3. Ava
3
Ava
‘ J ohn’ leads me toward the lounge’s exit. There are two men in suits standing near the door. I swear they’re the same two who opened the door for us at the gallery.
No, it’s just the lighting playing tricks on me.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
‘John’ walks me toward an Uber. No, not an Uber... unless Uber drivers routinely hold the back doors open for their customers. They do sometimes, don’t they? I study the car. It’s a piano-black Cadillac. Far from the flashy, high-end luxury vehicle one might expect a billionaire to own.
Maybe I was wrong after all.
“After you,” ‘John’ says, gesturing. He’s smiling that ridiculously charming smile, the one that makes my stomach do flip-flops, and it somehow calms me down.
I climb in, trying to act casual. Like I totally ride in chauffeured cars with billionaire lookalikes all the time. It’s only a Cadillac, but the white leather smells...expensive, somehow. Like it’s part of a custom-made build installed to his specific tastes.
‘John’ starts talking almost immediately, thank god. Silence would just be an invitation for my anxiety to jump through the roof again.
“So, you really think I look like Gideon King?” he asks. A little smirk plays on his lips.
“Dude, it’s freaky,” I say. “Seriously, you could be his body double. Or his evil twin. Or robot.”
He grins. “Robot? I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”
“Hey, I’m an artist,” I shrug. “Imagination’s my job. Though usually it involves more naked people.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Naked people?”
I feel my face reddening.
Crap, here comes the lobster again.
“You know, covered in body art and glitter,” I clarify.
He smiles. “Sounds messy. And fun.”
“Oh, it is,” I confirm. “But also beautiful when you get it right. I admit I prefer non-moving canvases, though.”
He’s quiet for a moment, looking at me with an intensity that makes my cheeks even hotter.
We pull up to a building that’s all glass and steel. The door opens, and the driver (chauffeur?) bows slightly as I get out.
At the entrance, the doorman tips his hat. “Good evening, Mr.—”
“Evening, Charles,” he interrupts. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?”
The doorman grins. “Very much so.”
We pass a security guard at the front desk.
“Evening, Mr. Blake,” ‘John’ forestalls him.
“Evening, sir,” the security guard replies .
We get into an elevator that’s bigger than my entire studio apartment. ‘John’ presses the top floor button and the elevator shoots us up so fast my ears pop.
When the doors open, we’re in a penthouse. A real penthouse. Not the movie kind, the... I don’t even know. Architectural Digest kind? I’m pretty sure my jaw drops.
Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a view that’s insane. The city lights are spread out below, glittering like a spilled jewelry box. It’s breathtaking. And terrifying. Because it’s becoming painfully obvious that this is not a lookalike situation.
My carefully constructed wall of denial is crumbling. Fast.
But I’m also strangely calm, if not intrigued. And, okay, maybe a little turned on. Fine, a lot turned on.
“Nice place,” I manage, trying to sound nonchalant. As if I hang out in billionaire penthouses all the time.
“It has its moments,” he says, leading me toward a wall covered in...
Wait, are those original paintings? Like, museum-worthy originals?
My inner art nerd is having a full-blown conniption. I spot a Rothko, a Pollock, a...
Holy crap, is that a de Kooning?
This guy isn’t just rich, he’s royalty rich.
“You, uh, weren’t kidding when you said you were a collector,” I say, my voice a little squeaky.
His gaze lingers on a vibrant abstract. “No, I wasn’t. These speak to me. Literally speak to me.”
“Yeah, well, they’re screaming at me,” I mutter.
Screaming, ‘You’re so out of your league!’
He turns toward me, concern in his eyes. “Something wrong?”
“No, no,” I say quickly. “Just... admiring the walls. Very nice walls.”
Smooth, Ava. Real smooth.
He takes a step closer, and I swear I can feel the heat radiating from him. He smells incredible. That cologne of his is really growing on me.
“You seem tense,” he observes, his voice low.
Oh god, he’s going to kiss me. He’s totally going to kiss me. And I’m going to let him.
Because, let’s be honest, I’m not fighting it.
His hand brushes my cheek, and it’s like an electric shock. My breath catches.
“Relax,” he murmurs. His eyes search mine. “Just be here. With me. Forget about everything. The art. The walls. The city. It’s just you and me and nothing else.”
And then he kisses me.
