Ares

by K. Cantrell

  Maybe I could handle that at least. With a smile, I flip the covers off the area in question and am gratified to discover he’s already sporting a very nice erection that I can’t help but touch.

  Beautiful. Mine. As I run my fingertips along the silky ridge, he hisses out a breath but doesn’t stop me from circling the length with my fist so I can take him between my lips.

  He tastes amazing, like heat and salt and male, and I am nothing if not determined to bring him pleasure. This time, I watch him as I suck, gauging the nuances of what he likes and what’s meh so I can adjust. The fun part is that he likes it all as evidenced by the sheer ecstasy radiating from his expression. His legs tense as I push him deeper into my throat and he grinds his hips. With a bunch of lovely noises in this throat that turn me on, he thrashes against the mattress and then goes completely stiff as he comes. His orgasm takes me by surprise because it happens so fast, but I finish him off and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “Good morning,” I say and yes, there is a hint of smugness there. Sue me.

  “Good morning,” he growls back and yanks me into his arms for a searing kiss to punctuate it, his magic hands roaming over my body suggestively. I think I’m going to be late for work.

  As I dash into the salon at ten, which is indeed quite late, Penelope smirks at me.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I gush as I throw down my umbrella so I can shrug out of my raincoat.

  I get water all over Penelope’s hardwood floors as an added bonus, just in case she wasn’t clear that I’m not Employee of the Month material. For a half a second, I consider blaming the weather for my tardiness but it rains nine million days a year in Olympia, so probably that’s not a good plan.

  “Hey, I have a Torvian in my bed, too,” she says generously. “I struggle to be on time for pretty much everything.”

  Except she still manages to not be late. For some ungodly reason, this makes me blush. The heat stings my cheeks as I duck my head. “Yeah, well. You own the place. I don’t. And this is the second time in a row.”

  Waving that off, Penelope turns back to her station and pulls out a brush from the hidden compartments along the side. “You’re still on your honeymoon as far as I’m concerned.”

  I don’t know what I did to deserve a friend like Penelope. Not only did she give me a job when I needed it, she invited me along on her trip to Geneva when she went after Eros and I got a beautiful husband as my reward. I haven’t even properly thanked her. And then show up late to the job she didn’t have to offer me.

  Guilt cramps through my stomach. “We’re not taking a honeymoon, so I’ll be on time from now on.”

  Without missing a beat, Penelope pulls out a curling iron and tests the gel pump attached to the industrial sized bottle sitting at her station. Above the mirror is her cosmetology license with her picture attached. “It’s not a big deal.”

  If it’s not, it’s because I don’t have a critical role here at her salon. I’m not a hair dresser or a nail tech. I couldn’t be even if I wanted to—you have to go to school for a long time to get licensed. It bugs me a little that she’s being so nonchalant, like I wouldn’t be missed if I didn’t show up at all.

  It’s been bugging me, but all at once, I don’t want to keep acting like it’s okay that I’m standing around while everyone else does stuff and provides value in exchange for their paycheck. “You don’t really need a receptionist, do you?”

  Surprise springs into Penelope’s expression but she covers it well. “I need you and that’s practically the same thing.”

  That tells me everything I need to know.

  “Except it’s not.” Misery pulls at my heart. I’m a crappy friend, freeloading off Penelope for as long as I have. I mean, the signs were there, but I’ve been pretending like I’m pulling my weight since I have nowhere else to go. “You created this non-existent job for me because I got fired from Bullock Pottery. I’m just a charity case, right?”

  My tone makes it sound like I’m a complete ingrate and that’s not how I mean to come across. You might recall I’m not so good at pulling verbal punches? This is what got me canned at my last job. I don’t plan to go out that way this time though. I’m grateful to Penelope, I really am, but I’m taking advantage of a friend. And I’ve been doing it for far too long. The worst part is that I might never have stopped to examine this reality if I didn’t have Ares and his righteous principles fresh on my mind.

