Miles knew the second she said it—
“if you want to stand there and look pretty while I win…”—
that he was already on his way back to her.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t toss out a smirk or a joke or the half-teasing hair flip that flickered through his head in reflex. That would’ve been easy—too easy. She’d handed him the kind of line guys usually said with a smirk and a wink, and for half a second, he thought about hamming it up. Playing the feminine gaze. Giving her his best model face and stretching like he was showing off for the cover of a Calvin Klein ad.

But he didn’t want to perform.

He wanted her.

So instead, he crossed the narrow space between them without breaking eye contact. His hands found her hips again like they’d been waiting for permission—which, technically, she’d just given. Except this time, they didn’t land gently. They settled fully, confident now. Thumbs dragging slow, reverent arcs along the dip of her waist before tracing the line of her tights where they disappeared under that too-short dress.

If it were a different place—somewhere darker, quieter, more private—he might’ve kept going. Let his hands slide lower. Let her feel everything he was trying to say with his palms alone.

But they were still in public.

Still at the Rodeo Bar.

And even in the golden haze of beer and low lighting, he knew exactly where they were. He knew how far to go—and how to make even this feel like a whisper against her skin.

“Yeah, well,” he murmured near her ear, voice dipped in quiet amusement, “looking pretty was the plan.”

He let the words linger—close, low, intimate. But he didn’t step back.

Didn’t back off.

Didn’t shy.

Instead, he pressed in just enough that she’d feel the line of his body at her back, warm and steady, anchoring her the way she’d asked without asking.

“You changed the rules,” he added. “Now I need a front-row seat.”

His hands moved slightly, not greedy, but grounded—one sliding to her lower back, the other drifting to her stomach in a slow, glancing touch before returning to her hip. He was present now. Entirely. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

Ava didn’t stop him.

Didn’t say a word at first.

Just smiled to herself and leaned back into him like that had been the whole point. Her space buns brushed his jaw. Her perfume hit stronger now—warm, floral, dizzying. Her breath caught, just for a second.

That small sound—that catch—nearly undid him.

Then she was lining up the shot again. Focused. Unbothered.

God, she was unbothered.

He stayed behind her, hand firm at her side, resisting the urge to drop a kiss to her shoulder because he wasn’t entirely sure what kind of spell that would break. Instead, he let himself be there—fully there—for her. For this. For whatever this night was turning into.

When she glanced back and murmured “if I miss—that one’s on you,” he gave a low, quiet chuckle against her hair. Didn’t say a word. Just let his hand tighten slightly in silent response.

And when she took the shot—whatever happened to the ball barely registered.

Because Ava wasn’t stepping away.

And Miles?

He wasn’t letting go.

Ava sank the shot.

Clean. Effortless. The ball dropped with a satisfying clack that cut through the bar noise just long enough to make her grin.

“Told you,” she said lightly, straightening before the echo had even faded.

She set the cue down on the felt with deliberate care—like closing a book you already knew you’d reread—then turned in his arms without hesitation. The shift was natural, instinctive, like this was where she’d been heading the whole time anyway.

Her arms came up around his neck, loose and easy, not trapping him there—just claiming the space. Her fingers rested at his collar, thumbs brushing absently, eyes bright with that mix of warmth and mischief he’d come to recognize fast.

“Well?” she asked, smiling up at him. “Still think you were carrying me?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

Instead, she leaned in just enough that her voice dropped, playful and soft, meant only for him.

“Careful, Mr. Ellington,” she said, teasing lilt tucked into the name like it was a secret they’d already decided to keep. “You’re getting awfully bold for someone who’s supposed to be supervising.”

Her smile widened when she saw the flicker of reaction cross his face—the way it always did when she used that name. Teacher habit. Inside joke. Something that belonged only to them now.

She let her forehead brush his, affectionate and unguarded, her laughter quiet against his mouth.

“But,” she added, eyes warm, utterly sincere beneath the humor, “I don’t mind being corrected.”

Her hands stayed where they were. Comfortable. Certain.

Like she wasn’t going anywhere.

Like neither of them needed to say what this was yet for it to feel real.

Ava didn’t unwind herself from him when the moment settled.

If anything, she leaned in more.

