Page 41 of Going Viral for Christmas
Would I moan for more with the taste of him on my tongue?
Shit, I’d probably beg for it.
I bolt. No cool down. Or stretches. Only a desperate grab for my water bottle and a beeline to the women’s locker room, my pulse hammering, and my pussy pulsing.
The second I’m inside, I throw the lock on the nearest private bathroom stall and press my back to the door, chest heaving.
I’m soaked. From the workout, yes, also from the way Soren watched me out there. From the sound of his voice, his touch, the scent of his skin, the idea of that mouth between my thighs, and that cock inside me, filling me up.
The image slams into me so hard I almost crumble to the floor—Soren pinning me down, sweat slicking our bodies, his growl vibrating against my throat as he drives me open, over and over, until the only sound left in me is his name.
My hand’s already shoving itself down the waistband of my leggings before a conscious thought kicks in, the damp fabric peeling away from my overheated skin. This isn’t a slow tease. This is primal. It’s survival. Release. Sanity.
Biting down on my bottom lip to keep from making a sound, I squeeze my eyes shut while my fingers find what they’re looking for. I’m slick, aching, and the first touch shoots electricity up my spine.
Circling my clit, I picture his mouth—that sinful, smirking mouth—between my thighs, those strong hands gripping my hips as he takes me apart with his tongue. The arrogant spark in his dark eyes when he calls me that stupid nickname. His voice would sound rough and growly when he tells me exactly what he wants to do to me.
“Drench me, Bells. I want you screaming while I lick you raw.”
I pump my fingers in and out, circling my clit with ruthless precision, punishing the traitorous little bundle of nerves for daring to think of him. For twitching at the sound of his voice, for throbbing at the memory of his smirk. Every stroke is a reprimand, each press a reminder that Soren Pembry has no business living rent-free between my thighs…and yet here I am, grinding into my own palm like he’s already claimed me.
And when the orgasm hits, it’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s a flash flood—violent, necessary, scorching, and so intense I have to press my free hand against my mouth to muffle the sound that tears from my throat.
“Soren.”
My legs give out completely, sending me sliding down the stall door until I’m trembling on the cold tile floor. Yes, of the locker room. The same floor where people track in dirt, sweat, and whatever unspeakable horrors live on the bottom of a tennis shoe.
And here I am, author ofThe Boyfriend Deadline,masturbating in a bathroom stall, reduced to a sad tale titledGirl Meets Germs: The Romance Nobody Asked For.
Slumping to the side, I breathe hard against the cool metal wall, my entire body pulsing with aftershocks. The harsh fluorescent light is bright and unkind, and the silence is loud. Reality crashes back as a slap to my face.
Holy shit.I regret this. I do. But for a moment—one brief, wicked moment—I don’t feel like I’ve lost control.
I feel like I’ve claimed something back.
By late afternoon, Soren and I are seated side-by-side at a small round table outside the hotel atrium café, a modest attempt at a “private” strategy session that’s anything but.
Guests wander past, craning their necks. A few pretend to check their phones while clearly filming.
Soren slides a coffee in front of me without a word. It’s a caramel blondie latte, non-dairy foam, extra sprinkles of cinnamon.
I stare at it for a beat.
“I pay attention.” The sentence lands in my chest. Soren shrugs a shoulder, acting as though it’s nothing.
It’s so much more than nothing. It’s notjusta coffee. It’s a gesture.
Don’t read into it, Ava.Not too much, anyway.
Renata clears her throat, drawing our attention to her. “Let’s move this to somewhere a little more private. Camille is waiting for us in the business center.”
Right. Business.
That’s all this is–fake dating between two people who roast each other on the internet.
A coffee doesn’t mean anything.
A glance doesn’t mean anything.
