”Ares chuckles. “Oh, I disagree. I think,” he begins, tugging at her hair again lightly, enjoying her wince, “this might just become my favori...e battle.”He leans forward, nipping at her lip, just enough to draw blood, making her hiss. “And this time, I intend to win.”It’s silent as he sucks her lip meanly between his own, licking at the wound he created, her blood more delectable than any wine Dionysus could offer him.“We’ll see about that,” she finally groans, hands dropping to squeeze his. And he didn’t get it, what he did get was dingy counters and fly specked fluorescent lights, a salmon and turquoise color scheme straight out of 1956. Sam Erickson didn't care, they had coffee, he could smell it wafting above the rank odor of stale fryer grease and a general air of neglect and disuse. Then there was the requisite small town waitress, this one, no longer young, was the epitome of the victim-hood wrought by hard living. And although sitting on a counter stool until Sam’s entry. More

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