Keeping one arm looped loosely around his neck, she reached back with the other, fingers stretching just far enough to snag her drink from the edge of the pool table. It took a little maneuvering—an exaggerated tip onto her toes, a quiet laugh when the glass nearly slipped—but she managed it without ever leaving his space.

“Got it,” she murmured, pleased with herself.

She took the last few sips without breaking eye contact, the rim of the glass catching the low bar lights as she tilted it back. Cranberry and vodka—sweet, sharp, confidence-inducing. When she lowered it, there was nothing left but ice and the faint clink of glass.

Ava handed it to him, still close, still smiling.

“Can I have another, please?” she asked lightly.

Then—because she absolutely knew what she was doing—she fluttered her lashes up at him once. Twice. A third time for good measure. Not overdone. Just enough to be ridiculous and charming and entirely her.

Her mouth curved into a grin, playful and warm, cheeks a little flushed—not just from the drinks.

“Consider it extra credit,” she added softly, thumb brushing the back of his neck like she wasn’t even thinking about it. “For outstanding supervision.”

She stayed right there in his arms, patient and amused, already knowing the answer—but enjoying the asking far too much to stop.

Miles didn’t even try to hide his grin.

God, she made it too easy. The drink, the lashes, the thumb at the back of his neck—it was a miracle he was still upright.

He dropped his forehead to hers for a second, letting their smiles line up, his voice low and teasing against her lips.

“Extra credit, huh?” he murmured. “Careful, Ava. I’m a chronic overachiever.”

Then—because the way she looked at him when she was both smug and soft was becoming his favorite kind of trouble—he kissed her.

Not for show. Not even for heat.

Just because he could.

Because she’d let him. Because she was still standing in his arms like it was the only place she wanted to be. Because her mouth was right there and she tasted like cranberry and nerve and something he wasn’t even trying to name yet.

It was brief. Confident. Familiar now.

When he pulled back, his smirk tilted smugger.

“Guard this table,” he said quietly. “I don’t trust anyone else with it. I’ll be right back.”

And then—because he was asking for it—his hand slid down to give her ass a quick, unapologetic pat on his way out of her space. Nothing gross. Nothing obnoxious. Just enough pressure to say I’m coming back without needing to say a damn word.

He caught the way she looked at him for it—half scandalized, half don’t stop now—and tossed her a wink before grabbing his mostly-forgotten beer from the corner of the table.

He downed the rest on his way to the bar.

It burned cold, bitter and sweet, but all it did was sharpen him—make her glow harder in his periphery.

The bar wasn’t packed, but it was lively. When he got there, Joe was pouring whiskey and Riley was cutting limes behind him. Miles leaned in against the worn wood counter, knocking gently to catch attention.

“Vodka cranberry,” he said easily. “And another beer.”

Riley glanced up, brow raised.

“Your date drinking you under the table?”

Miles huffed a quiet laugh. “Nah. She’s just… winning.”

He didn’t say at what. Didn’t have to.

While he waited, his eyes found her across the bar.

She was back at the table, cue resting loosely in her hand, one hip popped, chin lifted just slightly like she owned the space now—and maybe she did. Her cheeks were flushed from the drink or the heat or him—he didn’t know, didn’t care—and she was smiling at something someone nearby said, but her gaze kept sliding back to the bar.

To him.

Every time she looked, he felt it. That little jolt behind his ribs. The this-is-how-it-starts of it all. The ridiculousness that it hadn’t even been that long and somehow he already knew how she tilted her head when she was trying not to laugh.

Riley slid the drinks toward him: one cold beer bottle and a sweating glass of vodka cranberry.

He gave a quiet thank you, careful with them as he turned back toward her.

The music was louder now. The bar warmer. The Christmas lights blinking lazily overhead.

None of it touched him.

Not really.

Not the way she did.

He reached her again, letting the glass brush lightly against her arm before offering it properly.

“Ms. Everett,” he said smoothly, exaggerated formality softening into something real beneath it. “I’m submitting this for review.”

He stayed close after she took it.

Didn’t rush away.

Didn’t pretend he wasn’t waiting.

“Be honest,” he added quietly, mouth tilting. “Am I passing?”

Because this—
the flirting, the touching, the way she looked at him like she wanted him here—

This felt like more than just a good night.

