Page 4 of Ava After Midnight (Chaos and Chemistry #2)

Chapter Four

DOMINGO

S team curls between us, representative of promises we shouldn’t be making. It wraps Ava in a heat that makes her glow. Even here, submerged in water, her body follows a rhythm—like she’s made of music. Under the Miami lights, her skin gleams as if painted in moonlight. Mi bailarina nocturna . My midnight dancer.

She’s a fantasy come to life—wild, untamed, beautiful. Everything I could ever want, except for that rock on her finger.

“ Baila conmigo, princesa ,” I murmur, guiding her onto my lap with the same precision I once used to lift partners on stage.

The water parts as she straddles my thighs, her body naturally finding the perfect balance point. Even this intimate moment follows dance’s rules—tension, control, the promise of movement.

I can’t help myself. “Let me show you how music’s meant to feel.”

“Here?” Her fingers brush my chest as she leans in, midnight temptation in human form. The palm of her hand presses against my sternum, firm in both composition and placement.

“Anywhere. Everywhere.” My fingers trace the constellation of freckles on the outside of her shoulder. “The whole city’s our dance floor tonight, princesa .”

She finds the invisible tempo instinctively. Her hips roll in a perfect bachata rhythm that draws a groan from deep in my chest—half desire, half recognition.

“Teach me your rhythm.” Her words sound breathless, but I can feel the control she has over each inhale and exhale. She must be a dancer too.

I guide her through movements as ancient as ritual—one-two-three, pause, the basic bachata step that feels like coming home. Her body responds like she’s been dancing compás her whole life. Each touch kindles a fire that could burn this whole city down, and I’ll be damned if I don’t want to watch it blaze.

“Domingo…” My name breaks on her lips like a shattered prayer.

“ Dime que pare ,” I breathe against her pulse point, the Spanish falling from my lips like dark honey. “Tell me to stop. Though stopping would kill me as surely as never dancing again.”

Instead, she kisses me like a flamenco’s final crescendo—all passion and fire and duende , that soul-deep spirit that makes audiences weep.

For a moment, it feels like being on stage again, that heady rush of knowing every eye is on you, of commanding the room without a single word. I had that once—before my body failed me, before I became something lesser.

Before I could convince myself I didn’t miss it. But she moves against me like music, and fuck, I miss it. I miss it so much I could drown in it. Ava’s lips trace promises against mine in a language older than words.

I’m lost, gone, burning alive in the best way. My hands slide lower, gripping her thighs, ready to show her exactly what her deepest wishes and most elaborate desires feel like?—

“Wait.” She pulls back, chest heaving, reality crashing back in her eyes. “I can’t... not like this. Not with?—”

“The ring?” The words taste bitter. “Or the man who put it there?”

“Both. Neither.” She presses her forehead to mine, conflicted. “I don’t know anymore. You make me forget everything I’m supposed to want.”

“Maybe because you never wanted it in the first place.”

The truth hangs between us like smoke.

“Tell me something real, Ava. Not what your family expects, not what society demands. What do you want?”

“I want…” She trembles like a string about to snap. “I want to burn so bright the whole city has to look away. Even if it’s just once.”

“Then let me show you.” I stand, lifting her with me. Water cascades off our bodies as I step out of the hot tub. “But not like this. Not rushed and guilty in borrowed water.”

“Such a gentleman,” she teases, but I see the relief in her eyes.

“Only when it matters, mi estrella .” I wrap her in a plush towel, my fingers tracing loose shapes following her freckles on her shoulders. “And you? You matter like the first note of every song ever written—essential, irreplaceable, the beginning of everything.”

Ava’s face reddens as I pile compliments on top of her. The deep red flush compliments the undertones to her skin, and it makes her own deep brown eyes feel warmer. I’m just happy she’s enjoying herself as much as I am so far.

“Get changed,” I tell her, my voice rougher than intended. “It’s time you show me who you really are.”

Her eyebrow arches. “Through clothes?”

