38. Ava
38
Ava
T he clock on my phone reads 11:45 PM. Gideon’s flight landed forty-five minutes ago, which means he’ll be walking through that door any minute.
Not that I’m counting or anything.
I flip to another page in my sketchbook, pretending I’m just up late working on concepts rather than waiting for my fake husband to return from his business trip like some 1950s housewife. The pencil scratches against the paper as I shade the jawline of the figure that’s become a constant in my work lately.
Way to be subtle, Ava. Nothing says “I’m totally not falling for him” like obsessively drawing his face every night he’s been gone.
I should be in bed. That’s what I texted him when he messaged that his car was leaving the airport: “Great. I’ll probably be asleep. See you tomorrow.”
Yet another lie among the many I’ve told since this whole arrangement began. Though most of them have been to myself .
The truth is I haven’t slept well since he left. During the day, I’ve been spending my time at my Brooklyn studio warehouse, returning at night to sleep here. However, in the past week I’d started spending nights at the warehouse as well... the penthouse just feels too big, too quiet without him working late in his office or making coffee in the kitchen at ungodly hours. I’ve gotten used to his presence, the way his footsteps sound on the hardwood floors, the scent of his cologne lingering in hallways.
It’s just the routine you’re missing. Not him specifically. Just the routine.
So anyway, this will be the first day in a week since I’ve actually slept at the penthouse.
I add another layer of shadow to the drawing, darkening the eyes that stare back at me from the page. I’ve captured the intensity well, but something’s missing. The slight softness that appears around the edges when Gideon thinks no one is looking.
The elevator chimes and my heart leaps into my throat.
Act natural. Like you’re not pathetically waiting up for him.
I quickly flip my sketchbook closed and reach for my phone, pretending to scroll through Instagram as the elevator doors slide open.
Gideon steps into the penthouse, loosening his tie with one hand while pulling his luggage with the other. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his usually perfect hair disheveled. He also looks unfairly good considering he’s been on a plane for fourteen hours.
“You’re still up,” he says, sounding genuinely surprised.
I shrug, aiming for casual indifference. “Just working on some sketches.” I hold up my closed sketchbook as evidence. “How was Tokyo?”
“Successful.” He leaves his suitcase by the elevator and walks toward me, his movements slow but deliberate. “The Tanaka deal is finalized.”
“Good.” I nod, suddenly awkward. “That’s good.”
We stare at each other across the living room, the space between us charged with something I don’t want to name. It’s been three weeks. Just three weeks. People go that long without seeing their actual spouses all the time.
So why does it feel like it’s been months?
“I brought you something,” he says finally, breaking the silence.
“You didn’t have to do that.” The words come out automatically, a reflexive protection against expectation.
“I wanted to.” He turns back to his luggage, unzipping a side compartment and carefully removing something wrapped in protective material. “It’s not from Tokyo, actually. It arrived while I was away, but I had it delivered directly here rather than risk shipping damage.”
I stand up, curiosity overriding my attempt at nonchalance. “What is it?”
“Come see.” He carries the package to the dining table and starts carefully unwrapping it, layer after layer of protective padding.
I move closer, watching his hands work with meticulous precision. For a moment, I’m distracted by those hands, remembering how they felt on my skin the last time we were together. How they anchored me when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.
Focus, Ava. He brought you a souvenir, not a marriage proposal.
But as the final layer of padding falls away, my breath catches in my throat. Familiar brushstrokes emerge, and I gasp. It’s a portrait I never thought I’d see again.
“Is that...?” I can’t even finish the question, my voice failing me.
Gideon turns to look at me, his expression soft in a way that makes my chest ache. “Your grandmother’s portrait. The one your stepfather sold.”
My legs go weak and I grab the edge of the table for support. “How did you...? Where did you...?”
“I had a talk with your mother after she mentioned the painting. She gave me some potential leads that panned out surprisingly well. Jonas was the one who finally tracked it down.” He says it so casually, like tracking down a lost masterpiece is something people do between board meetings.
I stare at the canvas, unable to process what I’m seeing. The familiar face of my grandmother looks back at me, her eyes kind but mischievous, just as I remembered. The original. The brushstrokes that once flowed from my hands, capturing the woman who believed in me when no one else did. I realize now how flawed my later recreation was. I’d gotten so many details wrong. But this... this is perfect. Just like my grandmother was.
