"No?" His teeth graze my pulse point, and my knees nearly buckle. "Then you won't mind if I go ask her opinion on how this dress fits? She seems very... knowledgeable about fashion."
I spin in his arms and let my fingers fist in his shirt. "Don't. You. Dare."
His grin is pure sin. "That's what I thought." His thumb traces my bottom lip, his eyes following the movement. "You're magnificent when you're marking your territory, Red. But you should know by now..."
He backs me against the wall, one hand splayed possessively across my hip. "I've been yours since we were sixteen. No perfectly polished sales princess could ever compare to my fierce little artist."
His words make my heart stutter, but I'm not ready to let him off the hook just yet. "Didn't seem to mind her attention," I challenge, even as his proximity makes it hard to think straight.
His fingers trace up my side, leaving fire in their wake. "I was too busy watching you peeking past the door. The way your eyes flashed every time she touched me. How your jaw clenched when she laughed." His lips brush my ear. "You have no idea how sexy you are when you're jealous."
"I'm not—" My protest dies as his teeth graze my earlobe.
"You are." His voice drops lower, rougher. "And I love it. Love knowing you want me enough to stake your claim." His hand slides up my ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of my breast through the silk. "Love watching you remind everyone who I belong to."
Heat pools low in my belly. "Ares..."
"You look fucking edible, Red." His eyes are almost black now, hungry and dangerous. "Get the dress and get out of here before I do something that'll get us both arrested for public indecency."
I shouldn't push. We're in public, in a high-end boutique where discretion is everything. But the way he's looking at me, like he wants to devour me whole, makes me reckless. I take a step toward the dressing room, pausing at the doorway to glance over my shoulder.
"Maybe I don't mind a little indecency with you, Saint." I let my tongue dart out to wet my lips, watching his eyes track the movement. "After all, I am the unconventional type."
I duck into the dressing room, grinning at his muttered curse. The sexual tension crackles between us, electric and alive, even through the closed door.
"You're playing with fire, Jenkins," he warns, voice closer now. He must be right outside.
I press my palm against my chest, trying to steady my racing heart. "Maybe I like getting burned."
I'm ready to shimmy out of the dress when the door opens, revealing Ares. His eyes are molten heat as he slides in, shutting the door decisively behind him. In the mirror, his reflection meets mine, a predator stalking its prey. I swallow hard, pulse fluttering wildly.
"You should never challenge a Saint, Isabella," he growls, low and dangerous as he stalks closer. "We always hold you to it."
I shudder as his large hands skim up my arms, igniting sparks beneath my skin. His gaze burns through me, raking over my curves, promising dark, delicious things.
"Put your palms on the mirror," he commands, voice rough with need. I obey, even as a part of me whispers that we shouldn't, that we're in a store. But the predatory gleam in his eyes renders me mute, eager for whatever comes next.
He bends, pressing a searing kiss to my shoulder, then the side of my neck. I gasp, head falling back against him.
"Are you turned on, Red?" The question rumbles through me, vibrating in my bones. His eyes meet mine in the reflection, dark with possession, and I watch his hands slide up my ribs. "Are you wet for me?"
My breath fogs the glass as he presses closer, and I see it in crystal clarity—how perfectly we fit together, how right this feels. His darkness to my light, his control to my chaos. The way he touches me like I'm precious and unbreakable all at once.
"Yes," I breathe, arching into his touch. The silk of my dress pools at my feet, and I don't miss it. Don't miss anything but the feel of him against me, marking me as his.
The mirror shows us our truth—no more running, no more doubts. Just this. Just us.
A low, appreciative growl escapes him as he takes in the lacy scraps adorning my body.
"What a good girl you are," he purrs, hands mapping the curves of my breasts, my waist, my hips. "And so fucking pretty."
I shudder under his touch, back arching as his fingers dip beneath the lace. The first brush of his skin against my wet heat makes me cry out, forgetting where we are. He chuckles before pressing a finger to my lips.
"If you don't want to get caught, you'd better stay quiet," he warns, even as his touch grows bolder, stroking me through the soaked fabric. "Unless you want Miss Vivian to know what a needy little thing you are for me."
His thumb circles my clit, drawing a strangled moan from my throat. My hips buck into his hand, seeking more of that delicious friction. He obliges, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that have me seeing stars.
"So fucking wet," he grits out, while pulling the fabric aside and pressing two fingers inside me.
