3. Ava

Chapter 3

Ava

I spent every second of the taxi ride letting lie after lie slip out from between my teeth about my time studying contemporary art at college while wracking my brain to figure out how I was going to avoid him for the rest of my life.

Or maybe I could just dye my hair black again, since that seemed to make such a massive difference.

But as his hand reached out for me from where he stood on the deck of his sailboat, I couldn't help but feel a massive pang of relief that he hadn't realized yet. The likelihood of tonight ending the moment he knew who I was weighed on my mind, and I would lie as much as I needed to in order to keep that from happening.

I took his hand and stepped off the dock, the far too large sailboat rocking just an inch from the inertia. He steadied me before I even had a chance to potentially lose my footing, and for a second, I almost told him that he didn't need help, that I had spent enough time on sailboats growing up—even this one—and didn't need assistance.

But that could raise questions, so I accepted the assistance.

"One drink," I smirked, lifting a single digit between us as I stepped down off the edge of the boat and onto the main deck. "That's it. Nothing else."

The corners of his mouth twitched upward into a smirk and for the smallest of seconds, I let myself take this in, take it all in, as he stepped down to meet me. It was never truly dark in Manhattan, but the clear, black sky behind him mixed with the glittering lights of the city's skyline on his left lit him up almost like a dream, a dream I was sure I'd had hundreds of times in my life. Adrian—or John —had littered my thoughts for years, and now here he was in the flesh, likely not believing my insistence on one drink.

It was almost hard to believe that I wasn't dreaming again.

Adrian's tongue dragged across his upper teeth as he chuckled breathily through his nose. "One drink," he parroted. He slipped his hand into mine and dragged me toward the interior of the boat, right where I knew the kitchen and bar were positioned. "And what drink would that be?"

The polished oak door swung open, and he flipped a switch, illuminating the large space in a warm, soft glow. "What do you have?"

He didn't bother dropping my hand. Instead, he pulled me with him as he slipped behind the bar, marble countertops lining either side of us with a wall of alcohol and under-counter fridges to our right. "Everything," he said, releasing my hand in exchange for wrapping it around my midsection. For the briefest of seconds, our chests touched, his warmth seeping into me through his pressed shirt—but then I was lifting, up, up, up, until my rear slid onto the marble countertop. His hips slotted between my open thighs, his jeans catching and pulling just slightly at my skirt. It tugged the waistband just a little lower on my hips, exposing just an inch more of my midriff. "It just depends on what you want from me, Lily. "

The bar lights twinkled in the blue of his eyes as he leaned a little closer. Each little line in his skin reminded me that this wasn't just any man who was coming on to me. This was Adrian, dressed up as some strange, different version of himself who went by John. This was my father's friend. This was someone I was convinced I would never have the chance to go on a date with, let alone touch, and as I slid my fingers gently across the curve of his jaw and felt each little prickle of his five o'clock shadow, I couldn't help myself.

I'd wanted this for so long with him. Fuck my rules when it came to dates—this was different.

I pressed my lips to his. Taking that plunge myself instead of letting him do it felt like I was giving in to something I shouldn't. But this wasn't like how it had been up near Central Park. This wasn't confined and restrained because of the public nature of it.

He wanted more, and it was blindingly obvious here in the privacy of his sailboat.

He kissed me hungrily and greedily, his mouth devouring me as if I were a meal and he hadn't eaten in years. His hand, far larger than mine and so fucking warm, trailed along the top of my thigh over the patterned fabric of my skirt. His other wrapped around the back of my neck, holding me in place and keeping me from retreating from the invasion of him.

But I didn't want to retreat.

I wasn't sure exactly how far he would go. Memories of him hit me the more his cologne demanded my attention, and although I hadn't heard much about him since my parents had divorced and my father left Boston for the shimmering lights of New York City, I had vague recollections of attending an engagement party for Adrian when I was fifteen, just a few months before I'd last seen him. How many levels of bad is this?

His hand trailed lower, over the curve of my knee and down around my calf, slipping under the lower hem of my skirt and meeting bare flesh. He gave me an inch of space as he pulled his lips from mine and half-lidded eyes met mine too close to focus on. "If you're truly just here for a drink," he said, his fingers tightening on the back of my neck, "you're doing an awful job of ordering one."

