33. Ava
33
Ava
H is hands tangle in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss. I taste mint and coffee and that indefinable something that is purely Gideon. His cologne floods my nostrils. But I find myself wanting more and more of it.
Of him .
This is a terrible idea. Absolutely terrible. Top five worst ideas ever.
And yet I can’t seem to stop. Don’t want to stop.
His body drives me into the living room wall. I squeeze my thighs tighter around his waist, wanting him so badly. Through the wall of windows behind him, the Manhattan skyline spreads out like a glittering backdrop to our moment of madness.
Anyone in those buildings could be watching right now.
The thought sends an unexpected thrill through me instead of the embarrassment I probably should feel.
And of course, if any of Blackwell’s goons are watching, it’s all part of the show...
His mouth trails down my neck, leaving a path of fire in its wake. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my skin.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp instead.
His hands sweep down my sides, settling on my hips with a grip that’s just shy of painful. There’s an edge to his touch that wasn’t there before. A possessiveness, a need to control that should probably scare me but instead makes everything inside me tighten with want.
“I need—” he starts, then shakes his head, pressing his forehead against mine. “I need to know you’re safe.”
“I’m right here,” I whisper. “Safe.”
His response is a low growl that vibrates through my entire body. He stops pinning me to the wall and I lower my legs. His hand slides between us, finding the waistband of my paint-splattered sweatpants. I should feel self-conscious. I’m hardly dressed for seduction. But the hunger in his eyes leaves no room for doubts.
His fingers slip beneath the elastic, and I gasp. His fingers find me already wet, ready for him, and the sound he makes, that half groan, half curse, turns me on even more. He circles my clit with maddening precision, and my head falls back against the wall.
He presses his body against mine, his lips finding my mouth. The cold wall bites into my shoulders, a stark contrast to the heat pooling low in my belly. His fingertips are brushes, painting pleasure in broad, reckless strokes. Cerulean need, vermilion want. I’m a canvas coming alive under his touch, every nerve singing.
His free hand grips my thigh, hiking it higher, wider, and suddenly I’m grateful for the wall holding me up.
“So fucking responsive,” he mutters, breaking the kiss, and I can’t tell if it’s praise or a curse. The city lights blur behind him, a thousand distant eyes.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I force my eyes open to find his gaze locked on my face, intense and possessive. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and something inside me melts at the praise.
Since when did ‘good girl’ become your kryptonite? File that away for later therapy sessions.
His fingers work magic between my legs, building a rhythm that has me panting and clutching at his shoulders.
“I love touching your soft, tight pussy,” he says.
His words unravel me further. The pad of his thumb presses harder, a metronome syncing with the throbbing in my core. I bite my lip to stifle a whimper, but he tsks , sliding his free hand up to pry my jaw open.
“Let me hear you.” The command is velvet-wrapped steel, and I obey, gasps spilling freely now. He drinks them in, his breath ragged against my cheek. “That’s it. Every sound, every shiver— mine .”
Through the haze of pleasure, I’m once again dimly aware of the floor-to-ceiling windows, of how exposed we are. The exhibitionist thrill of it only heightens everything, and when his thumb presses firmly against my clit while two fingers curl inside me, I come apart with a cry that I muffle against his shoulder.
I’m close. So close. The world is narrowing, focusing down to this one point, this one sensation.
“Yes... yes...”
His thumb, tracing circles. Slow, then faster. Each touch a spark. He abruptly slides his fingers free, and my pussy clenches around nothing, desperate.
“Don’t stop!” I beg.
His teeth graze my earlobe. “Are you sure?”
“Please!”
I hear the wet sound of his fingers moving inside me once again, obscene and perfect, and writhe as he finds that tender spot within me once more.
Yes.
Yes.
I hear his voice. “You’re going to come just for me.”
Building. Coiling. A brushstroke poised to ruin the canvas.
“Yes I will. Please... please. Don’t stop...”
“ Look at me when you come ,” he growls.
Our eyes lock as the wave breaks—
“Yes... yes... YES! ”
My body arches, a silent scream on my lips as pleasure cracks through me, electric and blinding. I shudder against the wall behind me. He doesn’t relent, fingers gentling but not stopping, prolonging the aftershocks.
As I tremble through them, reality tries to reassert itself. This is a terrible idea. We have a contract.
But then he’s lifting me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me through the penthouse, and rational thought takes a back seat to the feel of his hard body against mine.
One thought does break through all the rest, however.
“I’m covered in paint,” I manage to say, my voice breathless. “From the studio.”
