Page 17 of Ava After Midnight

“About your hands.” Her breath hitches as my palms slide down her sides. “About how they’d feel…”

“Here?” I grip her hips, pulling her flush against me.

“Everywhere.”

The word hangs between us like smoke. Like a promise. Like danger.

Her lips crash into mine without warning, desperate and demanding. For one blazing moment, I give in—tasting her need, her passion, everything she’s hidden away to survive in her fiancé’s world. My fingers tangle in her hair as she presses closer, like she’s trying to crawl inside my skin.

But the small sound she makes—half pleasure, half pain—snaps me back.

“Wait.” I break the kiss, holding her at arm’s length. My body screams in protest, but I force the words out. “Not like this,mialma preciosa. When I take you apart, I want you whole and certain, not scattered and searching.”

“Why not?” Her gaze is molten, lips swollen from my kiss. “I want you.”

“Because tomorrow you’ll hate yourself.” I cup her face, forcing her to see the truth in my eyes. “And I’d rather have you hate me now than hate yourself later.”

She tries to pull away, but I don’t let her.

“Listen to me, Ava.” I take a deep breath, praying that she won’t hate me for what I’m about to say. “You’re drunk, hurt, and angry at your fiancé. I won’t be your revenge fuck.”

“That’s not?—”

“Yes, it is.” I press my forehead to hers, inhaling slowly. “And when you’re ready—really ready—I want to be more than that.”

A tear slips down her cheek. I swipe it away with my thumb.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” she whispers.

“Good.” I kiss her forehead softly. “Confusion means you’re finally thinking for yourself.”

The look she shoots at me holds both anger and gratefulness, the emotions coexisting like oil and water. Not mixing, but both present.

“Come on.” I lace our fingers together, tugging her toward the kitchen. “Let me make you something better than bar shots.”

She huffs a small laugh. “You cook too?” Hoisting herself onto the marble counter, she watches me rummage through cabinets. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Stay away from complicated women wearing engagement rings.” I find the coffee maker, grateful for the distraction. “Clearly, that’s not my strength.”

This laugh is soft, real. “Clearly.”

I move around the kitchen with the same rhythm I use behind the bar, hyper-aware of her eyes tracking every motion.The coffee machine hums to life, filling the air with something warm, grounding. She hides her yawn behind her knuckles.

“Caffeine might be a mistake,” she admits.

“This isn’t just coffee,princesa.” I pull two mugs from the rack. “This is my grandmother’s recipe for clarity.”

“Does it work?”

“Always.” I add a pinch of cinnamon, and a splash of something secret. “Though sometimes, clarity’s scarier than confusion.”

She accepts the mug, inhaling deeply. “Smells like... possibilities.”

“Tastes like decisions.” I lean against the counter opposite her, cradling my own mug.

“Decisions are tomorrow’s problem,” she murmurs into her drink.

“No.” I meet her gaze over the steam. “Decisions are being made right now, with every breath. You’re just finally noticing them.”

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