"It's hard to order anything when my mouth is preoccupied," I teased. "But I'll take whatever is nicest."

His digits traveled up the back of my leg, pulling the fabric up with it as it pooled on top of his jacketed arm. Slightly swollen lips pulled back into a far too cheeky of a grin, and for the briefest of seconds, his fingers brushed against the inside of my thigh, sending a wave of electricity through me. Higher, I wanted to say, but they disappeared as quickly as they'd come, and soon his hand was leaving me entirely and lifting up a bottle of red wine that must have been stored beneath where I was sitting. " This is the best bottle I have on the ship."

I almost wanted to scream at him for teasing me just to get to a bottle of wine, but I took it in my grasp and turned it to look at the label. A hand-drawn design of some kind of estate house took up the majority of it, and beneath that, in faded letters, were the words CH?TEAU LAFITE ROTHSCHILD, 2009.

I knew enough about wine from my father's obsession with it to know that this was fucking expensive, and it was meant to be aged.

"Do you really want to waste opening a Lafite for one glass?" I asked, turning the bottle over in my hands.

"Let's be honest for one second," he laughed, plucking it from my grasp. He reached between my legs again, and my heart rate nearly doubled as he brushed against my inner thigh. Just like he had thirty seconds ago, he retreated, pulling out a multi-faceted corkscrew. "You're not just staying for one drink."

He cut away the top of the wrapping before I could protest and shoved the spiral into the top of the cork, twisting it down until it had almost entirely disappeared.

"Pass me two glasses, would you?" he asked. "They're just behind your head."

The moment his hand flexed, gripping the screw and leveraging it out, I gave up what little fight I had left in me. No going back now.

I spun around, reaching for the thin stemmed glasses with wide tops. Dad used to shout at me for grabbing the small ones whenever he had red wine, and for once, his training paid off. I passed them to Adrian—or John —and he carefully poured out two servings worth before handing me one back.

I stared at it for longer than I intended to, watching as it moved in the glass and painted the sides a clear, dark maroon. He watched me closely, his eyes lingering with far too much weight, and every second under that stare felt like a hurricane brewing far too close for comfort.

"Come on, pretty girl," he mocked, clinking his glass against mine. "Even if it's one glass, you have to at least try it."

I wasn't entirely sure how to tell him that I couldn't give two shits about the wine and just wanted him to take me back to the bedroom I knew existed on this godforsaken sailboat, but I obliged, letting the heat of him calling me pretty girl settle in between my thighs as I lifted the glass to my lips.

Fuck, it was good.

"There you go," he said. He slipped between my thighs again, sliding his free hand around my waist and settling it on the small of my back. He pulled, and my rear moved along the slick surface, bringing my parted legs directly against his waist. Heat swarmed over my face, and I knew damn well it wasn't from the one sip of alcohol I had taken.

"You shouldn't have opened this one." I swallowed past the lump in my throat and sipped at it again, my mouth salivating from the tannins.

He shrugged. "I've got twenty more at home."

Twenty more . It didn't surprise me in the slightest, but I wasn't supposed to think he was as wealthy as he actually was—not as John , at least, and not as Lily . Lily knew him as a decently well-off travel expert and photographer, not the multi-millionaire head of a global events planning company. But Lily also wouldn't know how expensive this wine was, and I wasn't sure how exactly to respond in order to fit with the narrative we were both presenting.

"Besides," he started, offering me a little smirk as he set his glass down and brought himself closer, his lips hovering against the shell of my ear, "I find it hard to believe that you'd willingly sit in a taxi for twenty minutes just to have one single drink with me."

An electric current shot down my spine from the heat of his breath. Instinctually, my hand reached for him, landing solidly on the warmth of his shirt between the folds of his jacket, and his answering breathy chuckle only added to the sensation from my ear.

"So tell me, Lily ," he rasped. His hand found the bare skin of my knee again, and within an instant, he was lifting the fabric of my skirt further, dragging it up my thigh, his thumb caressing the sensitive flesh. "What exactly would you like me to do with you?"

The heat in my cheeks flared further. What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? Did he expect me to just be as forward as possible and ask him to bend me over the counter?

