The Gala
863 Words
The gala smelled like money and desperation.
Ava Monroe adjusted the strap of her borrowed dress, the silk clinging to her skin like a second layer of lies. She wasn’t here for the champagne or the small talk. She was here for Mr. Holloway—the gallery owner who’d been eyeing her paintings like a vulture circling carrion. One smile, one handshake, and she could finally pay her overdue rent.
She just had to survive the night.
“—such a vibrant use of color in your last piece,” Holloway droned, his breath sour with gin. “We simply must discuss a showing.”
Ava forced a smile. “I’d love that.”
Another lie. She was getting good at those.
She excused herself before he could press closer, slipping through the crowd like a thief. The balcony was empty, the night air a blessing against her flushed skin. Below, the city glittered, indifferent. She leaned against the railing, closed her eyes, and—
“You look like you’re one wrong word away from jumping.”
The voice was low, amused, and entirely too close.
Ava turned. A man stood beside her, his broad shoulder nearly brushing hers. Tall. Dark suit. A face carved from arrogance and sharp angles. Gray eyes, stormy and assessing.
“Or pushing someone else off,” she said.
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Violent. I like that.”
She should’ve walked away. But there was something about the way he looked at her—not like the other men tonight, who saw only a pretty face or a potential conquest. This one looked at her like she was a problem he wanted to solve.
“Liam Carter,” he said, as if she were supposed to recognize the name.
She didn’t. “Ava Monroe. And I don’t care.”
That almost-smile again. “Now I’m really intrigued.”
A waiter passed with a tray of scotch. Liam plucked two glasses and handed her one. “Drink?”
“Only if you promise not to mansplain the notes to me.”
He laughed, the sound dark and unexpected. “Deal.”
She took a sip. The burn grounded her. “You always lurk in corners, or am I special?”
“You’re definitely special.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Though I’d wager you hear that often.”
Ava rolled her eyes. “If you’re trying to charm me, you’re failing spectacularly.”
“Good.” He stepped closer, his cologne—bergamot and something darker—wrapping around her. “I don’t do charm.”
“What do you do, Liam Carter?”
His fingers brushed hers as he took her empty glass, sending a jolt up her arm. “Whatever I want.”
She should’ve left. Should’ve flung the rest of her drink in his face and stormed back inside. But the way he said it—like the world bent to his will—made her pulse kick.
“Dance with me.”
It wasn’t a question.
Ava set her jaw. “I don’t dance.”
“You do tonight.”
His hand found the small of her back, guiding her toward the music before she could protest. The band played something slow, sinful. Liam moved like a man who knew exactly how much space to take—and how to make her want to give it to him.
“You’re incredibly presumptuous,” she said as he pulled her close.
“And you’re incredibly beautiful when you’re annoyed.” His thumb traced the dip above her hip, a slow, deliberate tease.
Ava swallowed. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
Yes.
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with his body heat seeping through her dress, his breath warm against her ear. The music swelled, the crowd blurring around them.
“One night,” she blurted.
His eyebrows lifted.
“One night,” she repeated, her voice steadier than she felt. “No names. No strings. Just… this.”
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise?—before it was gone, replaced by a smirk that made her stomach flip. “You’re asking me to sleep with you?”
She should’ve been embarrassed. Should’ve laughed it off. But the way he said it, like the idea pleased him, sent a rush of boldness through her.
“Take it or leave it.”
He didn’t hesitate. His hand cupped her nape, his fingers tangling in her hair. “Oh, I’m taking.”
His mouth crashed into hers.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was fire, a collision of teeth and tongue and need that stole her breath. Ava gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, and Liam groaned, the sound vibrating through her as he deepened the kiss. The taste of scotch and sin, the press of his body against hers—
A wolf whistle cut through the haze.
They broke apart, chest heaving. The band had shifted to something faster, the moment shattered. Ava’s lips felt swollen. Her body hummed.
Liam’s voice was rough. “My place. Now.”
She should’ve said no.
She didn’t.
- Writer
