a price. Hate, love, possession... you have to pay for all in the end.