“It’s really mine?” I whisper, afraid to believe it’s real.
“It’s yours,” Gideon confirms. “Always should have been.”
I reach out, my fingers hovering just above the canvas, afraid to touch it in case it disappears. “I can’t believe you found it. ”
“I have good people.” He smiles slightly. “And I can be very persistent when properly motivated.”
The portrait blurs as tears fill my eyes. This was a piece of my soul I thought was lost forever.
“Thank you,” I manage, the words woefully inadequate for what this means to me. “Gideon, I don’t know how to—”
He steps closer, his hand coming up to brush a tear from my cheek. “You don’t have to say anything.”
I look up at him, really look at him, and something shifts inside me. This isn’t something you do for a business arrangement. This isn’t something you do for someone you’re merely pretending to care about.
Before I can overthink it, I close the distance between us and press my lips to his. For a split second, he’s still, surprised by my initiative. Then his arms wrap around me, pulling me against him like he’s been starving for this contact.
The kiss deepens, and I forget about everything. The contract, the expiration date on whatever this is between us, the careful walls I’ve built to protect myself. All that matters is the solid warmth of him against me, the taste of him, the scent that I’ve missed more than I care to admit.
“I missed you,” I confess against his mouth, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
His hands tighten on my waist. “Prove it,” he growls, and the sound sends heat spiraling through me.
I pull back slightly, raising an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge, Mr. King?”
Something primal flashes in his eyes. “If you want it to be.”
I take his hand and lead him toward his bedroom. As we cross the threshold, something changes. The careful distance we’ve maintained, the pretense that this is just physical, just convenient, falls away. At least for me.
He pushes me against the wall, his mouth hot on my neck, hands everywhere at once.
“Three weeks is too long,” he murmurs against my skin. “Too fucking long.”
I gasp as he nips at my collarbone, just hard enough to mark. “We’ve talked every day.”
“Not the same.” His hands slide under my oversized t-shirt, fingers tracing over my ribs, my breast. “Not this.”
Not this. The words echo in my head as his thumb brushes over my nipple, sending shivers through my body. What exactly is this? We’ve never defined it, never dared put words to whatever exists between mutual convenience and something far more dangerous.
I don’t have time to follow that thought as Gideon lifts me, carrying me to his bed with an ease that never fails to remind me of the physical power contained in his tall frame. He lays me down with unexpected gentleness, then stands back to remove his tie completely, and unbutton his shirt.
The sight of him undressing is something I will never tire of. The gradual reveal of that tanned skin over taut muscle.
“You’re staring,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Just appreciating the view.” I prop myself up on my elbows. “It’s been over three weeks, remember?”
His shirt drops to the floor, followed by his belt. “And did you think about this while I was gone?” His voice drops lower. “About me? ”
I feel heat rise to my cheeks but hold his gaze. “Maybe.”
He crawls onto the bed, hovering over me with that intensity that makes me feel simultaneously vulnerable and powerful. “Maybe isn’t good enough, Ava.” His hand slides up my thigh, beneath the hem of my sleep shorts. “I want to hear you say it.”
My breath catches as his fingers trace the edge of my underwear. “Yes,” I admit. “I thought about you.”
“About this?” His fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding me already wet for him. I squirm in delight.
“Yes.” The word comes out as more of a moan than a confirmation.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and those two simple words send a shock of pleasure through me that’s almost embarrassing in its intensity.
What follows is different from our previous encounters. There’s still urgency, still the desperate need that’s always sparked between us, but there’s something else too, a tenderness that wasn’t there before. He takes his time, exploring my body like he’s relearning me, or maybe learning me for the first time without the barriers we’ve always kept in place. But are those barriers truly gone? I don’t know.
I lose myself in the sensation of his mouth on my breast, my stomach, lower still until I’m gripping the sheets and gasping his name. He looks up at me from between my thighs, eyes dark with desire.
“I’ve thought about tasting you every night I was away,” he says, his breath hot against my most sensitive flesh. “Dreamed about it. Your pussy tastes better than anything in this world, Ava.”