“Through music.” I catch the towel she throws at my head. I peek out from behind it, stealing a glance at her while she walks into the bedroom. I call to her: “Your playlist. The songs that make you feel everything you hide from him.”

***

Ten minutes later, she emerges—barefaced, wrapped hair, drowning in oversized sweats that somehow still look sinful. I scan her lower half, trying to determine what about it still makes me so hungry for her, even in simple loungewear. She’s never looked more dangerous to my sanity.

“Fair warning,” she says, pulling up her phone. My eyes lift to meet hers again. “I don’t believe in musical boundaries.”

The first notes of SZA fill the room, and Ava moves like she’s possessed by the rhythm—not performing, just existing in pure sound.

“See something you like?” she teases, catching me staring.

“I see everything I can’t have.” The honesty surprises us both. “Show me more.”

She flips through genres like moods—Beyoncé, The Weeknd, Arctic Monkeys—each artist unraveling another layer of her. I’m addicted to every revelation. As I watch her, I envision her as the center of a scene with each song as the soundtrack. Going from upbeat to slow and deliberately seductive, both in front of me and in my mind, makes the growing erection more difficult to ignore. I’m grateful I tugged my jeans back on while she was in her room.

“This one,” she says as Bad Bunny starts, “makes me want to sin .”

“You don’t need music for that, princesa .” I pull her to me, unable to resist. “ Tu existencia es mi perdición, mi cielo —your very existence is my sweetest downfall. Every breath you take is a revolution against ordinary life.”

“Takes one to know one.” Her fingers brush my collarbone, tracing the ink there. “What’s your story, dangerous stranger?”

“Nothing good.” But I guide her hips anyway, teaching her body the rhythm of my blood. "Nothing safe."

“Safe is overrated.” She presses closer, every curve a temptation. The way her lips move as she speaks puts me in a trance. “Safe never made anyone feel alive.”

My hands span her waist, and for a moment we’re not dancing so much as foreplay with clothes on. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Maybe I want to burn. That is what I told you before, after all.”

I spin her suddenly, pulling her back against my chest. My lips brush her ear. “I’ve got demons, Ava.”

“Good.” She reaches up behind her and her fingers tangle in my hair. “My angels haven’t done me any favors lately.”

Her playlist shifts to something darker, heavier. Her hips roll back against me, and my control splinters.

“If you keep moving like that,” I warn, “I’m going to forget all about being a gentleman.”

She turns in my arms and the look in her eyes nearly breaks me. “And if I don’t want a gentleman?”

“What do you want?” I lift my hand and place it gently so I’m cradling her jaw. My thumb grazes her bottom lip.

“You.” Simple. Devastating. “But I can’t have you. Not yet.”

“Yet,” I echo, letting the promise of that word settle. “Show me every song that makes you feel free.”

The opening notes of “La última Vez” fill the space. My body moves before I can stop it—muscle memory ensnaring me yet again. The music speaks the language of my past—watching her move, I’m overcome with the realization that she dances to the tune of my future.

Ava’s eyes widen as recognition dawns.

“Wait, I know these moves.” She pulls up a video on her phone—me, five years younger, commanding a stage in Madrid. Her gaze flicks between the screen and my face. “You’re that Domingo?”

“Was.” The word tastes like ash. I take her phone and close the video, swallowing the instinct to snatch it away. “Until I blew out my knee in the finals. Turns out dancing with a fever is more than just a cliche.”

I say it like a joke, but my body still remembers—still pays the price. The faint ache beneath my skin flares up like muscle memory, a cruel reminder.

Ava’s eyes drop, flicking over me like she’s searching for proof. I know what she sees. The faint scar just above my knee, the one I never let heal right. The way I shift my weight, favoring one side when I think no one’s looking.

“But you still move like?—”

“Like I’m haunted?” I pull her close, syncing our bodies to the beat. “Some ghosts never leave, princesa .”

