A KISS THAT SHOULDN’T HAPPEN

Ava's pov

I opened the note he gave me at dinner. No job title. No details. Just a command scribbled in his familiar, impatient handwriting.

> Personal assistant. Strict schedule. Long hours. You up for it?

No signature. No smiley face. Just that.

He asked the next morning like it didn’t mean anything—like he hadn’t kissed me the night before like he wanted to forget I ever existed.

I said yes before I could think twice.

Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was proximity. Or maybe I just liked watching him try not to watch me.

By Friday, we were headed to a cocktail event uptown—something about investors, luxury architecture, glass towers and men with thin smiles.

Nicholas said “Dress professionally.”

So I did.

If black silk that hugged every curve counted as professional.

I wore his favorite color. I wore heels tall enough to keep my chin level with his. And I didn’t wear a bra.

The driver opened the door for us and I stepped out first, slow, feeling his stare crawl up the back of my thighs.

The car door shut. The city lights blinked around us like cameras. But all I felt was him.

---

The venue dripped money—white marble floors, chandeliers like falling ice, conversations that smelled like champagne and old power.

Nicholas introduced me as “Ava Blake, my assistant.” His voice didn’t flicker.

But his hand hovered a little too long at my lower back. Not touching. Just close enough to brand me.

I smiled at every man who looked. I laughed too easily. I let one of them pour me a second glass of something expensive and fizzy.

And all the while, I felt his stare.

Across the room. Through the noise.

Nicholas Cross watched me like he was studying a weapon he built but couldn’t control anymore.

His jaw tight. His drink untouched. That silver tie a little too loose.

---

It wasn’t until the rooftop that we unraveled.

The event spilled out into a garden above the city—white lights strung like constellations, laughter drifting like smoke. Someone handed me a third drink. I didn’t say no.

The air was cooler up here, my skin tingling from wind and wine.

I found a quiet corner near the railing, city lights spinning below like stars drunk off their own shine.

I knew he’d follow. I knew he’d find me.

And he did.

No footsteps. Just presence.

He came up beside me, silent, suit jacket undone, sleeves rolled up again like he wanted to forget how civilized he was supposed to be.

> “You’ve had enough to drink tonight Ava.”

“I’m fine.” My voice came out light, teasing, too smooth to be safe. “You worried about me?”

“I’m worried about me,” he said darkly.

That stopped me.

I turned to face him.

“You treat me like glass,” I said. “Like I’ll break if you touch me.”

His jaw clenched. “You don’t know what you’re playing with.”

“Oh, don’t I?” I laughed. It came out wrong—too high, too sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you’re the one who’s breaking.”

For a second, I wondered if I’d gone too far. But the way he looked at me? I’d already gone there.

He looked at my but didn’t answer.

Just took a step forward.

I stepped back, my spine kissing the rooftop railing. A pulse beat hard in my neck.

His eyes dropped there.

“Do you like driving me insane?” he asked, voice rough, almost a growl.

“I like watching you try not to fall,” I whispered, knowing full well I was dragging him to the edge.

His jaw tightened. Something dark flickered in his eyes.

Then his hand rose—slow, hesitant—like he knew he shouldn’t, like every inch closed between us was a mistake he couldn’t stop making.

His palm settled on my cheek, warm and trembling.

He looked at me like I was the sin he couldn’t resist—something sacred and entirely off-limits.

My pulse fluttered against his touch.

He leaned in anyway.

Closer.

His breath hit my lips. My spine stiffened, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

His thumb grazed my bottom lip, and I swear I forgot how to breathe.

And then—he kissed me.

Not softly. Not sweetly.

But like he was starving for it.

Like he hated himself for needing me this much.

His mouth claimed mine with a kind of desperation, like he’d finally given in to something he’d fought for far too long.

It was wrong. Every cell knew it. But my mouth didn’t listen. My fingers only pulled him closer.

But I kissed him back like I wanted to drown in the wrongness.

My fingers curled into his shirt. His grip tightened in my hair.

Everything else disappeared. The music. The world.

There was only this—

Us.

The heat.

The ache.

When he tore himself away, it was violent. A breathless snap, like ripping himself out of something he’d never wanted to let go of.

His chest heaved. His eyes were wild.

He looked at me like he’d made a vow to someone, somewhere. And just broke it.

“This can’t happen again,” he said, but his voice cracked like he didn’t believe it.

And neither did I.

But it already had.

---

The next morning was my first official day in the office.

Nicholas didn’t acknowledge the kiss. Not once.

He gave orders. Assigned meetings. Walked past me like I wasn’t the girl he almost lost control over twelve hours ago.

When I reached for it, I let my fingers brush his on purpose.

He looked up.

One second. Just one.

But the air between us snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

I smiled. Turned. Walked out of his office with my heart still dragging pieces of him behind me.

---

That night, there was a note under my door.

You’ll come with me to the west coast review.

Three days. Business only.

We're moving by next week Monday

Pack light.

—N

On the back, in smaller handwriting:

And stop wearing silk when you know I’ll be watching.

---

I didn’t blush.

I didn’t grin like a fool.

I tucked the note into my robe pocket, smiled to myself, and slid the silk strap off one shoulder—just for a moment.

If I was fire, let him keep trying to hold the match.