Page 27 of Ava After Midnight

I press a kiss to his temple. “Good boy. Come for me, Domingo.”

His entire body tenses beneath me, trembling, lost in pleasure. A guttural groan tears from his throat as he spills into my hand, his breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts.

I keep the camera on him, recording every second.

He shudders, groaning my name, shaking beneath me as I take him through it.

I don’t stop recording. I capture every moment of his ruin.

And when it’s done—when he’s completely wrecked, completely mine—I stop the video.

Slowly, I unbuckle the belt, freeing his wrists. He just watches me.

I swallow. “This is what you wanted, right?”

His voice is soft but firm. “I wanted you.”

Fuck. I just gave a man like him the perfect excuse to take everything back.

Chapter Eight

DOMINGO

She’s been mine since the first fucking moment.

Ava still tries to convince herself otherwise, but I see the truth written all over her body. The way she trembles, the way she breathes, the way her lips part when I get too fucking close. She can lie to herself all she wants, but I know.

Outside, the storm rages. Rain lashes against our skin, cold and merciless, a stark contrast to the fire between us. The neon glow of Miami flickers across her soaked skin, painting her in reds and golds, the heat from our bodies turning the icy drops into steam where we touch. Wind howls through the city, electricity crackling in the air, a live wire ready to snap. Lightning tears the sky apart, flashing against the glass, illuminating the way she trembles.

It’s wild, furious, a perfect mirror to what’s inside me.

Inside us.

She stands at the edge of the rooftop, soaked to the bone, her dress clinging to every curve I’ve already memorized. Her hair drips, wild curls sticking to her skin, and her breath comes quick, like she’s still trying to hold onto something.

I’m going to set her free.

Ava stiffens as I step closer, eyes darting to mine. There it is again. That fight. That fear. That fucking lie.

“No he terminado contigo, princesa,” I murmur, voice low, edged with warning. “Tomas lo que te doy.”

She swallows hard. “Domingo?—”

I don’t let her finish. My hands grip her thighs, and before she can protest, I lift her against me, pressing her back against the glass railing. Miami glows beneath us, the city alive and electric, but all I see is her. All I feel is her heat, her pulse, the tight squeeze of her thighs locking around my waist.

Her breath shudders. She’s pretending she has a choice.

I grind against her, letting her feel me—thick, hard, already aching for her. Her nails dig into my shoulders. Her body tenses, then, fuck, she moves. A slow, tentative roll of her hips against mine.

I drag my thumb over her nipple, feeling it stiffen beneath the soaked fabric of her dress. The tiniest whimper escapes her lips. My cock twitches against her heat, my patience hanging by a thread.

I grip her jaw, tilting her head up. “Say my name, baby. Make me believe you need it.”

Her breath hitches. She wants to fight it. But she can’t.

“Domingo.”

Not enough. I roll my hips, teasing her with the full, aching length of me.

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