"You've been talking all night and you choose now to lose your voice?" he laughed.

I swallowed again, forcing words to the front of my mouth and out from behind the vice of my teeth. I already knew the answer, but I asked anyway. "Do you have a bed on this thing?"

He pulled back from my ear, but his face hovered near the side of my face, his eyes locked on me. His hand moved just a little higher up on my thigh, just a couple of inches from dangerous territory. "I do."

I clutched the fabric of his shirt and downed the last of the small glass of wine for an added bit of courage. "Then that's what I want."

His mouth shifted as he sucked at his teeth, his head moving further from me until he stood at his full height. With one hand, he lifted the opened bottle and poured me another serving, topping himself up in the process.

What…the fuck?

"How old are you, Lily?" he asked. It was so nonchalant, so absurdly irrelevant, that it left me dumbfounded for a second.

"Twenty-five," I said. It wasn't a lie. I'd had it right there on my dating profile. He knew this, just as much as I knew his listed age of forty-five wasn't a lie either.

The hand on my thigh moved an inch higher, and dear God, he must have felt the heat coming off of me. Another inch and he'd be exactly where I was growing desperate for him to be. "So, you're old enough to make better decisions than this."

I swallowed. "So are you."

He chuckled as he wrapped his fingers around the stem of the glass I was holding, lifting it closer to my lips. His other hand kept steady on my inner thigh, his thumb brushing back and forth by the most sensitive parts of me. "You're not wrong."

I took a sip of the wine, letting it sit in my mouth for a moment and sink into my taste buds before swallowing. "Are you saying we shouldn't?—"

"I'm saying that we're probably both walking into a mistake," he laughed.

I noticed the sensation of his thumb lifting the hemline of my underwear before I'd even realized he'd moved his hand again. He brushed against the slick skin between my thighs, and his lips parted instantly. I knew damn well he could feel what had been building there, but he still kept himself from touching exactly where I was growing desperate.

"But I don't think you care. And neither do I."

He pushed the glass to my lips again, and the moment the wine touched my tongue, a single knuckle dragged across the bundle of nerves that was aching to be touched. I struggled to swallow through the little sound that croaked from me, and before I knew what was truly happening, he was on me.

He stole the glass and set it to the side, his mouth meeting mine in a fucking frenzy, the lingering tastes of wine mixing between us. All of his fingers on the hand between my thighs slipped beneath the thin fabric of my underwear and between the folds of the far too slick skin, and oh my God , Adrian was touching me, putting pressure just where I wanted, taking away the ache and leaving only pleasure in its wake.

His free hand grabbed for the knot in my knit cardigan just beneath my breasts, and a second later it was undone, both sides splaying out and leaving me bare-chested.

He didn't waste another moment on my mouth.

"Drink your fucking wine," he ordered, grabbing it for me once again as his lips left mine. Hastily, I took it, and as I shakily lifted the glass to my lips, he descended on my breast instead.

Warm and wet and soft, he dragged his tongue across my hardened nipple before gently sinking his teeth into the delicate, sensitive skin. It took everything in me not to gasp his real name, and instead, I buried the sound in the wine.

Rigidity pressed against my inner thigh as he made more room for his hand. Too many times in my life, I'd imagined what was beneath his jeans, filled in the gaps from what I hadn't been able to see at pool parties or the rare, occasional times he'd used our hot tub back home, and it was almost maddening that I had a chance to see all of him now.

I didn't want to wait.

I downed the rest of my glass and set it to the side, far enough out of reach that I didn't need to worry about knocking over two glasses rather than one. I couldn't reach much from the angle he had me at, leaning back onto the bar top—but I could grab for his jacket with one hand while holding onto his hair with the other, could push it off of his shoulders, could show him what I wanted.

I didn't realize the error in that, though. He removed his fingers entirely as he fully shrugged it off, leaving me needy and without stimulation on my clit. Adrian—or John —took that moment to slip out of his shirt as well, and pulled his mouth from mine.

For a horrifying second, I could consider how I must look. One elbow was holding me up on the marble countertop, and I looked almost like a fucking meal had been laid out with my exposed chest and my legs spread, a load of fabric from my skirt bunching up around my hips. I'd done this so many times in my life, but this was different, this was something I'd wanted for years , and the reality of that was beginning to hit.

