Page 164 of Going Viral for Christmas
She tries.
Fails.
An idea strikes.
“Come with me.” I don’t wait for permission. I grab her hand and guide her out of the ballroom. Down a side hallway. Past the champagne tower and a tray of chocolate mousse. Around a corner and through a narrow door. It’s the wine cellar.
Inside is cool, air thick with oak and earth, dim light pooling across racks of bottles stacked like soldiers. We barely make it past the door before my hand is on her back, guiding Ava forward until her hips hit the rounded edge of a wine barrel.
“Right here, baby,” I murmur, voice husky, like a secret slipping out. I lift the hem of her gloriously sexy red dress.
Her hand clutches my wrist. “Soren?—”
“Ava, you need to trust me,” I assure her, voice even. “I’m going to take the edge off. Let me. Okay?”
She doesn’t stop me again. I drop to my knees. Ava gasps when my hands skim up the outside of her thighs. I tug her underwear down her legs. Silk. Cherry red. Fucking hell.
Ava’s palms flatten against the wood, breath hitching whenher body presses flush to mine. The barrels creak beneath us, aged oak and metal groaning as though they know exactly what’s about to happen.
I bend her over the barrel and lean forward, my chest pressing to her back, my lips skating across her ear. “Look at you. Spread out like some rare vintage to be savored. You have no idea what you do to me, Bells.”
Then my hands are everywhere—gripping, stroking, worshipping, filthy with need, tender with the way I pepper kisses on every inch I touch.
“Spread your legs wider, baby,” I command, nudging my cock into her backside.
She obeys like the good girl she is. Her breath shudders, her stance opens, instinct guiding her somewhere her mind hasn’t caught up to yet.
Ava looks back over her shoulder. Her eyes meet mine, wide and wet and wild. Bent over the curve of the wine barrel, she braces herself, knuckles white against the oak.
I sink to my knees behind her, grip her thighs, and drag her open for me. My mouth finds her clit, hot and greedy, and my tongue carves circles, flicks, slows, speeds up—every stroke a torment of precision.
Ava gasps, arches, presses harder into the wood, and I tighten my hold to keep her right where I want her.
Her taste floods me, intoxicating and sweeter than any bottle in this cellar. Reverence drives me as much as lust—I lap her up, coaxing every shiver and desperate moan, until she’s trembling over oak and iron and begging me not to stop.
She moans my name once—half-formed and breathless—and I groan into her, letting the sound vibrate against her wet heat. Ava’s thighs tense, then she opens them wider for me. She’s giving in. Giving up. Givingmeeverything.
And I take it.
The whole world outside this room fades. My mouth and tongue are confident in unison as I lick, suck. And savor. The swirl of my tongue is undoing her. Each breath she takes is a countdown.
Ava nearly screams as she comes, but I don’t stop until she melts, utterly boneless and completely unwound.
When I finally rise, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and lean close. Her eyes are still half-lidded, cheeks flushed, lips parted.
“You taste like Christmas, Bells.”
Her chest heaves. She’s trembling, catching her breath. When I stand behind her and drag a hand down her spine, the other frees my cock, hard and heavy, pulsing with tension and need.
“Hold on tight, baby,” I say, letting the thick head of me slide against her soaked heat.
Ava’s fingers claw at the oak. I grip her hips, yank her back, and slam into her sex in one brutal, glorious thrust.
Her cry splinters through the cellar, ricocheting off stone and wood, and I’ve never heard anything more perfect.
The barrel groans beneath us, but I don’t care if it splits. My hips snap forward again, and again, until all I know is the tight, hot clutch of her body and the way her walls cling to me.
“Fuck, Ava,” I grit, leaning over her, lips at her neck. “You were built to break me.”
