Page 12 of Mafia Obsession

I get ready for bed thinking about the man from the club.

He not only got my purse back for me, but he snapped at David when he manhandled me. And without recourse. Very few men challenge my husband, but Ares didn’t think twice.

My body hums as I think of those broad, wide shoulders and strong jaw. Sable brown hair and gray-violet eyes. Big tattooed hands that I can feel on my body. And very little body hair on that fine tawny skin, at least from what I could see in his partially open shirt.

It took every ounce of my strength to feign disinterest. But he absolutely took my breath away. He was simply magnificent. Statuesque. Like…a God.

Ares. The God of War.

In a word. Fucking gorgeous. Okay, that’s two words.

And I’ll never see him again.

Chapter 5

Ares

The bedside clock reads 4:30 a.m.

Like every morning, I wake before the alarm. My body trained itself. Yet my taut muscles protest this morning just pushing the covers aside. Sleep did not relieve me of the gnawing stress from last night’s drama at Winterhall.

Squeezing my eyes shut, champagne-blonde hair fills the dark space behind my lids.

Lourdes.

I’ve never woken up and immediately thought of a woman.

That has me quickly getting out of bed and into my routine. Routine breeds discipline. Discipline feeds my need for control. And rigid control has never failed me.

I flick on a lamp and grab my workout gear. Outside my window, the sound of light traffic hums on Fifth Avenue.

I rule Lower Manhattan, and it’s time my presence reflects it. My new center of power, the Aurelian, is almost ready.

I roll my shoulders, loosening the muscles in anticipation of a tough workout. Yet, with every breath, I feel a stutter. Something’s not right. Pulling on shorts, a tank top, socks, and sneakers, I’m distracted by the memory of amber eyes.

By the time I step into my home gym, she occupies every corner of my mind. Slender fingers with long nails wrapped around the margarita glass, her pink tongue darting out to lick the salt. The way she held my gaze a fraction too long. The pause before she said her name.

I add extra weight to the barbell for my bench presses today.

The memory of her shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t linger in my thoughts. Enough beautiful women look at me with curiosity, calculation, or hunger. I’ve indulged regardless of their motivations. Only mine have ever mattered.

No woman was ever misled. I’m brutally honest about my intentions.

Working up the plan in my head to propose an arrangement between us, I didn’t think she was auditioning to be my nextindulgence. She didn’t come across overly impressed with me.Thatdrew me in. She was cautious. Rightfully so, given who I am.

I hadn’t predicted a husband would show up. For the first time in my recent memory, I judged a person and a situationabsurdlywrong.

I lower the barbell down to my chest, my fingers wrapped around the steel as I press up, welcoming in the pain. Controlling it.

That’s whenheappears in my mind the way he did in the VIP lounge.

My teeth grind remembering David’s grimy hand closing around her wrist and seeing the pressure of his fingers around her arm. Not gently, not possessively, but with irritation. Ownership without worship.

Arms burning, I keep pressing the weight, losing count of my reps.

Fuck.

I punish myself harder to clear these thoughts from my head.