Chapter 13 #2
Stormy eyes search mine, trying to decode the real reason tucked between the words. He wants to believe me. He just doesn’t know how.
“You sure?” he asks, voice stripped of its usual swagger.
Nodding, my fingers brush against a corner of the pillow resting on his bed.
“Yeah. I mean… my mom’s going to freak out.
I haven’t even told her about us. My dad will want to know what your true intentions are with his daughter, which will prompt the ‘what about grandchildren’ questions from my aunts.
My uncle will absolutely tell you his theories about time travel while mixing you a mind-altering cocktail.
And there’s a ninety percent chance you’ll be force-fed pie by someone you’ve never met, but will absolutely fall in love with, which is my grandmother. ”
His lips twitch. “Sounds terrifying.”
“It is,” I say. “It’s also loud and warm and weirdly comforting. And… you’ll love it.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then another. And another. Is the room getting smaller?
Soren releases a measured exhale. “Alright. Only if I get to fashion a battle helmet out of tinfoil and whipped cream.”
“What?” I ask, confused. “Why?”
Straight faced, he says, “If I’m going to wade into the war zone of awkward family Thanksgiving’s with my genre nemesis, I need armor. And snacks. Hence, battle helmet.”
Laughing at that, relief bubbles up. “Okay. Deal. Just so you know…you’re very strange.”
The corners of his mouth curve, soft and genuine. And for a second, we sit there as two writers, two disasters, in a hotel room filled with stories and subtext, quiet and connected.
And–right now–it’s not pretending. Tomorrow…it will be though.
Soren leans back on his elbows, legs stretched out, expression thoughtful. “Since we’re making deals…” His voice trails off, debating whether to speak the next part aloud.
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
“There’s a scene I’ve been stuck on. For my current WIP.”
“Oh god. You’re not going to ask me to fact-check your sword names, are you? The last one I read sounded close to a venereal disease.”
He lifts a finger. “First of all, The Blade of Eternal Reckoning is iconic and you’ll regret mocking it when it wins a Goodreads award.”
“No one is giving your herpes sword an award, Pembry.”
Soren chuckles, then drags a hand over his face, suddenly a little more serious. “It’s not about the sword. It’s a scene. A…spicy one. I told you, my publisher wants more sex. It isn’t my strength. Not in print anyway. But now that I have the Queen of Steam here, maybe you could take a look?”
“Okaaaay?” I drag the word out.
“It’s…I—” His jaw flexes. “I’m not doing it justice. I can’t figure out how to make it read real. Right now, it sounds like a man trying to write a woman’s orgasm while overthinking what nipples do.”
I snort-laugh. “Do I want to know what you think they do?”
“Obviously, they’re dial knobs to an alternate universe.” He smirks. “Or at least that’s what my writing describes them as, currently.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“Will you guide me?” he asks innocently, which only makes it worse. “Sensory language. What feels true. Realistic. Maybe read over what I’ve got so far and—”
“Read it?”
He shrugs, oh-so-casual. “Unless you’d rather act it out.”
My brain breaks in seven places at once.
Soren grins, but there’s tension under it. He wasn’t entirely joking.
“You are—without question—the most infuriating man on this planet.”
“I’m trying to be accurate.” Soren stretches, not fully aware that his muscles ripple when he does. Or maybe he’s very much aware. He flexes.
Okay, yeah, he’s aware.
I’m suddenly wondering how accurate his spice really is.
Soren grabs his laptop off the desk, opens a document with an adorable tilt to his mouth.
“We’re doing this?”
“Hey, this is only fair,” he says. “I’m meeting my fake-future-in-laws.”
“Right, because being paraded around by my family is equal to helping you construct your Romantasy sex scene.”
“Dark fantasy,” he corrects, handing it over. “Chapter nineteen. The part in the cave.”
“Oh for the love of—of course there’s a cave.” I settle back on the bed and adjust the screen, ignoring the way my palms suddenly turn clammy.
“Read it.”
“Okay, fine,” I huff. “Elira’s breath hitched as Daxion knelt between her thighs, the heat of his mouth dragging lower. He knew every inch of her better than she did. The silky glide of his tongue–”
Pause.
Soren coughs. “Too much?”
“No, so far…it’s fine,” I say, even though it’s very not fine that this man is sitting three feet from me while I read the phrase ‘the silky glide of his tongue’ without exploding into a million fragmented pieces.
Soren focuses on my mouth before meeting my eyes.
I keep going. “Daxion murmured spiritual words, as if her body were scripture and he was willing to worship it until the gods themselves begged him to stop.”
My mouth drops open slightly. I peek up.
Soren’s not smiling anymore. He’s watching me. Carefully. Anxiously. My reaction matters to him. I soften.
“Not good?”
