Chapter 7 #2
Suddenly, I’m not at the gym—I’m in a full-blown fitness musical where Soren’s biceps are the leads, and I’m just the understudy for Woman Who Melts in Public.
Backup dancers in neon leotards chant press it, Pembry, while a disco ball drops from the ceiling and fog machines kick in for dramatic effect.
There’s even a key change as he grunts through a rep, which feels personally targeted at my hormones.
That’s about when I catch myself mid-daydream and nearly drop my water bottle. Nope. Absolutely not. My brain is officially on time-out.
Soren completes another few reps, and I imagine those arms braced on either side of me, holding me down while he drives his cock into me with punishing strokes. His muscles flex with every thrust. His jaw clenches, muttering filthy praise in that sexy, coarse voice of his.
Moaning his name, my back arches, thighs shake. Soren’s hand slips between us to toy with my clit as his hot breath dances across my neck.
“Bells?”
Snapping back to reality so fast, I nearly choke on my sip of water. “What?”
“You okay?” He curiously asks, wiping his hands on his towel.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
Soren’s gaze lingers, like he wants to say more. And then he does. “Because you moaned my name, soooo… thought I’d check in.” There’s a teasing lift to his brow. A mischievous gleam in his eye.
I want to die. Right here. On the mat. On this day.
“I did not,” I deny it.
“Okay then. My mistake.” Grabbing his towel, Soren heads for the door, and I don’t exhale until it clicks shut behind him. Even then, his absence doesn’t help because the flutter in my chest isn’t frustration. It’s desire.
Oh my God, I want to fuck Soren Pembry.
I don’t want to feel that. I want to cut it out with a dull blade and kill it, then burn it to ash. But it’s already taken root, and I’m the idiot watering it.
Soren strolls by the glass windows on his way back to his room, then disappears.
Falling back onto the mat, I stare up at the ceiling and exhale, but more visuals enter my brain, and before I can fight against them today, they launch a full-blown attack.
Questions take over next.
What exactly would Soren do to me if he turned around and stormed back into this gym?
Would he drag me back to the corner, pin me to the mat, and fuck the tension right out of me until I forgot every insult I’d ever thrown at him?
Or would he fuck my sassy mouth with that rumored-to-be-huge flesh sword of his—one hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my throat with enough pressure to make me behave… until I begged for him to spill his pleasure down my throat?
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 of The Boyfriend Deadline, masturbating in a bathroom stall, reduced to a sad tale titled Girl 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 not just a 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.
A moment of sexual weakness doesn’t mean anything.
This isn’t personal.
It’s branding.
We follow Renata out of the lounge, down the hall to an aggressively beige room with too much lighting and too little personality. Perfect for selling your soul one bullet point at a time.
Camille greets us and gestures to a tablet sitting on the table. We sit as she flips to a digital press packet, stylus moving in quick, decisive strokes.
“Alright,” Camille begins, eyes bright. “The Bell and The Blade buzz is white-hot. Your numbers are climbing by the hour. Ava, your book is trending under three different tropes. Soren, your Goodreads page is practically melting. Tonight is the hard launch of you two being a ‘couple.’ Although the internet pretty much made you official after yesterday. Still, the press conference is scheduled for six. We’ve prepped the host, planted a few smart questions, and booked a cozy corner of the courtyard for the post-panel photo ops.
After that, I’ll send some assets over to the social media teams. Renata, do you want to go over the interview? ”
“Gladly.” Renata taps her pen against her notepad.
“You’ll sit down, share how things unexpectedly shifted in your DM’s over the last few months, and then drop that magic word we all agreed on: connection.
Don’t say relationship. And for the love of God, stay away from anything that says, ‘exclusive.” You’re not committed.
Just ‘connected.’ Leaves room for intrigue and interpretation. ”
Not loving this at all, I grip the coffee cup a little tighter.
“Afterward,” Camille continues smoothly, “you’ll take a walk through the pumpkin patch outside. There will be fairy lights. Fire pits. A super cute, aesthetically pleasing food truck with mugs of cider. Families, other couples, someone walking their dog, probably. We’ve staged the entire mood.”
“And then,” Renata adds with a wink, “The two of you will walk hand in hand into the hotel and retire in Soren’s suite. Preferably with swoon eyes, Ava. Can you please work on those today?”
“Wait—his suite?” My head swivels between them and Soren. “As in… the room where he sleeps?”
Camille nods, entirely unfazed. “It’s more believable than you heading back to yours.
“That makes no sense,” I counter.
“You’re a couple now, remember?”
