Page 51 of Heroes & Hitmen
I can handle this. I’ve survived growing up in the Tower, multiple perusals, and having a literal sociopath for a father. One mortifying run-in with a naked man isn’t going to kill me.
My legs are wobbly as I push away from the door and stagger toward the closet, mind churning a mile a minute. Once I’m inside the massive walk-in, I yank my pajamas off with jerky movements and hurl them onto the floor, trying to distract myself with picking an outfit.What’s the appropriate attire after walking in on your fake mate with a boner?I settle on a high-waisted denim skirt, a fitted black tee, and a lightweight houndstooth cardigan that makes me look responsible and put-together, which is the exact energy I’d like to project to literally everyone in my orbit today.
I feel marginally better when I emerge from the closet and sit down at my vanity, picking up my hairbrush and combing it through my tangled strands. My hands are still shaking, though, and every time I close my eyes, I see that look on Ares’ face. Completely unashamed, not even a flicker of embarrassment. Like he thought I’denjoythe sight of him jacking off. The guy’s self-confidence borders on delusional.
I’ve just finished my hair and makeup when the bathroom door swings open behind me with a dramatic whoosh of steam. My spine goes rigid as Ares strides out and I take in his reflection in my vanity mirror. He’s wearing nothing but a towel, low-slung and clinging to his hips in a way that should be illegal. His red hair is damp and slicked back, water droplets running down the hard planes of his chest. He looks like a statue come to life; the living embodiment of the Greek god he was named after.
I quickly avert my gaze and try to focus on my own reflection. My cheeks are visibly flaming in a way that can’t be passed off as makeup, but I try to cover it anyways, swiping at them with a blush brush while Ares saunters over to the dresser. He opens it and starts digging around, an easy grin tugging at his lips like this is just another Monday and not the aftermath of a disaster.
“Maybe knock next time?” he remarks, catching my gaze in the mirror and cocking a brow.
I drop the brush and glare back at him. “Maybe lock the damn door if you’re gonna…” I trail off, making a vague, circular gesture with my hand, refusing to say it out loud.
He shrugs a thick shoulder. “Didn’t think I needed to in my own home.”
“You’re the worst,” I huff.
“No, I’m a man,” he retorts, grinning wider. “What do you expect me to do when you’re walking around here looking likethat?” He sweeps an arm in my direction, hungry eyes raking over my form.
I nearly choke on my own saliva. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he chuckles, not missing a beat. Then he pulls a pair of black boxer briefs out of the drawer and lets the towel drop.
Jesus.
He’s even bigger than I remembered, and not just in height. I only catch a glimpse before he tugs on his underwear, but thatglimpse is enough to haunt my dreams for at least the next ten years.
“You could’ve joined me, you know,” he says, stretching his arms over his head and making all his muscles flex in an obnoxious display of athletic superiority.
I snort a laugh, shoving it down as fast as it escapes. “Yeah right.”
“Why not?” he asks, sauntering over to loom behind me.
I tilt my chin up to hold his eye contact in the mirror, refusing to back down. “Because we’ve already established that I’m not interested.”
He grins, white teeth flashing. “Liar.”
The word hangs in the air like a dare, our eyes still locked, tension ratcheting up until I swear I can feel it tightening around us like a noose. Neither of us blinks. I barely even breathe.
Then I suddenly remember why I’m in such a fucking hurry, twisting around on the vanity stool so he can feel the full force of my glare. “Why didn’t you wake me?” I demand.
He blinks, caught off guard for the first time all morning. “What?”
“I’m gonna be late for class,” I snap. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
He swipes a hand over his chin, then shrugs. “Didn’t know you had class today.”
“Don’t act like you didn’t memorize my schedule.”
“Okay, guilty,” he admits, chuckling to himself. “But in my defense, you looked peaceful. Figured you could use the extra sleep.”
I narrow my eyes on him, fighting the urge to pick up my hairbrush and launch it at his head. He just smirks back at me, completely unbothered.
“You’re cute when you’re angry.”
“Stop,” I say, voice cracking under the weight of everything I’m fighting to keep contained. “Just…stop.”
But my eyes are already betraying me, wandering down his sculpted body. I drink in the hard lines of his abs, the ink on his ribs and right pec. The muscles in his forearms, the veins that stand out when he clenches his fists…