“Shower,” he agrees, already changing direction.
The master bathroom is all gleaming marble and glass, the massive shower with its multiple heads a testament to Gideon’s love of luxury. He sets me down only long enough to strip us both, his movements efficient but his eyes never leaving mine. I should feel self-conscious. I’m not model-perfect after all, and he’s seen more than his fair share of beautiful women. But the raw hunger in his gaze leaves no room for insecurity.
Or maybe the near-death experience and orgasm have just short-circuited your usual self-doubt. Either way, enjoy it while it lasts.
The water is perfectly hot when we step under the spray, steam billowing around us. Gideon backs me against the marble wall, his body caging mine as the water sluices over us both. His cock is hard against my stomach, a reminder of how much more there is to come.
His hands glide over my shoulders first, palms slick with sandalwood soap. “You’re a mess,” he mutters, though the roughness in his voice betrays him. I can tell he’s barely controlling himself. Well, I guess that gorgeous, throbbing cock of his is an obvious giveaway.
The water cascades between us as he works methodically down my arms, rinsing flecks of cerulean from my skin. Each stroke turns deliberate where there isn’t any paint: the dip of my waist, the curve of a breast. My breath hitches when his thumb grazes a nipple.
“Just cleaning,” he lies, dragging a lathered washcloth over my stomach, lower, lower , until I’m gripping his biceps for balance.
“You missed a spot,” I challenge, nodding at the smudge of vermillion still clinging to my hip.
His gaze darkens. “Did I?” His voice is hoarse, and he drops the cloth, using his bare hand to scrub the stubborn pigment, calluses catching on sensitive skin. The paint dissolves under his touch, but his fingers linger, exploring the heat between my thighs instead. I arch into him, water sluicing over us as he teases, “Still so desperate for me, even now.”
I merely moan, trailing my fingernail down his perfect, glistening chest. I want him so bad.
A muscle ticks in his jaw. Can he see my want?
Of course he can.
He steps back abruptly, thrusting the soap into my hand. “Your turn.”
The shift in power is electric. I take my time, lathering the bar, the scent of his cologne vanishing in the crisp notes of the soap. His body is a landscape of tension. Corded forearms braced against the shower wall, water streaming through the grooves of his abdomen. I trace each ridge, smiling when his stomach quivers. “Ticklish, billionaire?”
“Careful,” he warns, but the threat dissolves into a groan as I knead the suds lower, the soap catching in the dark trail beneath his navel. His cock jerks when I skim it with my knuckles, veins standing taut under my curious touch. “Ava—”
“Just cleaning,” I echo, dragging my palm slowly up his length, marveling at the velvet-steel of him. His hips stutter forward, chasing friction, but I step back, admiring my work. All that power, trembling for me .
He turns suddenly, caging me against the wall again, his arousal pressing into my belly. “Teasing’s a dangerous game.”
“Is it now?” I rise onto my toes, nipping his jaw. “You started it.”
I feel powerful suddenly, despite his physical dominance. He wants me just as badly as I want him. Billionaire Gideon King, who could have anyone, wants paint-splattered, neurotic art student Ava.
I sink to my knees before him, the marble cool against my skin. His eyes widen, pupils dilating as he watches me.
“Ava, I don’t think you can—”
“Handle you?” I say with a sly smile. I look up at him through the water streaming down my face. “We’ll see.”
He tangles his fingers in my wet hair, not directing, just connecting. I take him in my hand first, wrapping my fingers around his impressive girth. His cock is huge, both in length and thickness, and for a moment I really doubt I can handle him.
I start with a tentative lick, learning the taste and feel of him. The pre-cum is salty. Hot. His sharp intake of breath encourages me, and I become more bold, taking the head into my mouth. His fingers tighten in my hair, not painful but definitely present.
“Christ, Ava,” he groans above me. “Your hot little mouth is going to make me cum.”
Pride surges through me at his reaction. I can’t take all of him. That would be physically impossible unless I’ve suddenly developed the ability to unhinge my jaw like a snake. But I use my hand in tandem with my mouth, creating a rhythm that has his breathing turning ragged.
I glance up, wanting to see his face, and the sight nearly undoes me. His head is thrown back, water streaming down his chest, muscles tensed with restraint. His abs stand out like a washboard, and his pecs look like glorious slabs. His eyes are closed, lips parted, every line of his face etched with the pleasure that I’m giving him.
For this moment, I have all the power. Me, Ava Redwood—no, Ava King —on my knees but completely in control of this powerful man.