“That was… poetic, Soren.”
“Too poetic?”
“Maybe a little. It’s still good. Almost as if a sonnet and a thirst trap had a baby.” I clear my throat. “But, uh, maybe we dial down the divine imagery? Unless Daxion’s literally summoning orgasms with sacred incantations.”
“I mean… he is a high priest of the Shadow Order—”
I hold up a hand. “Nope. Not unpacking that.”
A beat of silence.
“What if instead of scripture, he listens to her body. Responds to the way she squirms. The little catches in her breath. Stuff like that.”
Nodding appreciatively, Soren jots it all down on a notepad, acting like we’re in some unholy writer’s room from hell.
“And the kissing?”
“What about it?”
“Am I overdoing it? Would you…” He scratches his eyebrow. “Would you mind reading the next paragraph out loud? To hear how it flows.”
The next paragraph. Right.
I take a breath. “Daxion kissed Elira’s lips, desperate and seeking, then pressed his forehead to hers as his fingers sank inside her. She was sanctuary itself, the one place he no longer had to be strong.”
A pulse flares in my stomach. Heat rushes through me so fast it feels akin to a betrayal—my body’s officially joined the Dagger Daddy’s without looping me in.
I struggle to finish the line and shut the laptop so hard, Soren jumps.“I’m not reading any more of that unless you want me to explode into dust and shame,” I announce, standing up and fanning my face.
“I take it that’s a no on the act-it-out option?”
“Soren!”
He’s breathing a little faster. It appears I’m not the only one imagining how those kisses might taste.
Planting both hands on my hips, I pace, trying to shake the mental image of the Shadow Order High Priest Oral Sex Magic out of my brain.
Soren watches me the way someone might watch a cat approach a priceless vase—hoping for the best, fully expecting destruction.
“Ava,” he says, “I’m desperate.”
“Clearly.”
He scoots to the edge of the bed. “You’re the best spice writer I know when it comes to female POV.”
“I’m probably the only spice writer you know.”
“That too,” he replies. “I need this scene to work. I’ve rewritten it eight times. Camille said the early version sounded like a campfire tutorial, and the last one made her yell the word ‘clammy’ out loud in a meeting.”
I wince. “Yikes.”
“I’ll buy you all the caramel blondie coffees you want. Just…” He clasps his hands in mock prayer. “Help me.”
When I hesitate, he ups the stakes. “I’ll take you to your favorite indie bookstore—it probably has creaky floors and a small dog who’ll hate me—and I’ll do the ShelfSpace challenge. Three minutes. As many books as you can carry. I’ll be your pack mule. I’ll finance the entire thing.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“I’m prepared to drop thousands,” he says solemnly. “Possibly tens of thousands. My credit score will never recover. But your advice? Worth it.”
With a groan, I flop back onto the bed beside him. “You’re lucky I’m a sucker for suffering artists.”
Soren grins. “Is that a yes?”
“Give me the laptop before I come to my senses.”
Beaming, he passes it over.
I reopen the document. Find the spot. And start reading again.
“Elira arched beneath him, thighs trembling as Daxion dragged his mouth over her breast and up, so slowly it might’ve been cruel if it didn’t make her whimper for more.”
My throat tightens, but I power through.
“Daxion’s hand settled low on her mound, thumb teasing her clit, holding her steady as his tongue found her heat once more and tasted her as though she was holy. As though he’d been starving for her.”
My face flames. Soren’s eyes are fixed on me, brows raised in anticipation.
“Well?” he asks, voice far too casual.
I press my lips into a tight line.
“Based on the color of your face, I’m guessing I got it right.”
I swallow.
He chuckles, pleased with himself. “So the ‘starving for it’ line works?”
“It’s… evocative. But I’m getting déjà vu. It’s been used a million times.”
“Evocative like holy shit, take me, or more like eh, we’ll cut it in edits?”
“Both,” I reply. “Mostly the first. Aggressively the first.”
I stare at him.
He stares right back.
The air turns thick with heat. And the fact that I’m still picturing that scene—with his voice. His hands. His mouth.
God, please make it stop.
“Do you want me to keep going?” I ask, barely above a whisper.
His answer is immediate. “Yes.”
So I do. Slowly. Carefully. Reading each word aloud with as much detachment as I can fake. That facade cracks the second I hit the next page:
“Elira rolled her hips, greedy now, chasing the friction. And when Daxion’s fingers curled just right—she broke, shattering with a cry she tried to muffle. But he didn’t care who heard it. Let it ring out for all the realms.”
My voice falters. Soren shifts closer. The warmth of him sweeps over me. His thigh brushes mine, and my breath hitches. The laptop between us is a loaded weapon. I’m afraid that if I look up, his eyes might match the desire in mine.