It’s not tentative. It’s not shy. It’s a full-on, take-no-prisoners, I-know-what-I’m-doing kind of kiss. And I’m melting. My knees actually go weak, and I grab his shoulders to keep from falling. He pulls me closer, his arms wrapping around me, and I’m pressed against him, feeling the hard lines of his body through his sweater.
My brain is still trying to process the whole ‘billionaire’ thing, but my body? My body is all in.
He deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine, and I moan. A soft, involuntary sound that makes him pull me even closer. I can feel his hard cock pressing against me, and a shiver of anticipation runs through me.
He slides away to look at me for a moment. His gaze is truly intoxicating somehow, and makes me feel like I’m the only thing that matters in this ridiculously opulent place. It might even be true, at least in this moment; while I’m not delusional enough to believe I’ll be here for longer than one night, in this moment I can’t help but feel truly wanted.
He leads me through the apartment, and when we reach the bedroom, I’m a little surprised to find it's surprisingly minimalist. Huge bed, wall of windows, not much else. Like he’s stripped away all distractions, leaving only us. Just like he promised.
The sweater catches momentarily in his tousled hair as he pulls it off. I catch a fleeting glimpse of sun-kissed shoulders, the flex of triceps that make my throat tighten. But it’s the dress shirt that undoes me. His fingers work the buttons with deliberate slowness, each pearl disc surrendering to reveal terrain I want to map with teeth and tongue.
Christ. He’s not just defined but forged.
It’s the kind of body that makes you understand why Greeks carved gods from marble, all rolling planes and shadows beneath tight skin.
My hand lifts instinctively, drawn to the valley between his pectorals, but he catches my wrist mid-air, heat radiating through his grip.
“Patience,” he murmurs, but there’s no reproach in the word, only promise. His mouth crushes against mine instead, a claiming that leaves me breathless as he walks me backward toward the bed. My calves hit the mattress, and I sink into the duvet, his weight following mine.
He hovers there above me, forearms caging my head, veins standing in relief beneath his golden skin. His gray eyes drink me in.
“You’re beautiful,” he rasps, thumb brushing the frantic pulse at my throat. For one dizzying moment, I believe him. The critical voice hissing too soft here, too sharp there , all dissolves beneath his gaze.
His jeans hit the floor with a clink of a belt buckle. My breath hitches. White briefs cling to his lethal hips, the outline beneath them straining. He runs a palm down his own torso, a slow, self-aware stroke over the ridges of his abdomen, and I can’t help but whimper. The sound embarrasses me, but his smirk tells me he’s loving my every reaction.
He reaches for the zipper at the back of my dress, and I suck in a breath.
“Nervous?” His breath ghosts across my shoulder blade.
“Terrified,” I whisper. Not of him, but of how badly I want this. Want him.
His laugh is velvet smoke. “Good.”
The zipper at my back hisses open, the cool air kissing my spine. Slowly, deliberately, he slides the dress down until it's pooling around my ankles. I’m wearing my practical underwear. The kind that are comfortable, not sexy. I suddenly wish I’d worn something lacy. Or at least matching. Oh god.
I brace for the pause, the flicker of disappointment, feeling so exposed before his hungry gaze, but his groan rattles my bones. “Fuck. Look at you.” Calloused palms skate up my thighs, worshipping the softness I’ve cursed for years. “ Real .”
He traces my collarbone with his finger, sending shivers down my spine. I feel his hard cock, covered by his briefs, rub against me.
“You smell amazing,” he murmurs. “I can smell your wetness.”
“Linseed oil and desperation,” I say, trying to deflect .
He chuckles. “I smell vanilla and something else. Something wild.”
Something wild? Oh.
Oh no.
“I, um, should probably shower. You know. For down there,” I mumble, my face burning.
“Why?” He steps back and looks confused and more than a little concerned.
“It’s just... my last boyfriend. He always said I smelled bad. He even told me once that—” I swallow, unable to continue. How embarrassing.
“Told you what,” he growls, as if he’d beat the living crap out of this ex of mine if he were in the room right now.
“Told me I needed to put a tic-tac up my, you know...” The words rush out, fueled by mortification and years of bottled-up insecurity.
He stills, his expression darkening. “He said that?”
“Yeah. So. Shower. Definitely shower.” I try to slide off the bed, but he firmly restrains me.
“Don’t move,” he hisses. “Don’t you dare move.”
Tears come to my eyes. “But you don’t understand...”