And Miles had never been very good at pretending otherwise.

Ava took the glass from him slowly, deliberately—like she wanted the moment to last a half-second longer than necessary. Her fingers brushed his again, light but intentional, and she didn’t pretend it was an accident.

She lifted the drink in a small, thoughtful way, eyes flicking between the color of it and his face before she took a sip. When she swallowed, she hummed softly, approving, then looked up at him through her lashes.

“Passing?” she echoed, amused, tilting her head. “Mr. Ellington, please. You’re setting the curve.”

She leaned back against the edge of the pool table again, just enough distance to make it interesting, her shoulder brushing his arm as she settled. One knee bent slightly, boot toe tapping once against the floor in a lazy rhythm with the music.

“I’m impressed,” she continued, voice warm, a little playful. “Good timing. Strong follow-through. Excellent attention to… student needs.”

Her smile turned mischievous, but there was something softer underneath it too—something genuine. She took another sip, then held the glass loosely at her side.

“And,” she added, quieter now, eyes holding his, “you’ve got perfect attendance.”

She glanced away for a second—toward the lights, the bar, the familiar chaos of the Rodeo—but her gaze found him again almost immediately, like it always did. Like she wasn’t done with him yet. Not even close.

“So yes,” Ava said, lifting the glass in a small toast just for him, “you’re passing.”

Then, with a grin that said she knew exactly what she was doing:

“Careful, though. If you keep this up, I might have to start expecting it.”

She took another sip, still watching him, still standing close enough that the space between them felt like a choice—one she clearly wasn’t interested in making right now.

Ava leaned back against the edge of the pool table, the wood cool through the thin fabric of her dress. She crossed her legs at the ankles slowly, deliberately—comfortable, confident, like she knew exactly how much space she was taking up and wasn’t interested in giving any of it back.

She took another sip of her drink, eyes never leaving his over the rim of the glass.

“You know,” she said lightly, like she was thinking out loud, “this feels like one of those lessons they don’t put in the curriculum.”

Her mouth curved, subtle and knowing.

“Like… you can explain it in theory all you want. Vocabulary. Definitions. Structure.” She gestured vaguely with her free hand, as if outlining a lesson plan in the air. “But none of it really sticks until there’s participation.”

She tilted her head, watching his reaction, clearly enjoying herself now.

“I always tell my students that engagement matters,” she went on, voice warm, playful. “You can’t just sit there and expect to absorb it. You have to show up. Pay attention. Ask questions.”

A beat.

“Sometimes,” she added, softer, “you learn the most when you stop trying to control the outcome and just… respond to what’s in front of you.”

Her lashes lifted then, slow and deliberate.

“And don’t get me wrong,” Ava continued, all faux-professional calm, “boundaries are important. Clear expectations. Mutual understanding.” A smile tugged at her lips. “But when everyone’s on the same page?”

She took one small step closer, closing the gap without touching him.

“That’s when things get… memorable.”

She took another sip, then glanced away briefly like she was checking herself—before looking back at him with that unmistakable spark.

“Consider this an informal lecture,” she said lightly. “No grades. Just… observation.”

Her eyes flicked down and back up again.

“Any questions so far, Mr. Ellington?”

Miles let out a low breath, not quite a laugh—more like a quiet exhale of disbelief and fuck, she’s good.

He hadn’t moved the whole time she was speaking.

Not when she brushed his fingers.

Not when she teased him.

Not even when she leaned back like she owned the table and the room and every last breath he was trying to keep steady.

He just watched her.

Tried to memorize how she held herself—how she gave the performance and the point. How she flirted without flinching, how she kept her voice low but clear like she wanted him to hear all of it.

And how she meant it.

God, that was the part getting to him now.

Because this wasn’t just a game. Not anymore. Maybe it never had been.

She was right there, eyes on him, mouth tipped into a grin like she knew exactly how far she could push before he'd break.

Which, spoiler alert—

She was already halfway there.

He let the silence hang for a beat longer than necessary, letting the weight of it stretch between them. Then, he tilted his head slightly and smiled—lazy, crooked, hers.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low and warm. “I got one.”

A pause.

Then—

“How the hell am I supposed to top that?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer.