Her fingers trail absently over my shoulder, skating across the faint, raised lines there. The ones that never healed right. The ones that remind me why I stopped.

“Tell me,” she whispers, following my lead perfectly.

I should brush her off. Smirk. Give her some charming lie. But she’s watching me too carefully, her curiosity too sharp.

“Nothing to tell.” I say, voice lower. A white lie, easy to swallow. “Pride made me dance when I should have stopped. Biggest mistake of my life—it cost me everything.”

My hands guide her through a complex turn, the movement second nature even after all these years. She doesn’t see the ache it leaves behind. The fire that burned too hot, too long. The price I paid.

“Now I pour drinks and teach beautiful engaged women dangerous moves.”

Her brow furrows, like she doesn’t quite believe me, but she doesn’t push.

“Only the ones who need saving?” she teases.

I should laugh. Should brush it off. But something about the way she says it makes my chest tighten.

Only the ones who make me remember.

“You don’t need saving.” I dip her low, bringing her up slowly, letting my hands linger a fraction longer than necessary. “You need someone to show you that your cage isn’t locked yet.” I look pointedly at her left hand, her engagement ring still with her friend Zoe.

Something flickers in her eyes—uncertainty, defiance, hope.

“My job interview next week…” she hesitates, voice barely audible over the music. “It’s for a creative director position. Something Matthew doesn’t know about.”

“Because he wouldn’t approve?”

“Because it’s not part of his five-year plan for us.” Her laugh is bitter as she breaks away, spinning solo. “God forbid I want more than being the perfect corporate wife.”

“What do you want to create?” I catch her mid-spin, drawn to her fire instead of her body this time.

“Everything. Anything.” She presses closer, voice dropping. “I have whole worlds inside my head, Domingo. Colors and concepts that would scandalize his country club friends.”

“Show me.”

She hesitates, then grabs her phone, pulls up a private Instagram account. Each swipe reveals another piece of her soul—digital art that burns with passion and rage and hope.

“Matthew says it’s a hobby.” She doesn’t meet my gaze as she admits this. Ava seems to know what she wants and how to get it, but I want to know why she’s stuck on marrying this creative parasite. What has he promised you to make you stay, princesa?

“Matthew’s a fool.” I cup her face, forcing her to meet my eyes. “You’re not meant for his beige world, Ava.”

“No?” Her breath catches as my thumb drags slowly across her lip.

“No.” I take her phone to choose another song, one that begs to be danced to. “You’re meant for this.”

I pour every bit of training, instinct, and want into the next dance, showing her what passion really feels like. She matches me move for move, as if her body was created to complete the dance of mine.

When the song ends, we’re both breathless, chests heaving, sweat slicking our skin in ways that have nothing to do with exertion.

“We should cool off,” she says, but her hands grip my shoulders, her body still tangled with mine.

“Should we?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. She doesn’t get to. Instead, her phone rings, shattering the moment.

Caller ID: Zoe.

“Shit,” Ava breathes, staring at the screen. Our bodies are still pressed together, the space between us thick with something unfinished.

“Answer it.” My hands reluctantly release her hips. “Could be about Mia.”

She puts it on speaker. “Zoe?”

“Don’t freak out,” Zoe starts. Never a good opening . “But Mia’s drunk-posting on Instagram. Tagged Matthew in a story at Fever.”

Ava’s entire body stills. “What kind of story?”

“The kind that shows you and Latin Heat over there getting cozy in the club.” Zoe pauses. “Matthew’s called me three times.”

“Fuck.” Ava starts pacing, all that graceful sensuality turning to nervous energy. “What do I?—”

“Already handled.” Jade cuts in. “I may have spilled an entire martini on Mia’s phone.” Her wicked laugh makes me smile. “Tragic accident. Such a shame.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “I like your friends, princesa .”

“Oh good, Sexy Bartender is still there.” Zoe’s grin is audible. “Keep our girl safe. We’re heading back. Give us an hour.”

The call ends, leaving charged silence between us.