The thought is intoxicating, but short-lived. Suddenly he snaps back to reality and roughly pulls me to my feet.
“Not like that,” he says, voice raw. “I want to be inside you when I cum.”
The words send a fresh pulse of heat through me. He turns off the water and grabs towels, drying us both with surprising tenderness given the urgency thrumming between us. We leave a trail of damp footprints across the bedroom floor, neither of us willing to fully break contact.
We reach his bed. It’s massive, like everything else in his life. He lays me down with a gentleness that contrasts with the hunger in his eyes. For a moment, he just looks at me, sprawled across his sheets, and I fight the urge to cover myself.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice silences my inner critic for once.
He joins me on the bed, his body covering mine, and the weight of him is both comforting and exciting. He finds a condom, and I watch him roll it on. There’s just something so hot about watching this sexy hunk of a man rolling on a condom just for me, a condom he’s going to fuck me with.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Please,” I beg.
When he finally pushes inside me, the stretch and fullness of his cock draws a gasp from my lips. He pauses, giving me time to adjust.
I instantly wrap my legs around his waist to draw him deeper.
He grins. “You dirty little slut. You want this even more than I do, don’t you? ”
“I want you so bad,” I agree.
“Then beg,” he orders.
“Please fuck me,” I tell him.
“Say my name,” he says.
I look defiantly into his eyes. I can see the need there in his gaze, just as obvious as my own. I know he wants this, maybe even more than I do, and yet he has the restraint to hold back. To make me beg.
“Please fuck me, Gideon!” I yell.
That seems to satisfy him, and he begins to move violently, setting a rhythm that quickly has me clutching at the powerful obliques at his hips.
He suddenly slows down, as if wanting to prolong the moment. The slowness makes it feel different from our previous time in his office, somehow. Like there’s an emotional rawness to it that I can’t explain away as just physical attraction.
Maybe I’m just imagining it. Having a huge cock like his inside you would do that to anyone.
“Gideon,” I breathe, not sure what I’m asking for.
He seems to understand anyway, adjusting his angle until stars explode behind my eyes with each thrust.
“Gideon— fuck —Gideon, your cock— yes —right there, there —my pussy’s yours — harder —” The words spill raw, unfiltered, my voice a broken thing. “Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop — make me feel it — fuck me — HARDER HARDER HARDER —”
I squeeze my pussy tight. Tighter. Tightest.
He growls my name against my throat. “Ava Ava AVA.” A primal chant, our sweat and cries merging with the slap of skin.
My body arches, clenching around him like a vise, release coming sharp and all consuming with an intensity that borders on painful.
“Cuming cuming I’m CUMING— ” A scream tears free. “ GIDEON —!”
His rhythm fractures. I feel him pulse against me.
He groans my name against my neck. “Ava... fuck .”
For several minutes afterward, we lie tangled together, catching our breath. His weight on me is comforting rather than crushing, and I find myself reluctant to let him move away.
Eventually he rolls to his side, keeping one arm draped across my waist. He slips off the condom, tosses it into the garbage bin next to the bed.
Reality begins to creep back in as our breathing steadies.
This was just sex, I tell myself. Just release.
But I know it was more.
All the things he said to me beforehand. All the things I told him back.
“You came.”
“I will always come for you,”
So much for keeping emotional distance. A+ job on that contract clause, Ava.
I was wrong. So wrong to think I could separate physical from emotional with him. Each time we’re together like this, the line blurs further, and I’m starting to wonder if it ever existed at all.
I turn my head to look at him, finding his gray eyes already watching me. There’s a softness there I’ve rarely seen, and for a wild moment, I consider just saying it: that I’m developing real feelings for him. That this stopped being just a contract for me weeks ago.
But then I remember who we are. Who I am. A temporary convenience in his life, a solution to a problem. He’s Gideon King, and I’m... well, I’m not someone a man like him keeps. Not really.
“That was—” he starts.
“Just adrenaline,” I finish for him, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. “From the Burt situation.”
He purses his lips. For a moment, I see something else. Something... more. But I can’t quite read what it is. And then it’s gone.
“Right,” he agrees. “Just adrenaline.”
His arm tightens around my waist ever so slightly, contradicting his words. We lie there in silence, both pretending this was nothing special while everything between us has clearly shifted.
Tomorrow, I’ll have to face what this really means. Tonight, I let myself have this moment, storing away the memory of being in his arms for when our six months are up and I have to walk away.
Because that’s still the plan. It has to be.
Doesn’t it?