Didn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing him hesitate.

Instead, he stepped in—slow, confident, like he was responding to a prompt he’d been waiting for his whole damn life—and brushed his hand just barely against her hip. A touch more suggestion than hold. His fingers curved gently, respectful but there, thumb moving once over the fabric of her dress like he was still deciding what kind of question he wanted to ask.

He leaned in, breath warm near her temple, not kissing her—yet—but close enough to threaten it.

“Because if this is an informal lecture,” he murmured, “I’m gonna need you to keep talking.”

His nose skimmed near her jaw, his mouth brushing her cheek—not possessive, not rushed—just present.

“And if this is a lesson,” he added, lips curving into a smile against her skin, “then yeah, I’m taking notes. Metaphors, structure, pacing… all of it.”

Now his other hand came to rest on the pool table behind her, caging her in—not with pressure, just proximity.

“Participation, though?” he said, echoing her words, voice pitched lower now. “That’s where I really shine.”

Finally, finally, he kissed her again—longer this time, slower. Less for show, more for substance.

And when he pulled back, he didn’t go far.

Just enough to speak, just enough to see her again.

But he stayed close.

Still crowding her space without crowding her.

Still touching, still choosing her in the way he leaned in, let his fingers shift slightly at her hip, just enough to keep the contact alive.

“Not sure what page we’re on now,” he said softly, gaze drifting to her mouth and back again, “but I’m not really in a hurry to turn it.”

He tilted his head, amused. A little smug.

A lot gone for her.

“I like this chapter.”

And he meant it.

Every slow, charged second of it.

Ava laughed softly at his question—not because she didn’t take it seriously, but because she loved that he’d admitted it. That he hadn’t tried to outtalk her or one-up the moment. Just met it.

She shifted just enough that his hand at her hip was no longer accidental contact. She stayed there. Let it be known.

“Well,” she said, voice warm and teasing, eyes bright with that particular mix of confidence and charm that was very her, “I’m not actually grading on originality.”

Her fingers lifted, brushing the front of his jacket, smoothing a nonexistent crease like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like touching him didn’t require courage anymore—just intention.

“I’m more of a… effort and engagement kind of teacher,” she went on lightly. “You show up. You listen. You respond appropriately to the material.” A pause, deliberate. “You get full credit.”

She tipped her head, watching his face as she spoke, clearly enjoying how close he was now. Enjoying the way he’d stepped into her space like it was an invitation instead of a challenge.

“And for the record,” she added, softer now, more sincere beneath the flirt, “you’re doing great so far.”

Her smile turned playful again as she leaned just slightly into him, shoulder brushing his chest.

“Perfect attendance,” she murmured. “That counts for a lot.”

When he kissed her, she didn’t hesitate—she met him with the same unhurried confidence, lips soft but sure, like she knew exactly where this was going and wasn’t afraid of it. Her hand slid up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair just enough to keep him there.

When she pulled back, it was only by inches.

“I like this chapter too,” she said quietly, eyes flicking between his eyes and his mouth. “It’s got good pacing. Strong chemistry. Very… participatory.”

Then, because she was Ava and couldn’t help herself, she smiled—sweet and irresistible all at once.

“And don’t worry,” she added. “We’re definitely not skipping ahead.”

She stayed right there with him—close, confident, glowing—like the night was unfolding exactly as it was supposed to.

And like she had no intention of leaving the room anytime soon.

Ava didn’t move away.

If anything, she settled in.

Her back pressed lightly to the edge of the pool table, legs still crossed at the ankles like she was perfectly content to stay right where she was, exactly in the middle of his attention. One hand stayed loosely at the back of his neck, thumb tracing slow, absent patterns there—not claiming, just grounding. The other lifted her drink again, a small, thoughtful sip before she set it aside, eyes never leaving his.

“You know,” she said, voice calm but warm, that teacher-tone she slipped into when she was half joking and half sincere, “this is usually the part where I remind my students that pacing matters.”

Her mouth curved, soft and amused.

“Too fast and you miss things. Too slow and you lose momentum.” She tilted her head, studying him like he was a text she was genuinely enjoying. “But this? This feels… balanced.”

She leaned forward just enough that he had to pay attention, her words dropping quieter now—not for secrecy, but intimacy.

