Chapter 28 #2
When I finally rise, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and lean close. Her eyes are still half-lidded, cheeks flushed, lips parted.
“You taste like Christmas, Bells.”
Her chest heaves. She’s trembling, catching her breath. When I stand behind her and drag a hand down her spine, the other frees my cock, hard and heavy, pulsing with tension and need.
“Hold on tight, baby,” I say, letting the thick head of me slide against her soaked heat.
Ava’s fingers claw at the oak. I grip her hips, yank her back, and slam into her sex in one brutal, glorious thrust.
Her cry splinters through the cellar, ricocheting off stone and wood, and I’ve never heard anything more perfect.
The barrel groans beneath us, but I don’t care if it splits. My hips snap forward again, and again, until all I know is the tight, hot clutch of her body and the way her walls cling to me.
“Fuck, Ava,” I grit, leaning over her, lips at her neck. “You were built to break me.”
The barrel rattles now, metal bands creaking like they’re seconds away from giving out. I drive into her harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin-on-skin echoing in the cellar with every brutal thrust.
Ava’s palms skid against the oak, searching for grip. “Soren—God—” she chokes out, voice pitched high and ragged.
“Louder,” I snarl against her neck, teeth grazing her flushed skin.
Her answering cry rips through me as I pound into her like a man starved, hips crashing into her ass in a rhythm that borders on savage. Every thrust rips a sound from her—whimpers, moans, gasps—that mix with the slap of my body claiming hers, my groans echoing off the stone walls.
“Christ, Bells,” I growl, rutting into her as her pussy clenches around me. “You take me like a fucking goddess.”
Her cries mix with mine until the room is nothing but noise—wet, filthy, desperate noise. When she shatters around me, screaming my name, I lose it completely, slamming in one final time and spilling inside her with a hoarse, guttural groan.
We’re both panting, ruined, surrounded by glass bottles and the smell of wine. I kiss the back of her neck, laughing hoarsely against her damp skin.
“You okay?” I brush her hair back.
Ava nods. “Yeah. Um… definitely good. More than good.”
I grin. “Excellent. Now let’s get back out there and show the world who Bell and The Blade really are.”
Ava exhales as though she’s trying to remember how lungs work. “Right. Absolutely.”
I help my girl stand, smoothing her dress back down over those toned, silky legs. She’s flushed, glowing. I want nothing more than to throw her over my shoulder, take her upstairs, and sink my cock right back into the tight little pussy again.
But alas, after I use a cloth napkin to clean myself up, we slip out of the cellar and head back down the hallway. Her fingers interlace with mine, and it makes my chest thud with an ache of guilt for what I’m keeping from her.
We turn the corner, only to come face-to-face with Fisher, standing in the corridor like a Bond villain waiting to deliver the final blow. Phone in hand. Eyebrow raised. Lips pursed.
His hazel eyes volley between Ava’s flushed face and my smug one, then trail downward as though he’s mentally cataloging every fabric wrinkle, hair shift, and indication of—well—exactly what happened behind that closed door.
His voice is low. Ominous. British. “I heard screaming.”
Ava freezes. “Fisher—”
“Everyone heard screaming. Including the champagne guy, who dropped an entire tray outside that door.”
I clear my throat. “Technically, she didn’t scream that loud—”
“Technically,” Fisher cuts in, “you two were doing sexual things in the wine cellar during a black-tie event—and I wasn’t even notified!”
Ava sputters. “We weren’t doing—”
“Oh, don’t you dare lie to me, Ava Bell. I know post-orgasm hair when I see it.” He points to her face. “I know suspiciously flushed cheeks. I know the limp of a woman whose knees went on strike.”
I hold back a laugh. “You don’t know what we were doing.”
“I don’t need a play-by-play,” he snaps. “But someone screamed. Loudly. And then another sound shook the catering staff. That waiter will probably need therapy, Ava.”
She groans into her hands. “Please stop.”
Fisher presses a hand to his heart. “I’m not mad that it happened.
I’m mad you didn’t tell me this was even happening.
You two leveled up and didn’t inform me?
I had a whole thing planned. I had pre-drafted pep talks, Ava.
Scented candles. Emergency snacks. A Spotify playlist called "In Case of First Penetration.”
I cough. “We didn’t—”
“Again, I don’t want details!” Fisher throws up his hands. “I want emotional access!”
Ava groans. “This is my nightmare.”
Fisher steps closer, hard expression dissolving, like he’s not still mentally assigning us trauma homework.
“All I’m saying is—if the two of you are gonna slide from fake-ass dating into whatever-the-hell-that-was territory, I deserve a heads-up.
A whisper. A flash of Morse code. Something.
I am your person, Ava. And I cannot be expected to face the party alone while your orgasm echoes through the vents. ”
Ava’s brows furrow. “Wait. You’re mad because I didn’t tell you?”
“Oh, I’m livid, love. You didn’t even give me a courtesy call! You two have been fake dating, slow burning, sexual tensioning your way through this entire tour, and now it’s finally escalated—except apparently the only person who didn’t get the memo was me!” He crosses his arms defiantly.
I stare, still stuck on what he said earlier. “You made emergency snacks?”
Fisher scoffs. “Don’t give me that look.
You’re the one who ruined the evening with the simple flick of your tongue.
Or hell, maybe your cock. I don’t know. Nobody told me.
And of course I made snacks. What kind of friend do you think I am?
People get weak after sex, Soren. Blood sugar drops.
Knees buckle. Emotions flare. Do you want her passing out mid-thrust?
No. That’s why I pack protein bars and chocolate-covered almonds in my clutch.
I’m a responsible assistant who’s been waiting for this moment to happen since day one. ”
Ava makes a slight, mortified sound and buries her face in her hands. “Oh my God.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Those noises, Ava. I thought you were being murdered—not climaxing into the afterlife. Honestly, I was halfway to calling security.”
Ava drops her hands, her face crimson. “It was a moment. A panic attack prevention moment.”
“A preventative orgasm?” Fisher sneers. “Brilliant. I support it. Next time, maybe don’t hold your crisis intervention in the wine cellar, acoustically adjacent to the event being hosted by your publisher. Not to mention agent and editor.”
There’s a long pause. Then Ava giggles.
She tries to smother it behind her hand, but fails, full-body, shoulder-shaking laughter spilling out as the last of her tension finally breaks.
I laugh too. I can’t help it.
Fisher sighs. “You’re both disgusting. But I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks?” I say, unsure whether I should feel grateful or threatened.
“Now.” Fisher smooths his jacket. “Let’s go. Your next appearance is in six minutes. If we’re late, Renata will sacrifice me to the influencer gods.”
He spins on his heel and marches down the hall, muttering about being “scarred for life.”
Ava reaches for my hand as we follow behind him. She squeezes once, and the pressure says enough.