Chapter 18
Eighteen
SOREN
They’ve all stopped throwing.
Emily, Fisher, Ava—each of them holding drinks, jaws slack, not even pretending to hide the fact they’re watching me.
I’m the evening entertainment. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t performing a little.
Okay—a lot.
The second Ava’s eyes went wide on my first throw, a primal feeling kicked in. I adjusted my stance. Tightened my grip. Threw harder. Showed off the forearms so she’d squirm in her seat.
She’s sitting with her legs crossed now, trying to appear unaffected. Her gaze keeps dropping to my hands. My arms. My chest.
They can’t possibly know I used to do axe-throwing events at cons, right? Or that I choreographed fight scenes for a LARP team that took it way too seriously?
Whatever. Tonight, I’m not Soren Pembry, fantasy author.
I’m the guy making Ava Bell rethink every wall she’s ever built—with every single satisfying thunk of blade against wood.
While she tries to patch the cracks with fresh cement, I keep chipping away at her defenses like they were never meant to hold.
And from the way her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip?
Yeah. It’s working.
The axe lands with a satisfying thwack, dead center in the target.
I roll my shoulders, pretending I haven’t been watching every damn reaction from behind me since I walked into this place.
Sure enough, Emily’s cocktail straw drops from her mouth.
Fisher mutters a statement that sounds suspiciously like, “Jesus, take the loincloth.”
And Ava’s sipping her drink, as though it’s the only thing tethering her to God’s green Earth, but the heat in her gaze is giving her away.
Good.
I take another axe from the pile and toss it in my palm. “You guys done throwing or...?”
Emily waves a dismissive hand. “Why mess with greatness?”
“Honestly,” Fisher says, leaning back against the bar, “I’m reconsidering everything I thought I knew about fantasy nerds. Do any of your book signings come with a personal lumberjack demo?”
I smirk. “Only the premium packages.”
Ava snorts into her drink, which makes me grin wider. Every laugh I can wring out of her is a win. She’s loosened up. Thank you, dirty martini.
The air between us is starting to crackle again. And I fucking love it.
“Speaking of packages,” Emily says, swiveling in her seat. “This is the part where we all share deeply personal and slightly inappropriate facts about ourselves.”
I approach. “You first.”
“Gladly.” Emily readjusts in her seat. “I’m currently a professor of human sexuality at Seattle Pacific University.”
“Wait?” Fisher’s head whips around. “I thought you were…a philosophy person.”
“I was. But then I realized people don’t actually want to read about Descartes. They want to read about desire. Power. Pleasure.” She shrugs. “So I followed the libido of academia and here I am.”
Fisher raises his glass to her. “Respect. Sexuality is philosophy, but with better toys.”
Emily laughs. “Exactly.”
Ava leans over with mock whisper-shock. “Tell them the rest.”
Emily eyes her, cheeks tinting a touch. “For real?”
“There’s a rest?” I inquire.
“There’s a manuscript,” Ava sings.
Emily rolls her eyes but grins. “Fine. I’m writing a novel.”
“A romance novel?” Fisher guesses.
Emily hesitates.
“A rom-com?” I offer.
“Definitely not.” Her eyes flick toward the wall. “An erotic novel, with darker romance.”
There’s silence, then Fisher lets out a delighted gasp. “Shut. Up.”
“Swear on my PhD.”
Ava’s nodding. “I’ve read the draft. It’s hot.”
“You’re telling me your best friend—” Fisher points between them, scandalized. “—writes academic sex essays by day and scorching fuck fiction by night?”
“Multitudes.” Emily stands, takes a bow.
“Where do you get your inspiration?” Fisher leans in with the same curiosity he reserves for gossip and glitter.
Emily sips her drink, eyes glinting. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I would. Desperately. Are you pulling from real life? Academic journals? Late-night Reddit threads? Volunteers? I’m available.” Fisher winks.
“My research focuses on digital intimacy—more specifically, online hookups and how technology mediates sexual exploration.”
I sit next to Ava. “So...Tinder.”
“Bumble, Grindr, secret alt Tumblr accounts, but Romance Roulette is my main focus right now,” she says. “There’s a whole world of anonymous desire out there. And it’s all data.”
Fisher downs his drink, signals the waiter for another. Ava’s laughing now, her hand lightly brushes my knee when she scratches her leg. My cock jumps at the contact. She doesn’t seem to notice she touched me, or she’s pretending not to. Either way, I’m not about to move.
“Don’t let her fool you,” Ava says. “Emily once created a fake dating profile as part of her research at Amherst. She went on five dates and ended up in a swingers bar crawl in Detroit posing as a couple with some guy named Vlad.”
Emily snickers. “That guy’s back tattoo said ‘Penis Precision’—in Old English font. Like a medieval dick sniper.”