“I like that you listen,” she continued. “Not just to the words. To the pauses. To what’s underneath.” A beat. “That’s rare.”

Her fingers slid from his neck to rest lightly against his chest, palm warm, steady.

“And for what it’s worth,” she added, eyes flicking briefly to his mouth before meeting his gaze again, “I don’t give out praise unless it’s earned.”

A soft laugh slipped out of her then, easing the intensity without breaking it.

“So—keep doing what you’re doing, Mr. Ellington,” she teased gently. “Because right now? You’re very much… on syllabus.”

She stayed close after that. Didn’t rush him. Didn’t pull away.

Just stood there with him in the glow of the bar lights and Christmas garlands, perfectly comfortable in the tension they were building together—like she trusted it to hold.

And maybe she did.

Miles didn’t smile right away.

Didn’t deflect. Didn’t tease her back with something sharp or cocky.

He just looked at her.

And damn if she didn’t undo him with the simplest things.

The way her fingers traced absent circles at the back of his neck like she had every right to touch him like that now. The way her voice carried authority and warmth at the same time—somewhere between velvet and steel. And the way she didn’t rush through any of it. Letting silence stretch just long enough to make it mean something.

She was composed and completely in control, which only made him want her more.

When he finally spoke, it was low and a little rough around the edges—his grin curling slowly like it couldn’t quite keep up with his pulse.

“I mean…” he said, stepping in close enough that her legs brushed his, close enough that he could feel the rise and fall of her breathing against his chest, “I was always more of a hands-on learner.”

His fingers found her waist—confident, sure, not possessive but aware. He let his palm settle there, thumb drifting lightly along the edge of her dress, where fabric met skin. His other hand slid up her arm, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing from her elbow to her shoulder, then resting just over the curve of it. His touch wasn’t rushed—it was patient, like he didn’t need to get anywhere fast, because being here with her was already enough.

“Good to know I’m excelling.”

His voice was warmer now, slightly amused, but underneath it was something quieter. More focused. He was still looking at her like he was trying to memorize every flicker of expression she gave him—cataloging the lift of her eyebrow, the glint in her eyes, the smirk that threatened to undo him.

“I like this kind of feedback,” he added, his words dropping nearer to her ear now, pitched like a secret between the two of them. “Clear. Encouraging. Just… lightly devastating.”

He dipped his head slightly, not kissing her but bringing his mouth close enough that she could feel the brush of his breath near her temple. His hand at her waist tightened just enough to anchor her there. Not to pull her closer—just to make sure she stayed.

He could feel her pulse flutter beneath his other hand, resting now over the bend of her shoulder, thumb tracing the line of her collarbone. It made his breath catch for a second longer than it should’ve.

“You don’t hand that kind of praise out easily,” he said, tone softening like she’d just handed him something precious. “So yeah… I’m listening.”

A pause stretched between them, heavy with suggestion.

Then his smile returned—lazy and knowing.

“Careful though, Everett. You keep using your teacher voice on me and I will start raising my hand for permission.”

His thumb swept along her collarbone again, slow and deliberate. He let his fingers graze the curve of her neck—light enough to give her space to move away, but firm enough to let her feel he wasn’t bluffing.

“Or detention. Depending on the vibe.”

The corner of his mouth tugged up a little more, but his eyes stayed steady on hers—watching, always watching. His hand at her waist slid around slightly, fingertips pressing into the small of her back, encouraging her to stay exactly where she was. Encouraging her to trust that she could.

Then, quieter, slower, the words settled between them.

“I’ve got time,” he said, like a promise. “If you want to take this lesson a little slower.”

He leaned in again—not for a kiss, not yet—but so close that his forehead nearly brushed hers. One breath between them.

His fingers at her back curled a little tighter, the warmth of his palm radiating through the fabric of her dress.

“And I do love a review session.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t chase the moment or try to seal it with a kiss.

He just stayed there, close and grounded, every inch of him aligned with hers like gravity had already made its choice. And his hands? They stayed—one tracing light along her back, the other still at her shoulder, anchoring them both like a man who didn’t want the moment to end.

And truthfully?

He didn’t.

Ava let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, the sound soft and shaky between them.