  Cursing, I hold up a jazz hand to ward off whatever Penelope is about to say. She has that look about her as if she intends to argue with me and this needs to be said. “It’s time for me to figure out how to make it on my own.”

  She shoots me a wry smile. “Is this a lost episode of Laverne and Shirley?”

  God, we haven’t watched that show in years, but instantly the mention of it transports me back to when we were in high school, watching reruns on Nick at Night and laughing at how people dressed in the last century. I make a face at her. “Maybe. It’s the one where Laverne figures out that she needs to stop sponging off people.”

  “Sweetie, you are not a sponge.” But Penelope has this relieved shade to her expression that says she’s happy I finally clued in. “I’m thrilled to have you here and you have a job as long as you want one.”

  I pull her into a hug, hoping it conveys how much I love her. “Thank you. But I need to find something else, something meaningful.”

  What is wrong with me? Jobs pay bills. They are not meaningful. Ares is screwing with my head or something. A bit miffed at him, I tell Penelope that I have to go home so I can start figuring out what I want to do with the rest of my life.

  When I walk through the door of my apartment, it has that empty feel. Ares is not here. Panic wells before I can catch it. He’s left me. He hates Earth and went back to Torvis. Or more likely, he hates being married and escaped to Geneva. No, he came here to escape Geneva. He wouldn’t go back. Would he?

  I sit on the couch in a big ball of emotions, too frozen to think about how I’m supposed to report a missing person who’s actually an alien when he’s only been gone for an hour. There’s not a good way to tell a police officer that I’m worried because Ares doesn’t know how to drive, is completely new to American customs and practically brand new to human customs. Except for sex. That one he has down.

  My thoughts drift back to this morning and the reason I was late to the salon. He was into it. And me. He did not leave me, I don’t think, though the fact that it’s my first concern tells me a lot about the state of my psyche.

  Another hour passes. I start to worry the scientists found him and once that fear gets me in its solid grip, I can’t shake it loose. What would they have to do to study him, like a bunch of tests or is it the kind of thing where they have to cut him open?

  Okay, now I’m at the point when I need to get over myself. I’ve done nothing to find myself a job. Probably I could have swallowed my pride and stayed at the salon until I got another offer, but that wouldn’t have been right. I’ve basically been taking handouts. No longer.

  My righteousness warms me for about five minutes until I get so antsy that I have to go walk the streets or something to look for my cellphone-less husband whether it’s raining or not. I shrug on my raincoat and open the door.

  Ares stands on the porch, hand raised, presumably in the midst of grasping the doorknob.

  “Oh, thank God.” I launch myself into his arms and to his credit, he scarcely registers the hit, maintaining his balance easily. He hugs me back and I lose myself in his heat, which not so coincidentally is why I was late this morning. As a result, I got a conscience, gave up a job and then spent a couple of hours worrying about my charge. Husband, I mean.

  That’s when I remember that I’m mad at him and somehow manage to step away. “Where have you been?”

  My tone raises Ares’s eyebrows but he keeps his cool and hustles me into the apartment, shutting the door before turning his attention back to my question.

&
nbsp; “I have been speaking with Eroshegan’s employer,” he says.

  I scarcely recognize Eros’s full name, particularly not the way it sounds in the Torvian native language, but it’s the only thing he could’ve said. And then I register what he means. “You went looking for a job?”

  Ares nods. “I must find a purpose.”

  This digs under my skin and not just because I, of all people, should get that since we’re in the same boat. But my emotions are running high, which makes me more susceptible to speaking from the heart instead of the head.

  “I’m your purpose,” I say crossly. “Right? We’ve been over this. We’re going to find meaning in our marriage.”

  That sounds lame even to me. Sure, we’re both learning what it means to be married but we can’t live on love, especially when we’re still finding our way through what that looks like.

