Page 168 of Going Viral for Christmas
Soren’s movements grow harder, more desperate as our bodies chase the end together. My hands clutch the sheets. My voice breaks on a moan.
And when I fall, I cry out his name, raw andunfiltered, and he follows me seconds later with a sound that’s torn from his chest. He presses his forehead to mine as we tremble together, wrapped around each other, breathless and spent.
The city glows before us. We glow too.
A few hours and several orgasms later, we’re wrapped in white sheets, the city hums beyond the windows. My limbs are heavy and warm, my skin tingling with aftershocks.
Soren lies beside me, one arm draped across my stomach, his other hand gently tracing lazy shapes along my thigh, soothing emotions buried deep within my body. He looks over, and that smile claims me.
“I’m still waiting for the moment the universe rips this all away,” I confess.
He gently kisses my forehead. “I know what you’ve been through, Bells. You’ve been bruised into thinking that you have to brace for impact every time something feels right, so please…know this.” His hand finds mine beneath the covers. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to hold on.”
My throat tightens. “Soren…”
He grins, lazy and devastating. “And maybe fuck you against a few more windows, if that helps drive the point home.”
I laugh. And then I curl into him, allowing my body to rest against his, allowing the truth of his words to settle deep into my bones.
And I know…I don’t have to run.
Not from this. Or from him.
The morning after the Snowflake Gala, the hotel restaurant is buzzing with espresso steam, hushed conversations laced with a hint of hungover glamour, and overpriced granola.
I’m seated at a white-linen table near the window in sunglasses and yesterday’s emotional whiplash—the place reeking oftruffle oil and clean money.
Behind me, a woman is loudly explaining her Substack. Two tables over, someone’s ordering their Bloody Mary with “extra vibe.”
Across from me sits Fisher, sipping his brown sugar cortado as though he’s channeling the ghost of Miss Marple. He hasn’t spoken since we sat down. But he’slooking.Over the rim of his mug. Through the lenses of his aggressively judgmental tortoiseshell sunglasses. Past the silver cloche the waiter set in front of him. And directly into my damn soul.
Adjusting in my seat, my thighs ache in a verypointedway. My dress is new, and my heartstrings are still braided into Soren from last night’s pillow talk.
Fisher sets his cup down with the elegance of someone who has seen the abyss and is now ready to conduct the inquisition.
“So,” he says, voice calm, casual, andfull of judgment,“when exactly were you going to tell me that your fake boyfriend turned your cervix into a fogged-up window display?”
I freeze with a forkful of eggs halfway to my mouth. “Fisher.”
“Don’tFisherme.”
I groan.
He sighs. “Just tell me—are you okay? Are you in love? Or was that a very well-earned, PR climax?”
“I—” My eyes skim his. My voice drops. “I don’t know. I think it’s more. Itfeelslike more.”
“Okay. Good. Terrifying, obviously—but good.” His eyes dance with curiosity. “So are we talkingexclusive boyfriend energyhere, or did he rail you so thoroughly you blacked out on your publishing deadlines for a full two weeks?”
I roll my eyes.
A nearby guest glances over.
Fisher flags a passing waiter. “We’re going to need pancakes. Stat. She just had an emotional breakthrough, and her blood sugar’s dangerously low.”
Despite myself, I laugh, trying my best to ignore the panic still fluttering in my chest–a bird waiting for the storm.
But maybe the storm isn’t coming.
