Page 144 of Going Viral for Christmas
Except, instead of wiping it off, he dips that thumb into the remaining icing on my plate and drags it down the center of my throat.
My heart stops.
“We should put those cinnamon rolls to better use.” His mouth brushes under my ear, voice molten, before it finds the spot on my throat, licking the icing away.
“What do you mean by ‘better use.’”
Soren peels back, tugs my chair away from the table.
My pulse spikes.
“Stand,” he orders, voice deep and commanding.
Without hesitation, I obey, a mixture of curiosity and heat pooling in my core.
Hands slide over my waist. “That’s it.”
Offering zero warning, Soren grips under my thighs, and hoists me onto the edge of the table.
“You’re not serious.”
Stormy eyes gleam. “Deadserious.”
My palms land behind me, bracing against the wood. Soren steps between my legs, spreading them gently with his hips, then leans in until our faces are inches apart.
The fire blazes and spits. Snow falls thick outside the window. His gaze lands on mine, and those eyes tell me that he’s about to fuck me sweetly and thoroughly.Properly.
Soren picks up the cinnamon roll from the plate beside me and tears off a piece—sticky, hot, glistening with icing.
His lips press to mine, then he says, “Open.”
My mouth parts. He places the bite into my mouth. I moan around his fingers. It’s that fucking good.He’sthat fucking good.
Soren’s lips brush over the icing smeared at the corner of my mouth. “Yeah, we’re definitely putting these to better use.” His hand slides under my shirt, but pauses. His eyes search mine. “Can I?”
I nod, breath caught somewhere in my throat.
Soren lifts the shirt, his fingers grazing my skin as thefabric rises, and when he finally pulls it over my head and tosses it aside, that gaze darkens.
“I’ve thought about this, Bells.” His hands skim over my bare waist. “You. Laid out for me. My fucking feast. Remove those leggings.”
I hesitate for half a second before doing exactly what he asks, dragging my leggings and underwear down my legs.
Soren helps me stretch out along the table—his strong hands adjusting, and coaxing me, treating me as though I’m fragile and precious.
The wooden surface is cool beneath my back, but Soren’s hands are hot. He tears the cinnamon roll apart lazily. Icing sticks to his fingers. He drags a piece across my collarbone and brings it to his mouth, licking it off without breaking eye contact.
My thighs clench. He trails another piece over the swell of my breast. His mouth follows, tongue hot and worshipful.
“You taste better than anything I’ve ever made,” he says against my skin.
My hands fist the edge of the table.
Soren continues lower, one knee on the floor, his mouth devouring every sticky, sweet path he lays. And when he places a melting bite of cinnamon roll below my navel, he peers up at me. “I said I’d break you, Bells. Shall I start?”
I cry out. “Fuck, yes, please.”
And then?—
