"We're pushing back." His voice carries quiet determination. "That security footage? It's Saint Industries' private property. If my parents claim they didn't release it—which they are—then whoever leaked it obtained it illegally. Ethan's working with our tech team to trace the source, and Caroline Mitchell is preparing legal action."
"Caroline Mitchell?" My eyes widen. "The media defense lawyer? Ares, she must cost—"
He grins. "I might not have access to the Saint billions anymore, but that doesn't mean I don't have money. Trust me, Red. I can afford to fight this battle."
"It's just..." I hesitate. "I'm not used to having someone fight for me like this."
His eyes darken with emotion. "You're not alone this time." His fingers thread through my hair, cradling my head. "We have resources, legal teams, people working around the clock to fight this. We'll weather this together."
Something in his touch, his words, ignites a different kind of need in me. A need to feel connected, to lose myself in sensation rather than worry.
I find myself crawling onto his lap. "Make me forget?" The whispered request hangs between us. "Just for a little while?"
His pupils dilate. "I can do that."
His mouth claims mine, hot and demanding. The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against mine as his hands grip my hips tighter. Heat pools low in my belly as he pulls me closer, until there's no space left between us. I lose myself in the sensation—the taste of coffee and syrup on his lips, the scrape of stubble against my skin, the way his muscles flex beneath my palms.
With obvious reluctance, I pull back just enough to breathe. "The breakfast..." I manage, though my voice sounds husky even to my own ears.
"Mmm." His lips trail down my neck, making coherent thought difficult. "Can't let those nutritional benefits go to waste."
I gaze through heavy-lidded eyes as he stretches for the breakfast tray, transfixed by his fluid grace. He prowls like a panther, if panthers sported impossible shoulder-to-waist ratios and Celtic knots swirled across their skin.
The sight of all that power and control, the way his tattoos shift with each motion, sparks an idea. "I want to paint you," I say with a grin.
Ares goes still, that devastating smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Oh? And what exactly are you interested in... capturing?"
"Your left elbow," I say quickly, reaching out to touch the spot where a geometric pattern swirls. "The way the light hits it creates this fascinating interplay of shadows and angles. And this spot right here—" My fingers trail up to the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. "The tension here tells a story of responsibility and strength. It's basically screaming to be rendered in oils."
He's trying not to laugh, I can tell by the way his jaw twitches. "My elbow and neck are screaming for artistic immortalization?"
"Absolutely. The negative space around your elbow? Pure poetry. And don't even get me started on the metaphorical implications of the trapezius muscle in modern art. People write dissertations about this stuff."
His fingertips brush under the hem of the shirt, cool against my feverish skin as they settle onto my bare hips. The realization hits me: nothing shields me from his touch but the thin fabric of his dress shirt draped over my shoulders.
His fingers press into my flesh, each circular stroke of his thumbs igniting trails of electricity that race through my body. My breath catches as he pulls me closer, the rigid line of his arousal burning against my thigh. I try to look away, to gather my scattered thoughts, but his gaze holds me prisoner—dark eyes boring into mine, pupils blown wide with a predatory intensity that makes my knees weak.
"You can paint me," he says, his voice low and rough. "On one condition."
I smile, liking this playful side of him. "Name it."
He leans in, his breath warm on my cheek. "I want to paint on you first."
My grin stretches wider across my face. "On me?"
His head dips in a nod, and something dangerous dances in his eyes. I open my mouth, ready to dive into a discussion about brushes and techniques, but his fingers press against my hips, stopping the words in my throat. When I look up, mischief sparkles in his gaze.
"Yes or no, right now, Red."
Heat blooms in my chest as I nod. His fingers find my shirt buttons, each precise movement charged with intent. "I've got this brilliant idea," he murmurs, his voice a deep rumble that vibrates through my bones. "Something to recharge my supposedly depleted stamina."
I lean into his playful mood, warmth pooling low in my belly. "Is that so?"
A soft "mhmm" escapes his lips as the final button slips free. My shirt whispers down my arms, cool air kissing newly exposed skin. Silvery stretch marks thread across my breasts—battle scars of growing up—but the way Ares's eyes darken, pupils blown wide with desire, makes me forget every perceived imperfection.
His arm stretches and I watch, mesmerized, as his fingers wrap around the crystal pitcher of maple syrup. "What are you—"
The pitcher catches the light as he lifts it, amber liquid dancing against glass walls. "You're my blank canvas, Red." His voice drops to a rough whisper. "And since you think my stamina needs work..." He pauses, eyes tracing invisible patterns across my skin. "Why not multitask? Create edible art while proving you wrong about my endurance."