  I’ve never even asked him if he knows what love is. Do I even know? I’ve never been in love, nor have I thought much about how it works. Yet I’m supposed to be teaching my Torvian how to have a mate that’s for life? My track record for leaping without looking is spectacular lately.

  Ares is unfazed by my ire. Gently, he guides me to sit on the couch, dropping a light kiss on my temple as he settles into the spot next to me. It’s sweet and diffuses my angst. A little. And then he takes my hand, murmuring my name and I’m pretty much a mess of quivering lady parts and mushy feelings.

  “I need more than one purpose,” he says simply when he’s done devastating me. “Can you accept this?”

  I nod because yeah, of course I get that. He’s a man. He wants to provide or whatever. Except that’s a human drive. I have to go above and beyond to be sure I understand him. “As long as you mean I’m one of your purposes.”

  In response, he lifts my chin and kisses me without all the heat of this morning. It winnows through me much differently, too, spreading into places that I didn’t know existed.

  He caps that with, “You are my wife.”

  Which explains nothing about how he feels about that. “It’s just a title. We signed a piece of paper. That’s it. What do I mean to you?”

  I shouldn’t be pushing this right now, not when we have other stuff to discuss, like my epiphany at the salon that was basically along the same lines as his.

  Wait until he finds out I quit my job without a backup. That’s going to go over well. Hey, hubby, guess what? Good thing you got a job so I can freeload off of you instead of Penelope.

  “You mean everything,” he says. “This is why I seek employment. It is my role to care for you.”

  That stabs me in the gut. He’s been talking to Eros, clearly. That’s the kind of stuff Penelope’s husband says to her all the time. My heart greedily latches on to these concepts but I still have room to be skeptical of his motives. “But I thought you just said you needed more than one purpose and that was the reason for the job hunt.”

  He cocks his head, studying me. “You are accusing me of speaking in circles. Are you feeling well?”

  It’s the equivalent of calling me on my B.S. How did he read me so easily?

  “I thought you left me,” I blurt out, which should not have been on my radar, let alone something I confess to him. But of course that’s what this is all about. I want to find meaning in this relationship, to know that he’s got my back and that my husband loves me no matter what stupid things I do. Is that too much to ask?

  “I will not leave you. Ever,” he promises.

  I hear what I choose to, which is that we’re closer to the magical stuff in this marriage than I am giving us credit for. “Good. I want you to stay. You mean a lot to me too.”

  He smiles and my heart trips over itself. Maybe this is love. Maybe it’s not so difficult to understand and we’re creating it between us step by step in these small moments.

  That works for me, if so. I snuggle into his arms and he accepts me willingly, holding me tight in the most non-sexual way possible. Like we’re a married couple who doesn’t have to shag every second of every day to prove something.

  Which isn’t to say I don’t want to. Just that I feel a seismic shift in our relationship happening and I don’t hate it.

  What I do hate is having to talk about grown up stuff. But I tell him that I’m jobless anyway. He takes it with class and comments that it’s a good thing he got a job. Which makes me wonder if he can read my mind, but I don’t question it since he’s still in reasonably good humor about the lack of income from my side of the marriage.

  “What do you want to do for your employment?” he asks.

  My eyes squeeze shut as my pulse stumbles and only half of it is due to the sheer terror of having a world of possibilities and few job skills. The rest is due to the fact that he cares enough to ask.

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I’ve never thought about what I want to do. Only what’s available to me at the time in order to pay bills.”

  Also known as odd jobs, part time jobs, entry level jobs. Careers are for grownups, which applies to people who are at least five years older than me. This is the first time I’ve done the math and realized that adding five years to my age lands me somewhere in the mid-thirties. I swallow. So now I’ve eliminated every person on Earth in their twenties from having a career and cancelled out half of their thirties. Ostrich much?

  “Do you wish to train for a profession?” he asks.

  “What, like go to college?”