Before I can process that confession, his mouth is on me, tongue circling, teasing, devouring me like a man starved. My hips buck against him and he holds me firmly in place, like a steel vise, controlling my pleasure with the same authority he controls everything else in his life.
“Gideon,” I gasp, feeling myself approaching the edge already. “I need—”
“I know what you need.” His voice rumbles against me, sending vibrations that nearly push me over. “Let go, Ava. Show me how much you missed me.”
And I do, coming apart under his skilled mouth with an intensity that leaves me trembling. But before I can recover, he’s moving up my body and sliding on a condom, positioning himself between my thighs, the thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
“Look at me,” he commands, and I open eyes I hadn’t realized I’d closed. His face above mine is a study in controlled desire. Jaw tight, eyes blazing with need, but waiting. Always giving me the chance to say no.
I don’t want to say no. I want all of him, consequences be damned.
“Please,” I whisper, wrapping my legs around his waist, urging him closer.
He enters me in one powerful thrust that has us both gasping. The feeling of completeness is overwhelming. Physically, yes, but something else too, something I’m not ready to name.
“Mine,” he growls against my neck, setting a rhythm that’s deep and possessive. “You’re mine, Ava.”
In this moment, with him moving inside me, claiming me, I believe it. Contract or no contract, time limit or no time limit, I am his in a way I’ve never belonged to anyone before .
“Yours,” I agree breathlessly, and something shifts in his expression. Surprise, then a fierce satisfaction that transforms his entire face.
“Say it again,” he demands, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more powerful.
“I’m yours, Gideon.” The words feel like a confession, a surrender, a truth I can’t deny any longer.
“And I’m yours,” he replies, the words so unexpected they nearly stop my heart. “Only yours, Ava.”
The intensity builds between us, pushing us both toward the edge. His hands grip my hips, holding me exactly where he wants me, hitting that perfect spot inside me with each thrust.
“That’s it, good girl,” he praises as I arch beneath him. “Let me feel you come again. Come around my hard cock. Clench me tight.”
The combination of his words, his touch, and the overwhelming intimacy of the moment sends me spiraling into pleasure so intense it borders on agony. I cry out his name, digging my fingers into his muscular back as waves of sensation crash through me.
He follows moments later, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep inside me with a groan that sounds almost like relief. For several heartbeats, we stay connected, breathing hard, neither of us quite ready to break the spell that’s woven around us.
Finally, he slides off me, pulling me against him. I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow.
“That was...” I search for words that won’t reveal too much.
“Worth the wait,” he finishes for me, his hand trailing lazily up and down my spine.
I smile against his skin. “I was going to say ‘adequate,’ but sure, we can go with that.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest against my ear. “Liar.”
We fall into comfortable silence, the kind I never expected to share with Gideon King when this arrangement began.
I feel myself drifting toward sleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his body against mine. Just before consciousness slips away entirely, I feel his lips press gently against the top of my head.
“Sleep well, Ava,” he murmurs, and it feels like a different kind of possession, one I’m not sure I know how to protect myself from.
Morning finds me still in Gideon’s bed. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, highlighting the empty space beside me. For a moment, I wonder if he regrets the intimacy of last night, if he’s already retreated behind his usual walls. Last time, I found him in the kitchen when I awoke, cold as ice.
Then I hear the shower running in the en suite bathroom and relax slightly. He hasn’t gone far.
I stretch, taking inventory of my body. I’m pleasantly sore in all the right places, but also more rested than I’ve felt in weeks. Apparently, sleeping next to Gideon King is the cure for insomnia I never knew I needed.
Don’t get used to it. Temporary, remember?
The shower shuts off, and moments later Gideon emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets still clinging to his chest. The sight is distracting enough that it takes me a moment to register the expression on his face. He’s uncertain, almost vulnerable, so unlike his usual confident demeanor.
“I thought you might have gone back to your room,” he says, running a hand through his damp hair.
I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest despite the intimacy we’ve shared. “I guess I only just woke up.”
“Oh.” He seems disappointed. But then he studies me a moment, and asks the question that changes everything: “Stay again tonight?”