“Right. Sure. Totally. Super couple-y,” I mutter through gritted teeth, heart rate spiking. “Because nothing says believable romance more than swanning into a man’s hotel suite after one panel and a dinner that was less date night, more emotional hostage situation.”
Renata steps in. “Ava, the internet already thinks you’re halfway to a shared toothbrush. Don’t ruin the magic with logic.”
I gape at her. “You want me to casually wander into his room like I’m auditioning for a holiday soft porn called Cider & Sex?”
Camille lights up. “That’s actually a great title.”
Soren chuckles. “We could go full hard-core porn, if you prefer.”
My breakfast threatens to resurface. “Not funny.”
Renata points a perfectly manicured finger at me. “That energy? All that sass and sarcasm is what we need. Channel it. Use it. Just with less panic and more bedroom eyes.”
“Do bedroom eyes come with a user manual? Or do I blink slower and hope for the best?” I ask.
Soren peers at me over the rim of his own coffee.
This isn’t happening.
While I’m trying to wrap my brain around this entire nightmare, another woman steps into the room—tall, angular, and terrifying in the most sophisticated way possible, her blonde hair scraped into a bun so tight it could slice diamonds, and her expression could cut someone down at the knees from a hundred yards away.
Dressed in a tailored black blazer that I know cost more than my entire college tuition, she carries a leather portfolio that probably doubles as a blunt-force weapon.
I’d know this woman anywhere. A massive sigh of relief exits my lungs.
“Victoria Hartwell,” she announces, extending a perfectly manicured hand to Soren. “Ava’s agent.”
Taking it, he only half-masks the wince. Her handshake has the energy of a corporate chokehold.
At only thirty years old, Victoria Hartwell is a legend.
An agent who closes seven-figure deals between spin classes, dismantles predatory contracts over kale salads, and has been known to reduce senior editors to tears using only a Post-it and a glare.
Having her on your side is adjacent to hiring a legal assassin in Louboutins.
“Victoria,” I beam. “Are you here to save me?”
Her return smile possesses the warmth of an ice sculpture.
“When Renata called about this… arrangement, I deemed it best to oversee the legal framework myself. I don’t trust her–” Victoria’s eyes slide from Renata over to Camille.
“–or anyone else to make it solid. No offense,” she says to both of them.
They exchange a nervous glance.
Victoria unzips her briefcase, pulls out her tablet, and produces a neatly tabbed contract the length of a medical textbook. “I’ve taken the liberty of contacting your agent, Mr. Pembry—Matthew, yes? We’ve completed the preliminary negotiations.”
Soren raises a brow. “Negotiations?”
“Yes,” she replies crisply. “The standard terms: image rights, social media deliverables, joint content creation, and public appearance obligations through New Year’s Eve.
You’ll find a detailed engagement calendar on page eight, along with travel accommodations and the exclusivity and termination clauses. ”
His eyes narrow. “Termination clause?”
Victoria’s sneer sharpens. “In the unlikely event either party chooses to dissolve the arrangement prematurely, there are contingencies for PR mitigation, NDA reinforcement, and reputational damage control.”
“Reputational damage control,” Soren echoes. He seems a tad confused, or maybe disappointed by that. Interesting.
“We don’t want any ShelfSpace drama unless we’re the ones monetizing it.” Victoria swipes the page on her tablet with a soft sweep, then her eyes bounce between the two of us. “Any questions?”
“Is there an out?”
“Not unless one of you dies or develops a scandal juicier than this deal.” She checks her perfect manicure. “The internet loves this. So, congratulations, you're officially half of the holiday campaign. Play nice, smile pretty, and for the love of engagement metrics, make it believable.”
Soren’s visibly trying to decide whether he should laugh or bolt. “I’ll have my lawyer review it.”
“He already has,” Victoria replies to him. “You’ll find his notes in red, which is the color I assigned to him. I find it keeps things honest.”
Standing, she turns away to answer a call without a backward glance. “Victoria Hartwell speaking.” Pause. “No, I said exclusive rights, not excuses. Try listening for once—it’s a dying art, believe me, I know."
I exhale, disappointed.
Soren nudges me with his shoulder and whispers, “Your agent scares the shit out of me.”
“She once made a VP at Random House cry with a single sentence.”
His eyes widen, then he lets out a low whistle. “Hot.”
“Smoking,” I agree.
Even though Victoria might legally own my soul, I’m feeling a little more grounded knowing she’s got my back, on paper anyway.
She’s terrifying, sure. She’s also the reason I sleep at night.
After the first–very large, and almost career-ending–mistake I made in this industry years ago, I promised myself I’d never trust anyone to fight for me who couldn’t take a punch, or throw one.
Cue Victoria.
Sharp teeth. Iron spine. No mercy.
But better.