Page 24 of Ava After Midnight

I want to laugh. I want to tell him I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.

Instead, I move with the reckless certainty of a woman who refuses to hesitate.

“Then you’ll do as I say,” I tell him, dragging my nails down his jaw. He doesn’t nod, doesn’t answer. He just breathes.

A hint of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yes,princesa.”

I press my thumb against his bottom lip, and he opens his mouth without thinking, without questioning. I feel his breath, the heat of him, the tension coiling beneath his skin. A muscle jumps in his jaw, but he doesn’t break eye contact.

The control I thought I’d never have—the ability to pull him apart with just this—floods through me like a rush of air after drowning.

I press harder. “Say it, again.”

“Yes,princesa.”

I exhale slowly. He means it.

I yank at his belt, pulling it free from the loops. The leather hisses against fabric, a sharp sound in the quiet space between us. His breath stutters—just a little—but he doesn’t move. The weight of the belt feels good in my hands, solid and certain. Domingo’s arms stay loose at his sides, waiting.

I step behind him, pressing my chest flush against his back, letting my breath fan over the curve of his shoulder. Hesmells like clean sweat and musk, something darker underneath, something purely him.

“Hands,” I murmur against his ear.

A slow, deep inhale pushes from his chest before he obeys, shifting his arms behind him.

I tighten the leather around his wrists, the buckle clicking into place. He exhales, long and controlled. Settling into it.

I step back to take him in. His chest rises and falls a little faster now, his hands flexing behind him in a test of restraint. Fully dressed, completely restrained, waiting on my next move.

“I can take more,” he murmurs, voice edged with challenge.

My hands slide down his stomach, past his waistband, stopping just before I touch him.

He groans.

“You don’t like being kept waiting?”

His jaw clenches. “I can wait.”

I hum, dragging my nails along his lower stomach. “You sure?”

His breath stutters. His restraint is cracking—I can feel it in the way his thighs tense, in the shallow hitch of his exhale.

I grip his jaw, forcing his gaze on me.

“I want to hear you beg for me.”

Silence stretches between us, heavy with defiance and something darker, something hungry.

I tighten my grip. “Do it.”

His voice is rough, wrecked. “Please, Ava?—”

“No.” I press closer, rolling my hips just enough to make him shudder. My lips brush his earlobe, teasing. “Try again.”

His throat bobs, breath stuttering. He swallows his pride and chokes on his need.

"Por favor," he whispers, then again, louder. "Por favor, mi amor. Déjame corr?—"

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