The suggestion of taking things slower hung in the air, but the way her body hummed at his proximity told a very different story. She didn’t want slow. She wanted the friction, the heat, the way he looked at her like he was the only one who truly saw her.

She let her hand slide up from his chest, her fingers curling just inside the collar of his sweater—a subtle claim, hidden from the room but unmistakable to him.

"You know," she murmured, her voice dropping to that velvet pitch that was strictly for him, "review sessions are usually reserved for students who are struggling with the material."

She took a half-step closer, essentially eliminating the air between them. Her eyes searched his, bright with a mixture of challenge and genuine affection. She traced the fabric of his sweater with her thumb, her gaze dropping to his mouth for a heartbeat before returning to his eyes.

"And you, Mr. Ellington... you seem to have mastered everything."

A small, playful smile touched her lips—softer than before.

"Actually, it's starting to feel like I'm the one who needs to catch up." She tilted her head, her voice quieting to a conspiratorial whisper. "So maybe I should retire the teacher voice for the night. I think I might learn more if I just... let you take the lead."

She smoothed her hand over the fabric of his sweater, her touch lingering over his heart.

"I'm willing to be a very attentive student," she promised, the words laced with a subtle, inviting heat. "If you think you can handle the class."

Ava watched his eyes darken at her surrender, a shiver chasing itself down her spine that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room and everything to do with the man standing in front of her.

She didn’t wait for him to verbally accept the promotion. She moved to seal the deal.

Her hand slid from his collar, tracing the strong line of his throat with a feather-light touch, resting just over his pulse. It was jumping. Fast. For all his talk of taking time, his heart was betraying him. It was racing just as hard as hers, a frantic rhythm that made the air in her lungs feel thin.

“And Mr. Ellington?” she whispered, the name shaped like a secret against his skin.

She leaned in further, defying the space he was trying to hold, until her body brushed his from chest to thigh—a soft, deliberate collision. She felt his grip on her waist tighten reflexively, his fingers digging in, and the sensation sent a jolt of pure heat straight to her core. It was intoxicating, this magnetic pull that made the rest of the room blur into background noise.

“I’m not sure I believe you about taking it slow,” she murmured, her lips grazing the corner of his mouth, taunting him with the contact. “You feel… impatient.”

She pulled back just a fraction—barely an inch—so she could look him in the eye again. Her expression was open, vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed, stripped of the usual armor. It was the look of a woman falling, and deciding not to reach for a parachute.

“Prove me wrong,” she breathed, her fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck, anchoring him to her, making it impossible for him to retreat. “Teach me some patience. Because right now? I don’t think I have any left.”

She told him to teach her patience.

And the thing was—he would.

But not with detachment.
Not with coldness.
No, he’d teach her with a whisper at her throat and his hands exactly where she wanted them—but not quite how she wanted them.
Not yet.

Miles smiled like a secret when she said she had no patience left.
Like he knew something she didn’t.

“You sure about that?” he murmured, voice low and smooth enough to feel like smoke curling along her skin. “Because I think you’ve got more in you. I think you want to wait—just long enough to lose your mind a little.”

His hand slid from her waist, skimming down the dip of her lower back—slow, warm, threateningly close to the curve of her ass—before stopping just short, fingers spreading over the small of her back like a brand.

“But I can show you,” he added, the pad of his thumb tracing a slow, hypnotic circle against the thin fabric of her dress. “Exactly what patience feels like.”

His other hand came up to her jaw, gentle but firm, tilting her face just slightly so he could look her in the eyes—so she couldn’t look away.

“You think I don’t feel how much you want it?” he asked, tone dark and velvet-soft. “The way you’re breathing. The way your fingers are still in my sweater like you need something to hold onto.”

He leaned in—not to kiss her, but to speak against the corner of her mouth, breath warm and heavy there.

“You know what happens when you touch something too hot, too fast?”

His lips skimmed along her cheek, his nose brushing the edge of her jaw as he pulled her even closer.

“You burn out.”

His mouth was at her ear now, and when he spoke again, it was nearly a growl—soft and low, dragging down her spine like heat in a dark room.

“I want the slow kind of fire, Ava. The kind that lingers. The kind that owns you.”

