Page 89 of Going Viral for Christmas
It’s stupid early. Pale, blue-gray light is creeping in through the gaps in the curtains. Everything’s quiet and still. The house, usually groaning with the morning bustle of my parents and coffee machines, is silent. I can’t sleep. Not with Soren curled around me as though he was made to fit there, all heat and hard lines.
At some point in the night, we must’ve gravitated toward each other. His leg is notched between mine, and one arm is locked around my middle like I’ll float off if he lets go. His breath brushes against my neck in warm puffs. And there’s one more issue.
A very…presentissue.
Soren’s morning wood nudges my backside with its own agenda. From how thick and obscenely hard his “flesh sword” is, it could apply for its own zip code.
Jesus.
Then, as I lie there, caged between his arms, the unthinkable happens.
My brain cues up a smutty slideshow of every angle, all the positions, me panting as I imagine Soren burying himself deep inside me with his thick, obscenely hard cock.
Raging.
Punishing.
Fucking me in ways no one ever has.
A needy ache blooms low, and I squeeze my thighs together. As if that’s going to help. It doesn’t, obviously.
Fuck, what has gotten into me? I’m not supposed to want him. He’s my fake boyfriend. My online nemesis. My one-man PR disaster.
And yet. Here I am. One sleepy thrust away from throwing all my emotional boundaries in a blender and asking him to rearrange my insides.
For research, of course. Something other than porn and Passionflix. Real-life, hands-on experience.
My eyes fly open.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope.
This behavior has to stop. From me launching myself on top of him last night, to now, enough is enough.
Inching forward, I manage to create a little space between us, but Soren’s arm tightens. A soft, possessive murmur escapes him. Even asleep, he’s got a sixth sense for retreat.
I stay still.
Mistake.
My body—traitorous, stupid, and apparently starved for touch—shifts back the tiniest bit.
That’s all it takes.
Suddenly, Soren’s moving, grinding against me with a seductive roll of his hips. He’s solid and ready, and the shape of him is pressed firmly against the curve of my ass.
Another laggard grind, and that razor-sharp pulse ignites, heat blooming between my legs with humiliating urgency.
Closing my eyes, I bite back a curse, mortified that a half-conscious thrust got me wet.
Thankfully, Soren turns onto his back. Right when I think I might escape this unholy situation without dying of mortification—his body turns again, his arm jerks, yanks me back, and I’m flush against a wall of warm, sleepy muscle.
My stomach nosedives. My breath is caught in my throat. I. Can’t. Move.Fucking hell.
“Soren,” I hiss. No response. Maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe this is some involuntary?—
He chuckles.
“Oh my God.” I twist to break free. No dice, his grip is relentless. “You did that on purpose?”
