Page 149 of Going Viral for Christmas
I’m glowing because I’ve spent the entire day getting my insides rearranged by Soren Pembry’smassive fucking flesh sword.
Yes, the rumors are true.
All of them.
Every outrageous comment, thirst post, and five-star review.
His alleged third leg deserves to be carved into Mount Rushmore.
That’s how accurate. And heknowshow to use it.
Soren’s currently stretched out beside me, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting casually across my stomach. I should be overthinking things. Planning my escape. Cataloging all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
But instead, I’m melting into the floor like butter on hot toast, staring up at the wood-beamed ceiling with a blissed-outsmile.
“How’s your current book coming along?” Soren traces lazy circles on my shoulder.
Eyes half-lidded, I hum. “Mmm. Yeah. It’s due in a few weeks. And I’m so not close to being done with it.”
“What’s it about?”
“The usual—banter, spice, emotional trauma, a man who knows what to do with his hands.”
Soren squeezes my shoulder. “Did I inspire it?”
I roll my head toward him, smiling. “Cocky, you are.”
“That I am,” he says, utterly unrepentant. “What’s a book you’ve always wanted to write but haven’t?”
I’m quiet for a few seconds, thinking.
“There’s one I’ve carried around for years,” I confess. “A story about grief. And how sometimes people show up in your life like a wildfire, burning through everything you thought was solid. But maybe that’s the only way to make space for something new to grow.”
Soren watches me, reading between the lines. “You should write that. It matters to you.”
I shrug, eyes fixed on the ceiling then roll my head toward him, smiling. “Okay, your turn. What’s a story you’ve always wanted to write but haven’t?”
He stretches, arm flexing behind his head. “An dystopian sci-fi where the morally gray hero goes to therapy, stops trauma-dumping on his enemies, and gets the girlbeforethe galaxy explodes in the final act.”
I laugh. “Groundbreaking.”
Soren bumps my leg with his. “There’s one problem.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“I can’t figure out how to keep my hands off of you long enough to type.”
I snort, smacking his chest. “Try harder, warlord.”
Soren shifts closer, hooking his leg around mine, his hand skimming up my ribs with infuriating ease. “Not a chance, romance queen.”
Soren rolls over so he’s hovering above me. His lips brush mine, soft, unhurried. I kiss him back, still smiling when he pulls away.
“You know…” His eyes dance with amusement. “...all this snow reminds me of your deeply held belief that snowball fights are a time-honored metaphor for intimacy.”
“It’s true.”
He gives me a quick peck on the lips. “Prove it.”
