Chapter 23 #2
Instead of handing the mug to me, he sets it on the counter. Then, to my utter horror and surprise, he steps closer, tugs at the hem of my inside-out shirt, and begins to lift it off me, like he’s helping a toddler who got dressed in the dark.
“You look better without the shirt.” Before I can process what’s happening, he dips his head, pressing a kiss to my bare sternum. His lips trail lower, and when he kisses my nipple with hot, wet lips, I fucking freak.
I jump back like I’ve been tased, and nearly knock over the coffee in the process.
His hands rise immediately in innocent surrender. There’s laughter in his eyes. “I was correcting a wardrobe malfunction. Very respectfully.”
This is the morning after our one night. And he’s still here. Smiling. Which is a problem.
Isn’t it?
Last night was obviously a lapse in judgment on my part. And I know one thing for sure—I don’t trust morning afters. That’s when reality crashes in. When the spell breaks. When the soft looks and slow hands fade into polite nods and awkward silence.
It’s when people start editing through what happened. Downplaying it. Folding it into something smaller, something casual. Something that didn’t matter. Even though I felt everything crack open inside me.
Morning afters are when one party’s gotten what they wanted. And she’s left wondering if any of it meant anything at all.
I swore never to be her again.
My gaze slides toward the door, seeking an escape. I’m bracing for the catch. But instead of backing off, Soren steps even closer.
“If you’re waiting for the part where I disappear, you’re going to be waiting a long time, Bells.”
Folding my arms, I try to appear like I’m not hiding behind them. I’m failing miserably. “We agreed it was one night.”
“I remember,” he’s not even phased. “I also remember you crying out my name and falling asleep on top of me half naked, so let’s not pretend the agreement didn’t get a little…blurred.”
My chin drops. Soren lifts it with unfamiliar tenderness, but I don’t look at him.
“Ava Bell, you are one tough egg to crack.” His thumb brushes my jaw.
My attention then shifts to his handsome face and the thick shadow of facial hair that should not be this hot, but absolutely is. The scruff curves over his jawline, his top lip. It’s rakish, and I’m remembering the scrape of it brushing against my thighs.
“Mark my words.” His eyes lock on mine. “I will break you.”
Heart pounding against my ribs, I exhale.
Soren steps back. “Besides, I can’t go anywhere—we’re snowed in. Must’ve started somewhere between Twilight and your pussy swallowing my fingers.”
My mouth tumbles open. He did not just say that.
His lips twitch. “Whatever shall we do?”
A moment later, Soren’s setting the table as if he’s done it a hundred times before. Plates in one hand, thumb smoothing a wrinkle from the napkin. He moves with this unhurried, quiet confidence.
Forks aligned. Glasses filled. A small dish of butter next to the bread he warmed in the oven because “cold carbs are a crime.”
I sit there watching him, unsure what to do with the knot forming in my chest.
Does he do this for every woman he spends the night with?
Is this another trick up his well-stocked arsenal of charm?
Or is this something else?
He’s humming under his breath. He’s barefoot and comfortable. He’s still not wearing a shirt, and I don’t know if he even realizes it.
It’s messing with my head because I’ve had men light me on fire. But I’ve never had one set a table for me.
The thought is either terrifying or attractive. I haven’t decided yet.
When he finishes, the table is ridiculous. Scrambled eggs topped with herbs, thick-cut bacon, crispy hash browns, and actual homemade cinnamon rolls—from scratch—glazed and steaming. They smell amazing.
“You baked?” I eye the golden spirals like they’re going to vanish if I blink.
“I told you, I learned during lockdown. I’m a man of many talents.” Soren cuts out a cinnamon roll and winks. “You’ve only scratched the surface, Bells.”
“You mean kind of like how I—”
His brows rise, daring me.
“—scratched your surface last night?”
Soren laughs, head tipped back with the grin that threatens to undo me. “Technically, I scratched yours. But yeah.”
We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the only sound the crackle of the fire in the living room and the muffled hush of snow falling in thick, lazy sheets outside the window. Everything is soft. Delicate. A world suspended in white.
Sipping my coffee, I stare at him across the table over the rim of my mug. “So, are you this good at breakfast for all your fake dating stunts?”
Soren’s forearms rest on the table. “Only for the one I want to wake up next to.”
The tension electrifies instantly. He doesn’t give me time to dodge it.
“I know you’re still stuck on that ‘one-night’ thing,” he says carefully, but there’s steel behind the words. “You’ve been spinning all those thoughts in your head about what this means, what it could destroy, where it leads.”
I take a bite of bacon.
Soren shakes his head. “Nope. Not today, Spiral Goblin. I’m done tussling with your overthinking brain.”
My head tilts.
“The rules have changed.” He pushes his plate to the side and sets his eyes on me.
“We won’t post anything. Not a single photo.
No ShelfSpace clues, no cryptic quotes, nothing.
We’ll disappear off the face of the earth.
It’ll be just us in this cabin, no hovering voices telling us to stay relevant.