He leans down and nuzzles my neck. “I want to taste you. Exactly as you are.”
And then he does. He starts with my neck, kissing and licking and...
Oh god. He’s good. Really good. My head falls back, and I moan, my self-doubt, my tears, forgotten.
He works his way down, kissing my chest, my stomach lower. My hands grip the sheets, my body arching, anticipating.
He pauses, his breath hot on my most sensitive skin. “You okay?” he asks, his voice rough.
I nod, unable to speak.
He pushes my legs apart gently, and I feel another moment of insecurity, of absolute exposure. If he wants me to leave now, thinks I smell too bad for him, I’ll get it. And I’ll go. I’ll be mortified, but I’ll go.
But then he’s there. His tongue flicking against my clit, and I gasp. He’s not stopping. Far from it. He’s licking me like I’m the greatest thing he’s ever tasted in his life. It’s intense. Overwhelming. And empowering all the same.
“You taste so good,” he murmurs, his voice muffled. “So sweet. Like honey and... fuck, I can’t even describe it. You’re perfect. So perfect.”
I close my eyes, letting the sensations wash over me. His tongue, his lips, his teeth. He’s driving me insane. My hips start to move instinctively, seeking more. My pussy is throbbing.
He knows exactly what to do. He finds the perfect rhythm, the perfect pressure. My breath comes in ragged gasps. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on.
I’m close. So close. The world is narrowing, focusing down to this one point, this one sensation.
“Yes... yes...”
His fingers tracing circles. Slow, then faster. Each touch a spark. My pussy feels so tight.
Yes.
My breath...
Yes.
He whispers something I can’t understand... yes .
My hips... yes .
More... yes .
Building... yes .
Please... please. Don’t stop...
“Yes... yes... YES! ”
My body arches, a wave of pleasure crashing over me. I cry out.
He keeps going, even as I’m coming, making it last, drawing it out. And then, slowly, he eases back, kissing his way up my body.
“I need to be inside you,” he growls. “Now .”
He grabs a condom from the nightstand and sheaths his huge cock. It’s thick and long, and I gulp, wondering if I can take him. He positions himself between my legs, his eyes locked on mine.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod, my heart pounding. I want this. I want him.
He enters me slowly and carefully, and I gasp. He’s big. Like, really big.
“Too much?” he asks, his voice tight with control.
“No,” I whisper. “More.”
He plunges in completely, and I gasp again. I’m stretched, filled, completely.
He starts to move, slow and deep at first, then faster, harder. Each thrust is a jolt of pleasure, driving me higher, closer.
His gaze pins me to the moment, dark and hungry, stripping me bare—not just my body but every guarded corner of my mind. I want him to see me like this: unraveled, trembling, a live wire sparking under his touch.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasps, and I shiver, my pulse thrumming where his thumb brushes my jaw.
My hands grip his shoulders, my nails involuntarily digging in, leaving crescent moons I hope linger tomorrow. My hips meet his thrusts, my body moving instinctively. Our rhythm is frenetic, primal. A collision of hips and hitched breaths.
Every thrust drags a moan from my throat, the stretch of him inside me a sweet, relentless burn.
He captures my lips, devouring me like I’m his oxygen and he’s mine. Cinnamon and whiskey mingle with the salt of his sweat, intoxicating.
“God, you taste so fucking incredible,” he growls against my mouth, but I’m beyond words, lost in the coil of pleasure tightening low in my belly.
“Yes.” The plea spills out, raw and ragged. “ Harder.”
I arch, gasping as he obeys, his cock hitting that secret place that blurs my vision white. Deeper. Filling me until I’m split open, raw and radiant, every nerve singing.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop—”
My muscles clench around him as I cry out. He follows with a shattering groan of his own, forehead pressed to mine, his climax pulsing into me like a vow.
And then we collapse, limbs tangled, covered in sweat and spent desire.
City lights bleed through the windows, painting silver streaks on his skin. I trace the constellation of moles on his shoulder, committing them to memory.
One night , I tell myself, even as my throat tightens.
But the truth hums beneath my ribs: his touch has rewritten me. Ruined me.
How do you walk away from a man who’s turned your bones to liquid fire? Who’s made you feel more in three hours than three lifetimes?
The answer flickers, dangerous and inevitable: You don’t.
How am I supposed to ever be with another man again after experiencing this ?
Oh god, what have I done?