AVA'S TERMS

It's the third day since I moved to California. I haven't had time to explore yet, only feeding my eyes from the top of my penthouse in Los Angeles. "That changes tonight," I said to myself, admiring the reflection staring back at me in the mirror. A micro-mini black dress hugged every curve of my body, its plunging neckline showing just enough. Six-inch heels elevated my 5'4" frame, and my golden blonde hair fell to my back in soft waves. It was, if I'm being honest, my best asset. As I left the penthouse and slid into my car, there was only one thought on my mind: I needed someone tonight. There's only so much pleasure a vibrator can give, and I was done settling. I arrived at the high-end restaurant I'd reserved the day before, a haven for the rich and elite, and exactly the kind of place someone like me belonged. A sharply dressed waiter escorted me to my table. Minutes later, I was served hot steak and stir-fried vegetables. As I ate, I let myself take in the space, every inch of it dripping with luxury and intention. The velvet booths, the amber lighting, the low murmur of expensive conversation. Then I spotted a lounge through one of the back doors. That's where I need to be. I stood, adjusted my dress, and walked in. That's when I saw him, seated alone in a dimly lit corner, drink in hand, a quiet storm of composure and s*x appeal. I approached slowly, intentionally. He looked up, eyebrows lifting just slightly. "Hi. My name's Ava. Ava Addams," I said, sliding into the seat beside him before he could respond. "Steven," he replied, and the deep baritone of his voice sent warmth pulsing straight through me. I crossed my legs and leaned back against the velvet sofa. "You don't talk much, do you?" I asked, picking up the glass of wine that had somehow appeared in front of me. "I usually don't have strangers walking up to me like that," he said, eyes unapologetically tracing the length of my legs. "Then you've clearly been spending time in the wrong places," I replied with a smirk, sipping my wine. He chuckled. "Maybe I have." "So... what do you do?" I asked. But just as he opened his mouth, I cut him off with a sly smile. "Actually... I don't want to know. What I do want to know is what your mouth tastes like." His eyes darkened. His jaw tightened, like he was holding something back. "That's a dangerous thing to say," he murmured, voice low and thick with want. I leaned in close enough to breathe in the scent of his cologne, expensive, dark, addictive. "I don't do safe." A beat of stillness passed between us. Then he leaned in and brushed his lips against mine, tentative, testing. But I hadn't come here to be teased. I kissed him hard, like I hadn't been touched in months, like I needed him then and there. His hand wrapped around my waist, pulling me against him. The rest of the room faded. His hand slid from my waist to my thigh, teasing the hem of my dress, fingers grazing skin I hadn't let anyone touch in far too long. I gasped softly, heat surging through me. I leaned into his ear. "Is there a hotel nearby?" He pulled back just enough to meet my gaze. "No need. I live ten minutes away." I traced a finger down his chest. "Then what are we still doing here?" It took a moment to collect myself, to smooth my dress and gather the scattered remains of my restraint. When we stood, he took my arm and guided me through the restaurant. Then I froze. "My car..." "Write down your address," he said, pulling out his phone. "I'll have my driver take it to your place." I stared at him. No hesitation. Just quiet command. I typed in the address. He made a quick call in a language I didn't recognise, the kind that made you wonder who this man really was. A few seconds later, it was handled. I didn't know whether to be amused or incredibly turned on. We stepped outside. A sleek black BMW i8 waited at the curb, matte finish, butterfly doors raised like the car was ready to take flight. He opened the door. "After you." I slid in, fingertips brushing the cool console. "Nice car. Isn't this the newest model? I didn't think it was out yet." He smirked. "It's not. Not officially." I blinked. "Wait, what do you do?" "You said you didn't want to know," he said, pulling out into the street, voice like sin and silk. Touché. The drive was smooth, fast, and quiet, until we turned onto a private road, far from the chaos of LA. Gates opened soundlessly, revealing a mansion framed in gold light and guarded by ivy-covered stone. "Home sweet home," he said. We stepped inside, and my heels clicked softly against polished marble. The place was enormous, modern but intimate, dimly lit with warm tones and expensive taste. Every detail screamed money. Quiet, powerful money. What does this man actually do? The question sat briefly in my mind before I let it go. My body was still humming, still aching, and I wanted him now. It was like he read my mind. Without a word, he took my hand and led me down a hallway into a room on the ground floor. A guest suite, neat, underused. I couldn't care less. He sat me on the edge of the bed and stood before me. Then, without a word, he began to unbutton his shirt. Slow. Controlled. Confident. One button... two... three... until his shirt hung open, revealing a chest sculpted like marble. Defined abs, strong arms, flawless skin that begged to be touched. I bit down on my lower lip, barely holding back a sound. I didn't need to say a word. The hunger in my eyes said everything. And I was pretty sure he knew it. ---