He let his hand finally drift down—just an inch lower now, pressing the flat of his palm against the top curve of her ass. He squeezed once, slow and claiming, fingers biting in just hard enough to earn a sound from her.

Then his mouth brushed the underside of her jaw, not quite a kiss. Just pressure.

And then, just when she might’ve expected more—he eased back.

Only an inch.

Just enough to let her miss the contact.

His hands stayed on her. His eyes didn’t waver.

But he smiled, slow and devastating.

“See?” he murmured. “Lesson one. Control the pace, and you control the story.”

He bent close again—not to tease this time, but to graze his mouth along hers in a kiss that barely counted, a whisper of a promise.

“And sweetheart…” His voice was velvet over gravel now, every word soaked in heat.
“You haven’t even opened the book yet.”

He didn’t move far.

He stayed right there—dangerously close—his hand firm at her lower back, the other sliding slowly up her ribcage to rest beneath her arm, keeping her right where he wanted her. His eyes stayed on hers, hungry but unrushed.

A man who could wreck her in a heartbeat.

But would take his sweet, perfectly paced time doing it.

Ava let out a soft laugh—breathy, unguarded—but she didn’t melt into him the way he probably expected.

Not this time.

Instead, she lifted her chin, eyes bright and mischievous, and gently—but very deliberately—slid her hands away from his sweater. She took one small step back, just enough to put air between them, just enough to prove she’d heard every word and was choosing what to do with it.

“Oh, I absolutely believe you,” she said lightly, smoothing the hem of her dress as if she weren’t very aware of the heat still humming under her skin. “You do have that… very convincing delivery.”

Her gaze flicked to his mouth, then back to his eyes. A smile curved there—soft at first, then teasing.

“But,” Ava added, rocking back on her heels like she was considering a lesson plan, “if this is about patience… I should probably remove myself from the learning environment before I fail spectacularly.”

She took another step back, slow, deliberate, playful. Not retreating—just repositioning.

“And honestly?” she continued, tilting her head, voice warm with humor, “the way you’re talking right now feels like it might warrant detention.”

Her eyebrows lifted, mock-serious.
“After hours,” she clarified. “Strictly supervised. Very educational.”

She held his gaze, let the silence stretch again—because she’d learned that part from him—and then softened, something sweet threading through the flirt.

“But you’re right,” Ava said quietly. “Slow fire lasts longer.”

She smiled, bright and knowing, already turning away but not breaking eye contact yet.

“So don’t worry,” she finished, stepping just out of his reach. “I’ll be back. I just need a minute to remember how to behave in public.”

And then she glanced over her shoulder, grin unmistakably hers.

“Try not to get into trouble without me, Mr. Ellington.”

She threaded her way toward the back hallway where the bathrooms were, hips swaying just a little more than usual—not exaggerated, just confident. Aware. She could practically feel his eyes on her back, the weight of his attention like a hand she hadn’t let him keep.

Halfway there, she glanced over her shoulder.

Caught him watching.

Of course she did.

Her smile curved—slow and wicked and entirely too pleased with herself—and she lifted two fingers in a small, teasing salute before disappearing around the corner.

Inside the bathroom, the music was muffled, replaced by the hum of lights and distant laughter. Ava leaned her hands against the sink and let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head at her own reflection.

“Get it together,” she murmured to herself, cheeks warm, eyes bright.

She dabbed a little gloss on her lips, smoothed a flyaway curl, pressed cool water to her wrists. Grounding. Resetting. Mostly pretending she wasn’t replaying the look on his face when she’d stepped away.

Because that had been the point.

She wanted him wanting.

Wanted him standing there by the pool table, pretending to be patient while absolutely failing at it. Wanted him wondering how long she’d take. Wanted him feeling the absence like a held breath.

Ava straightened, gave herself one last look, and smiled—soft this time. Affectionate. Certain.

“Detention’s gonna be rough for you,” she whispered, amused.

When she opened the door and stepped back into the bar’s warm glow, she didn’t head straight for him.

She paused.

Let the room see her again.

Let him see her again.

Then—only then—did she start back toward the pool tables, drinkless, hands free, expression calm and unreadable in the way that said she knew exactly what she was doing.

And that she was very much enjoying it.