“An hour,” Ava echoes, looking at me with something dangerous in her eyes.

“Plenty of time,” I scroll through her phone, finding the perfect song, “to show you one last dance.”

The opening notes of “Earned It” fill the room.

Her eyebrow arches. “Really? The Fifty Shades soundtrack?”

I pull her back into my arms. “You said you like everything.”

“I do.” Her fingers trace the muscles in my shoulders. “But this song makes me think about things I shouldn’t.”

“Tell me.” I guide her into a slow, sinful grind.

“About your hands.” Her breath hitches as my palms slide down her sides. “About how they’d feel…”

“Here?” I grip her hips, pulling her flush against me.

“Everywhere.”

The word hangs between us like smoke. Like a promise. Like danger.

Her lips crash into mine without warning, desperate and demanding. For one blazing moment, I give in—tasting her need, her passion, everything she’s hidden away to survive in her fiancé’s world. My fingers tangle in her hair as she presses closer, like she’s trying to crawl inside my skin.

But the small sound she makes—half pleasure, half pain—snaps me back.

“Wait.” I break the kiss, holding her at arm’s length. My body screams in protest, but I force the words out. “Not like this, mi alma preciosa . When I take you apart, I want you whole and certain, not scattered and searching.”

“Why not?” Her gaze is molten, lips swollen from my kiss. “I want you.”

“Because tomorrow you’ll hate yourself.” I cup her face, forcing her to see the truth in my eyes. “And I’d rather have you hate me now than hate yourself later.”

She tries to pull away, but I don’t let her.

“Listen to me, Ava.” I take a deep breath, praying that she won’t hate me for what I’m about to say. “You’re drunk, hurt, and angry at your fiancé. I won’t be your revenge fuck.”

“That’s not?—”

“Yes, it is.” I press my forehead to hers, inhaling slowly. “And when you’re ready— really ready —I want to be more than that.”

A tear slips down her cheek. I swipe it away with my thumb.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” she whispers.

“Good.” I kiss her forehead softly. “Confusion means you’re finally thinking for yourself.”

The look she shoots at me holds both anger and gratefulness, the emotions coexisting like oil and water. Not mixing, but both present.

“Come on.” I lace our fingers together, tugging her toward the kitchen. “Let me make you something better than bar shots.”

She huffs a small laugh. “You cook too?” Hoisting herself onto the marble counter, she watches me rummage through cabinets. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Stay away from complicated women wearing engagement rings.” I find the coffee maker, grateful for the distraction. “Clearly, that’s not my strength.”

This laugh is soft, real. “Clearly.”

I move around the kitchen with the same rhythm I use behind the bar, hyper-aware of her eyes tracking every motion. The coffee machine hums to life, filling the air with something warm, grounding. She hides her yawn behind her knuckles.

“Caffeine might be a mistake,” she admits.

“This isn’t just coffee, princesa .” I pull two mugs from the rack. “This is my grandmother’s recipe for clarity.”

“Does it work?”

“Always.” I add a pinch of cinnamon, and a splash of something secret. “Though sometimes, clarity’s scarier than confusion.”

She accepts the mug, inhaling deeply. “Smells like... possibilities.”

“Tastes like decisions.” I lean against the counter opposite her, cradling my own mug.

“Decisions are tomorrow’s problem,” she murmurs into her drink.

“No.” I meet her gaze over the steam. “Decisions are being made right now, with every breath. You’re just finally noticing them.”

Her phone buzzes—Zoe again, probably almost here.

“Domingo?” She sets her half-empty mug down.

“Mm?”

“Thank you. For stopping me. For…” She gestures vaguely, words failing her.

“For showing you what freedom tastes like?”

She nods, her cheeks coloring again. I close the distance between us, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“ Mi luz, mi vida ,” I breathe against her temple. “You’re worth every star in the Miami sky and then some.”

The words are a punch to the gut, something I’ve experienced plenty but never done to myself. Before I can respond, car doors slam outside.

Her friends are back.