  My first inclination is to snort and categorically dismiss the idea but it takes root before I can stop it, unfurling in my chest. I was never good at school, but college is different. I think. Well, it definitely wouldn’t be like high school if I went to cosmetology school. Yes, I’ve been thinking about it. More than I have admitted, even to myself. And the second I let myself consider it as a real option, I’m sold.

  I glance up at him. This is the first time I’ve had a conversation while snuggling with a man—alien—on the couch. But why shouldn’t things be different with this one? “Maybe. How do you feel about that?”

  Ares recoils as genuine bewilderment steals over his expression. “Why would my opinion matter?”

  “Because you’re my husband and anything I do affects you?” I remind him and a wondrous smile replaces his confusion. I like that smile. It puts a warm glow in my tummy. I could easily watch his lips spread like that over and over. Except it would be helpful to know what I did to earn that. “What?”

  “No one has ever asked me such a thing,” he admits in a library voice. The conversation is affecting him too, which is lovely.

  “Guess what?” It’s a rhetorical question but odds are good he won’t get that so I don’t pause. “That’s part of marriage. I’m gonna ask you all kinds of stuff. How to cut my hair. Whether my butt looks fat in these pants. Answer’s always no, by the way.”

  He glances down at my rear end and back up at my face. “How is it possible to answer unless you give me the opportunity to assess?”

  “Because there’s no assessing,” I say with a laugh. “When I ask you that, I don’t want honesty. The point is to convince me that you think I’m beautiful no matter what, all the time, even when I’m not.”

  “But you are sempre bella. Always beautiful.”

  No hesitation. As arguments go, he’ll win with that one every time, hands down. He absolutely believes it too—I can tell and I didn’t even teach him that. “You’re a natural.”

  The fact that I’m pleased colors my voice and he doesn’t miss it. His arms tighten around me and one thumb runs up and down the bare skin of my arm. I shiver in an unlikely paradox as his touch begins to heat my blood. We’ve already been intimate once today, and this is illicit time together, stolen at the expense of job hunting.

  But then again…if I’m going to cosmetology school, it’ll be a while until I’m legal so maybe we should capitalize when we can.

  I shift and spin until I’m astride Ares, one knee on either side of his hips. He doesn’t eve
n have the grace to look surprised at my position. Hungrily, I kiss him and he lets me have control, an unexpected pleasure that excites me. The velvet covered granite in his pants, which is snug against my core, helps too.

  This time, there is nothing to keep us from taking hours to explore each other’s bodies. And hours is exactly how long it takes. Ares drives me to two orgasms before indulging himself and it’s one of the most amazing experiences of my life.

  But because I’m me, I can’t help but wonder when the other shoe is going to drop. We have little in common. He’s not even from this planet. There’s the little matter of this healing power that he claims is the reason he left Geneva. Surely if it’s that spectacular of a deal, the scientists he fled from aren’t going to go oh, well and give up trying to study him. It’s going to come up again.

  But as far as I’m concerned, Ares is perfect. Which means he’s going to figure out soon enough that I’m not. Then what?

  Eight

  Having a Torvian for a husband has not gotten old, even after a couple of weeks. Somewhere in the cobwebs of my brain is a number that represents the longest relationship I’ve ever had—and it’s not long—but I’m too busy falling in love with Ares to recall how close of a competition it is right now.

  And by falling, I mean it’s a done deal. There’s little to question at this point because I know exactly how I feel when I look at him. I think I rounded the bend long about the first time he murmured sei bello, which I Googled and it means he’s calling me beautiful in Italian. I have yet to ask whether I look fat in anything because he keeps me naked as much as possible. There have been no complaints from my side about this.

  Except that “as much as possible” begins to dwindle as he ramps up the hours at his security job that he went out and landed practically without trying. Penelope’s brother-in-law owns a car dealership and apparently he likes having imposing guards on the premises at all times. So Ares takes as many shifts as he can to make up for my lack of income and we’ve started saving for cosmetology school.