As long as we’re snowed in, our one night becomes however many days winter decides. ”
“And after that?” My voice is barely above a whisper.
Soren smiles crookedly. “We make some decisions.”
I stare at him. Soren is so calm. So certain. Grounded in a way I never am. I’m envious. And in this moment, with the snow barreling down, staring back at him, I decide to stop preparing for disappointment and stop scanning for the exit.
I decide to stay.
“All right.” Exhaling, I let my shoulders drop. “No posts. No pressure.”
His eyes dance with warm mirth.
I pick up a cinnamon roll and take a slow bite, letting it melt on my tongue. “But if you’re going to keep baking, you’ll need to shovel your way out alone when the storm’s over. Because I’m not leaving.”
“Good,” he replies. “Because I’m not letting you go.”
I take another bite. The gooey center is warm and sticky on my fingers. It’s pure heaven.
Soren watches me with an intensity that makes it very clear he’s no longer interested in breakfast.
“How is it?” His voice deepens, rough around the edges.
“Mmm.” I lick icing from the tip of my finger. “It’s obscene. I’ve never had a cinnamon roll this good.”
“I will never be normal again after watching you lick your finger like that.”
With a chuckle, I shake my head, pretending to be scandalized when a wild hair sprouts in my chest—sweet and sharp and totally unlike me.
Reach out, I dip his finger into the leftover icing, and bring it to my mouth. Intentionally. Seductively. Keeping my eyes on his, I drag my tongue along the pad of his finger, then take it between my lips and suck—hopefully making him forget what day it is.
Soren’s chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. And suddenly I feel powerful. Drunk on sugar and whatever the hell this thing between us is.
“What’s gotten into you?” he asks, voice wickedly wrecked.
I release his finger with a soft pop and smile, more confident than I have any right to be. “Wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”
Shoving his chair back, Soren moves behind me. His hands trail down my arms before settling on my hips. He bends down, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“You’ve got icing on your mouth.”
“Do I?”
“Mmhm.”
I grab my napkin to wipe it off, but Soren beats me to it and slides one hand up, thumb grazing the corner of my lips.
Except, instead of wiping it off, he dips that thumb into the remaining icing on my plate and drags it down the center of my throat.
My heart stops.
“We should put those cinnamon rolls to better use.” His mouth brushes under my ear, voice molten, before it finds the spot on my throat, licking the icing away.
“What do you mean by ‘better use.’”
Soren peels back, tugs my chair away from the table.
My pulse spikes.
“Stand,” he orders, voice deep and commanding.
Without hesitation, I obey, a mixture of curiosity and heat pooling in my core.
Hands slide over my waist. “That’s it.”
Offering zero warning, Soren grips under my thighs, and hoists me onto the edge of the table.
“You’re not serious.”
Stormy eyes gleam. “Dead serious.”
My palms land behind me, bracing against the wood. Soren steps between my legs, spreading them gently with his hips, then leans in until our faces are inches apart.
The fire blazes and spits. Snow falls thick outside the window. His gaze lands on mine, and those eyes tell me that he’s about to fuck me sweetly and thoroughly. Properly.
Soren picks up the cinnamon roll from the plate beside me and tears off a piece—sticky, hot, glistening with icing.
His lips press to mine, then he says, “Open.”
My mouth parts. He places the bite into my mouth. I moan around his fingers. It’s that fucking good. He’s that fucking good.
Soren’s lips brush over the icing smeared at the corner of my mouth. “Yeah, we’re definitely putting these to better use.” His hand slides under my shirt, but pauses. His eyes search mine. “Can I?”
I nod, breath caught somewhere in my throat.
Soren lifts the shirt, his fingers grazing my skin as the fabric rises, and when he finally pulls it over my head and tosses it aside, that gaze darkens.
“I’ve thought about this, Bells.” His hands skim over my bare waist. “You. Laid out for me. My fucking feast. Remove those leggings.”
I hesitate for half a second before doing exactly what he asks, dragging my leggings and underwear down my legs.
Soren helps me stretch out along the table—his strong hands adjusting, and coaxing me, treating me as though I’m fragile and precious.
The wooden surface is cool beneath my back, but Soren’s hands are hot. He tears the cinnamon roll apart lazily. Icing sticks to his fingers. He drags a piece across my collarbone and brings it to his mouth, licking it off without breaking eye contact.
My thighs clench. He trails another piece over the swell of my breast. His mouth follows, tongue hot and worshipful.
“You taste better than anything I’ve ever made,” he says against my skin.
My hands fist the edge of the table.
Soren continues lower, one knee on the floor, his mouth devouring every sticky, sweet path he lays. And when he places a melting bite of cinnamon roll below my navel, he peers up at me. “I said I’d break you, Bells. Shall I start?”
I cry out. “Fuck, yes, please.”
And then—
Soren’s tongue.
Hot. Wicked. Sweeping over the icing. Over me. And that’s when I fucking lose myself.