Page 203 of Going Viral for Christmas
And yet—here I am. Thigh-high boots. Corseted leather. Glittering elf ears that are definitely crooked but still make me a feral woodland sex witch.
Soren’s looking at me as though Iinventedorgasms. But whatreallymesses with my head isn’t the lust in his eyes. It’s the reverence. The tenderness. That broken sort of love people write sonnets about and tattoo on their ribs like bleeding heart psychos.
And I’m the one he feels that way about.
Somehow, this infuriating man who once corrected my grammar in a meme caption has become the single most grounding, electric, soul-stretching force in my life.
Never saw that one coming.
Soren didn’t just chip away at my walls. Ohno.
He brought dynamite. A sledgehammer. A crowbar. Probably a Dremel.
And when I slathered on another layer of emotional concrete for him to break through, he smiled, rolled up his sleeves, and said, “Challenge accepted, Bells.”
Sometimes I wonder if I kept stacking bricks in front of him on purpose. To see if he’d leave. If he’d finally sigh and say,“You’re too much, Bells. This is too hard. I only wanted one thing, but you’re not worth the trouble to get it.”
Soren Pembry proved me wrong. Again. And again. And again.
I’m not completely fixed. Who the hell is? But I’m more balanced. More grounded. Moreme. Thanks to him. And his tenacity.
And his heart.
He strips out of that cozy green sweater, muscles rippling beneath golden skin, jeans hitting the floor as an offering, and that long, thick cock swinging like it’s a prophecy written in the stars?—
Yeah. I’m oneverylucky elf.
“You’re staring.” His lips twitch.
“You’renaked.” My voice isn’t nearly as stable.
“Is that a complaint?”
I shake my head. “It’s a blessing.”
Soren steps toward me, eyes dark, muscles tight. “Ava Bell, you came home.”
Warm breath brushes the curve of my jaw. His hands—those large, greedy, loving hands—trace the edge of my leather panties with a look like he’s unsealing something sacred. Or sinful.
Really, it’s both.
With maddening precision, he drags them down my thighs—inch by reverent inch—until the cool air hits my slick heat and Ishudder.
Soren doesn’t break eye contact, and with the way his jaw tightens, I know he’s barely holding himself back from devouring me right where I stand. But he doesn’t rush. After he slides the panties off completely, he twirls them once on his finger before tossing them behind him.
“They’re mine now.” He smirks, voice feral. “For inspiration.”
“Planning to write a sequel?”
He grins, villainous. “Sequelto your orgasm.”
My laugh stutters out on a breath I don’t remember taking. He notices. As though he’s approaching a throne he intends to kneel before for the rest of his life, Soren sinks to the floor in front of me. My boots still on. My corset, untouched. Elf ears sparkling in the firelight.
Apparently, this fantasy warrior haszerointention of letting me take off a single piece of this costume–other than the panties–before he fucks me six ways from the solstice.
My tongue sweeps over my bottom lip, wetting it before I catch it between my teeth and bite, hard enough to feel.
“Jesus, Ava,” Soren groans as though I granted him a dying wish. “I want your pussy on my tongue so bad it hurts.”