Three simple words that aren’t simple at all. Three words that acknowledge this isn’t just about convenience or physical release anymore. Three words that terrify me because of how badly I want to say yes.
“Okay,” I hear myself answer, my voice steadier than I feel.
He doesn’t smile exactly, but something in his expression softens. “Good.”
After he leaves for work, I tell myself it was a one-time thing. A post-reunion anomaly. The result of emotional overload from seeing my grandmother’s portrait again. Definitely not something we’re going to make a habit of.
I spend the entire day convincing myself I’ll return to my own bedroom that night. My designated sleeping quarters as per section 3.1 of our meticulously negotiated contract. The room with my clothes, my toiletries, my familiar territory.
Just because you slept better in his arms than you have in months doesn’t mean you should do it again. That’s how habits form. That’s how hearts get broken.
By evening, I’ve decided: I’m absolutely, definitely sleeping in my own bed tonight. No question. Decision made.
So naturally, at eleven o’clock, when he arrives home late as always, I find myself standing outside his bedroom door in my sleep shorts and tank top, questioning every life choice that led me to this moment.
This is pathetic, Ava. You’re not some needy girlfriend. You’re his temporary contract wife. Get it together.
I’m about to turn around, retreat to my contractually-approved bedroom, when the door opens. Gideon stands there in just his pajama bottoms, looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“I was just—” I start, but the excuse dies on my lips.
He doesn’t say anything. Just steps aside, making space for me to enter. Like he’s been waiting. Like he expected me. Like he knew I’d come. Which of course I would.
Walk away. Walk away right now.
I step into his room.
What follows is less frantic than the night before. Slower. More deliberate. When we finally fall asleep, my head on his chest, his arm around my waist, I tell myself this is still just physical. Convenient. Nothing more than two consenting adults finding comfort in each other’s bodies.
The third night, I don’t even pretend I’m going to my own room. I finish my evening shower, pull on my pajamas, and head straight for his bedroom when he gets home. He’s already working on his laptop, but glances up as I enter, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
“Page 394 of the quarterly report,” he says by way of greeting. “Riveting stuff. ”
“Sounds thrilling,” I reply, climbing onto my side of the bed.
My side. When did he get a “my side”?
“Don’t be long,” I tell him.
He isn’t. Well, his cock is, but that’s another story.
By the fifth night, there’s a phone charger on my nightstand. The sixth night, I notice he’s cleared a drawer for me, though I stubbornly continue retrieving clothes from my own room each morning. The seventh night brings a glass of water waiting for me, because he’s noticed I always wake up thirsty at 3 AM.
It’s the little things that terrify me the most.
On day ten, I find myself staring at my toothbrush, still sitting in its holder in my bathroom. Moving it would be crossing a line, wouldn’t it? Some invisible boundary between “temporarily sharing a bed” and “actually living together as a couple.” As if that boundary isn’t already so blurred it might as well be nonexistent.
The toothbrush stays. As long as the toothbrush stays in your bathroom, this isn’t real.
I don’t move my clothes into his room. My toiletries remain firmly in my bathroom. My art supplies continue to inhabit their designated space in the penthouse. These small acts of separation feel important, like lifelines tethering me to the reality of our arrangement.
This is still temporary. Still a business agreement with benefits. Still has an expiration date circled in red on the calendar.
I maintain these boundaries even as we fall into domestic habits I never imagined sharing with Gideon King. He makes coffee while I toast bagels in the morning. I learn that he reads the business section first, and he discovers I solve the crossword puzzles starting with the “across” clues. He unconsciously reaches for my hand while watching the news. I find myself bringing him tea when he’s working late in the home office.
And every night, I sleep in his bed, in his arms, and we somehow maintain the fiction that this is temporary.
“Do you sleep better here?” he asks one night, his voice already thick with approaching sleep, fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back.
“Yes,” I admit, because there’s no point lying about something so obvious.
He makes a satisfied sound, pulling me closer. “Good.”
That’s all he says. All he needs to say. We don’t discuss what it means or how it changes things or what happens when our contract ends. We just exist in this undefined space between fake and real, pretending we’re still adhering to the rules while breaking the most important one every night.
And each morning, I wake up wondering how I’ll ever learn to sleep alone again when our time runs out.