It hit especially hard as he stood there between my thighs, his hair a mess and his bare, sculpted upper body practically heaving as he, too, observed me.

I reached for the zipper at the side of my skirt and his hand halted me.

"Bedroom," he said, his tone making it sound more like an order than a statement.

————

I couldn't breathe.

With my bare body laid out on the plush white sheets, Adrian towered over me in nothing but his boxers, every ripple of muscle tight. From the bulk in his arms to his built-out pecs and abs, he'd clearly taken up working out in the time since I'd last seen him. He'd always been attractive, but his chest certainly hadn't looked like that when he had been relaxing in our hot tub, and I couldn't stop staring.

But neither could he.

"Christ," he hissed, his fingertips playing with the elastic band of his boxers. His cock was obvious beneath them, straining against the fabric for dear life, and even with it covered, I could tell that I was doomed. "You look like a goddamn painting."

I…had never been told that before.

Something about his words lit more than just my skin on fire. He was connecting with me on a level no one had ever seemed to care about—even if I was playing the role of Lily and not Ava, it was still a version of myself that I didn't dare to allow to breathe. I wished I could be Lily, and the readiness with which he was willing to engage with her on art and the silly little things I had said made my chest ache.

You look like a goddamn painting.

That was something that would stick in my brain and never fucking leave.

"Thank you," I breathed.

His hand dipped beneath the waistband, pulling it down, down, down?—

Oh my god, I wasn't just doomed. I was dead .

His length sprung from his boxers, his hand wrapped around the base, and yet again, I couldn't breathe . Not only was he far longer than I expected, but the girth was almost wide enough that his thumb only barely met his fingers. His cock was just as tanned as the rest of him, and the veins that sprang along the sides and underneath were so prominent I thought they might burst. The tip, glistening and pink, fucking dripped.

"Roll over," he ordered. "Let me see all of you."

I almost didn't want to, almost wanted to stay and just watch him touch himself. But I followed his instructions.

Hands grabbed my hips before they could meet the mattress.

His fingers dug into my skin harshly as he pulled me back toward the edge, forcing me to my knees with my upper half down in the sheets. I sucked in air as his fingers slipped along my exposed pussy, trailing over the bundle of nerves over and over, as his other hand kneaded the soft flesh of my rear.

"Oh my God," I whimpered, and as if in response to it, pleasure bloomed at my core as he slid two fingers inside of me with ease.

" Fuck , love, you're tight."

A moan escaped me as another finger entered.

"And so goddamn wet," he added, his voice like fucking butter as the weight from his knee pushed down on the mattress. "You're dripping."

I lifted myself enough to look down between my parted knees, and sure enough, he was absolutely correct. Heat warmed my cheeks and I buried my face in the sheets again. "Sorry."

"Don't you dare apologize for that," he laughed, gripping the flesh of my ass so hard I was sure he'd leave bruises.

A slight, minor burst of pain hit me as his pinky slipped in with the rest, dipping so deep into me that his knuckles brushed against the bottom of my clit. Within a second the pain turned to pleasure, and I just wanted more , needed it so badly I could beg.

But before I even needed to, he retreated, leaving me aching and empty and needy.

"Put those hands to good use," he said. His grip on my rear relented as his hand slid along my spine, up and along the back of my neck. He grabbed it like he had before, his thumb and middle finger sinking in beneath my ears, and held me in place. "Touch yourself. It'll help."

Warm and soft, the tip of his cock pressed against my entrance.

Shit. He was right.

Moving frantically before he could push in, I slipped my right hand beneath me and along my stomach, cresting that ridge and finding my clit. It throbbed as he slowly sank an inch, flesh against flesh, little dots of pain sprouting as he stretched me. It blended into the ecstasy as I moved my fingers, the sensation nearly overwhelming, and for a moment my head swam as he gave me time to adjust to just an inch of him.

"That's it, pretty girl. Open up for me."

Another inch, and I wasn't sure if I was going to die and go to hell or heaven. But I wanted to find out.

" Fuck yes, just…relax," he rasped, his free hand coming to rest on the curve of my waist. Slowly, achingly, he pulled me back toward him instead of pushing forward, and every inch he sank made my pulse pound and my mind go blank.