Fisher wheezes. “I would marry him on the spot.”
“He was very flexible. Definitely knew where to aim.” Emily chuckles.
“You’re the most fascinating person I’ve ever met,” I tell her.
“I know,” she says, without a trace of shame.
We all laugh again, but the energy has changed. The alcohol has warmed our limbs–and loins. The neon of the axe-throwing lanes casts a strange intimacy, and there’s a magnetic pull in the air that keeps bringing my attention back to Ava.
Her hand is still near mine, resting on the seat of her chair. Her thigh brushes against mine every so often. And every time, my body reacts, the touch continues to shoot straight to my cock.
Ava catches my eye with a crooked smile. “You’re good at this.”
“At what?”
“Throwing sharp objects. Winning over my family. Making Emily blush.”
“I haven’t even started with Emily,” I say. “Give me time.”
Emily points at me. “You’re on thin ice, Pembry.”
“Good thing I brought The Blade.”
Ava groans, but she’s grinning. That’s when I lean into her and drop my voice an octave. “I meant it, you know.”
Her smile slips. “Meant what?”
“What I said earlier. To your family.”
Her skeptical expression flits between longing and fear, both of them cycling in an instant. “Soren…”
“I’m not trying to trap you.” My words are gentle. “Just asking you to stop running…for one second. Maybe catch your breath.”
Those caramel eyes dive straight into mine.
Fisher, blissfully unaware—or pretending to be—says, “Okay, I need to know. In this erotic novel of yours, Emily, is there a male lead?”
Emily taps her chin. “There could be.”
Fisher’s eyes drag over the professor. “Any chance this mysterious male lead has excellent taste in sequined shirts and is tragically single?”
“Where is he going with this?” I ask Ava.
Ava gives me a double take. “He’s obviously fishing to see if she’d be open...to swapping notes.”
“I thought he was gay?”
She smiles. “Fisher is a lover of all people. Literally, figuratively, and physically.”
I nod, getting it now.
Emily takes a sip of her drink. “Nice try, Casanova. This research is strictly academic... unless you’re volunteering for a case study.”
“Where do I sign?” Fisher asks.
Emily smirks. “We’ll talk, Fisher.”
“Fabulous.” Fisher raises his glass. “To erotic fiction, found family, and men who can wield an axe.”
We all clink glasses.
And while the drinks flow, the teasing continues, and Emily begins describing the very detailed arc of her bisexual main character with boundary issues, I keep watching Ava.
She’s glowing. Laughing. Relaxed. I haven’t seen this before. But I’d throw a hundred more axes if it meant keeping her this close, this soft, this unguarded.
If it meant getting her to let me in.
Fisher offers his arm. “Shall we dance, Professor?”
She slides her arm through his with a grin. “Only if you promise to spin me.”
As they make their way toward the open dance floor, Ava drapes herself over the table in the seat beside me, her smile turning a little lazy. The drinks have dulled her edges, and the night is closing around us.
My fingers skim along the hem of her sleeve. “You want to dance?”
“No.” Her head turns, gaze skimming across my chest, up my throat, like her eyes are trying to decide where to land. The drinks have her loose, soaking me in as though I’m the next round.“I want you to show me how to throw.”
Yeah, sure she does.
Except the way those autumn eyes are trailing over me, lips parted, pupils blown wide, tells me this isn’t about throwing axes. There’s heat simmering inside her. And that has nothing to do with aim or technique and everything to do with the space between us.
“Deal.” I hold out my hand.
She takes it. We step toward the lane, music thumping behind us. I grab an axe and offer it to Ava, fingers purposely grazing hers.
Uncertain, she shifts her weight, trying to appear nonchalant as I move close behind her, so that my breath skates down her neck. Also, on purpose.
“Feet shoulder-width apart,” I instruct. “Hands firm on the grip. Let your shoulders stay loose.”
“Like this?” she asks, adjusting her stance.
“Almost.” I reach around her, guiding her arms into place.
Ava’s back presses lightly against my chest, and for one suspended moment, we’re just... breathing. One inhale from her. One heartbeat from me. Everything tightens.
“This isn’t about the axe, is it?” she whispers.
“Nope,” I admit.
I step back to give her space. “Go ahead. Let it fly.”
Exhaling, Ava adjusts her grip as I showed her, and with one swift, focused movement, launches the axe.
Thwack.
Dead center.
Stunned silence.
Then—
“Oh my god!” she squeals, spinning toward me. “Did you see that? I did it!”
She jumps into my arms before I can react, pure joy bursting from her. I catch her easily as her legs wrap around my waist, spinning her once, twice, breathless from the shock of how good this feels. She’s laughing against my neck. I’m grinning like an idiot.
And then it stops.
The spinning. The laughter.