Adrian was inside of me.

Filling me.

Destroying me.

I'd never escape those fucking dreams again.

"Good fucking girl," he said, his voice so low it was nearly a growl as he sunk in as far as my body could take him. "You okay?"

I swallowed as I forced myself to breathe. I couldn't think of a time when I'd ever felt so goddamn full in my entire life— not even with toys. "I think I've died and gone to heaven, John." Good job. Right name.

I could feel his laugh inside of me. "Not yet, you haven't."

I feared he might have been right.

Slowly, achingly, brain-scramblingly, he pulled himself back, sliding along my insides and hitting every spot I could ever hope for. But then he was pushing back in, unrelentingly and carefree, and that was enough to send me spiraling.

I couldn't even focus on moving my fingers. It was everything.

"God, you fit me perfectly," he hissed, his fingers tightening along the back of my neck. "Come here."

His cock moved inside of me, but I could barely process the sensation of the front of my body being lifted up, my back arched, head tilting back to rest against his chest. He hit a new angle like this, and that filled my vision with little bright lights, stealing my breath until I could remember to breathe again.

One of his hands replaced my stagnant one, and holy shit , he was right, this wasn't death, not yet. I reached up for his neck to steady myself, sounds I wasn't even positive were coming from my throat filling the room, but they sounded like me, and matched every strum of his fingers against my clit.

I couldn't even bring myself to meet his thrusts halfway. I was limp and useless, just a toy to be thrown around and manipulated however he wanted, and for once, I wanted nothing but that. Already, I was rapidly approaching orgasm, and if I wasn't already incapacitated, I couldn't imagine being much more useful than I already was.

But then his other hand moved.

The one that held me around the back of my neck slipped forward, his arm coming to rest across my chest, and his fingers gripped my throat from the front side. "Yes, yes, yes, please," I moaned, the first coherent thought I'd had being one I'd never wanted to voice. I reinforced his position with my free hand over his wrist.

"You like that?" he laughed, the sound far too deep and menacing.

His thrusts turned rougher the moment I nodded my head.

" Goddammit , you fucking do," he cursed. "You're squeezing me like a vice."

His thumb and middle finger dug in on either side of my neck as his palm sat flush against my windpipe, just like I'd done to myself time and time again in the comfort of my bedroom, pausing the blood flow. I didn't dare say a word, not when the only one running through my mind was his fucking name.

"Tap my hand when you want me to stop," he grunted.

Second by second, I hurtled toward the edge, his fingers at my clit keeping their pace. Just as I reached it, the sides of my vision darkened, and I frantically tapped my fingers against his hand.

He released immediately, and I did too.

The head rush hit me as pleasure set fire to my veins, sending me crashing and falling over the edge, shaking, twitching, dying, and coming back to fucking life. He pulled me through it, fucked me through it, and at the exact moment his fingers touching the most sensitive part of me turned from pleasure to torture, he removed them.

How he knew my signals better than I did was a mystery to me.

"Good fucking girl," he praised, his voice soft as his movements became choppy, rushed, and desperate. He held me around the waist and the neck, with not an ounce of pressure again on my throat but enough to keep me locked in position. "So good, so… shit , so good for me."

I looked up at him as his head tipped back, a groan filling the air as he broke, his digits twitching around my throat. His chest heaved as his hips slowed, warmth filling me from the inside, and with every leisurely thrust he gave, I could feel him leaking from me, could feel the warmth of him on my thighs.

I held onto the back of his neck, kept my back arched, and held myself in position as he slowly came to. I didn't dare move until his hold began to loosen.

He began to retreat, and to my absolute surprise, I spluttered a plea for him to stay inside. I didn't want to give it up yet. I couldn't remember a time that I'd ever asked someone to not get out after sex, but I knew that once he was gone, I wouldn't feel it again. Knew that the end of it meant that we'd likely go to sleep, knew that would mean the end of our encounter, knew that would mean the end of my time with Adrian.

I didn't want it to end. I'd spent so long dreaming about it, wishing for it, praying for it—and I'd had it. He'd given it to me. But every beginning has an ending, and as much as I desperately didn't want this to be it, he couldn't give me forever.

Not when I wasn't even Ava .