Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
AVA
Never—never in a million lifetimes did I think I’d be in Soren Pembry’s bedroom wearing a naughty cosplay outfit based on his book.
A book he said was inspired by me.
A book that hit number one on the fantasy charts in twelve countries.
A book I originally roasted on a livestream because the main character said, “Saddle my rage, princess.”
And yet—here I am. Thigh-high boots. Corseted leather. Glittering elf ears that are definitely crooked but still make me a feral woodland sex witch.
Soren’s looking at me as though I invented orgasms. But what really messes with my head isn’t the lust in his eyes. It’s the reverence. The tenderness. That broken sort of love people write sonnets about and tattoo on their ribs like bleeding heart psychos.
And I’m the one he feels that way about.
Somehow, this infuriating man who once corrected my grammar in a meme caption has become the single most grounding, electric, soul-stretching force in my life.
Never saw that one coming.
Soren didn’t just chip away at my walls. Oh no.
He brought dynamite. A sledgehammer. A crowbar. Probably a Dremel.
And when I slathered on another layer of emotional concrete for him to break through, he smiled, rolled up his sleeves, and said, “Challenge accepted, Bells.”
Sometimes I wonder if I kept stacking bricks in front of him on purpose. To see if he’d leave. If he’d finally sigh and say, “You’re too much, Bells. This is too hard. I only wanted one thing, but you’re not worth the trouble to get it.”
Soren Pembry proved me wrong. Again. And again. And again.
I’m not completely fixed. Who the hell is? But I’m more balanced. More grounded. More me. Thanks to him. And his tenacity.
And his heart.
He strips out of that cozy green sweater, muscles rippling beneath golden skin, jeans hitting the floor as an offering, and that long, thick cock swinging like it’s a prophecy written in the stars—
Yeah. I’m one very lucky elf.
“You’re staring.” His lips twitch.
“You’re naked.” My voice isn’t nearly as stable.
“Is that a complaint?”
I shake my head. “It’s a blessing.”
Soren steps toward me, eyes dark, muscles tight. “Ava Bell, you came home.”
Warm breath brushes the curve of my jaw. His hands—those large, greedy, loving hands—trace the edge of my leather panties with a look like he’s unsealing something sacred. Or sinful.
Really, it’s both.
With maddening precision, he drags them down my thighs—inch by reverent inch—until the cool air hits my slick heat and I shudder.
Soren doesn’t break eye contact, and with the way his jaw tightens, I know he’s barely holding himself back from devouring me right where I stand. But he doesn’t rush. After he slides the panties off completely, he twirls them once on his finger before tossing them behind him.
“They’re mine now.” He smirks, voice feral. “For inspiration.”
“Planning to write a sequel?”
He grins, villainous. “Sequel to your orgasm.”
My laugh stutters out on a breath I don’t remember taking. He notices. As though he’s approaching a throne he intends to kneel before for the rest of his life, Soren sinks to the floor in front of me. My boots still on. My corset, untouched. Elf ears sparkling in the firelight.
Apparently, this fantasy warrior has zero intention of letting me take off a single piece of this costume–other than the panties–before he fucks me six ways from the solstice.
My tongue sweeps over my bottom lip, wetting it before I catch it between my teeth and bite, hard enough to feel.
“Jesus, Ava,” Soren groans as though I granted him a dying wish. “I want your pussy on my tongue so bad it hurts.”
Lightning bolts down my spine, ripping a gasp from my chest, when in one deft movement he hoists me up onto the bed.
Calloused fingertips skate over my inner thighs, scratching lightly, leaving trails of sparks in their wake.
My nipples pebble beneath the corset, the contrast of cold air and burning need lifting me higher.
Soren’s hands settle on my thighs, spreading me open as a sacred text he’s been desperate to study, chapter by dripping chapter.
His head lowers, kissing a slow path along my right thigh, teeth grazing, lips branding.
When I think he’ll give me what I need, he detours, nuzzling across to the other thigh.
“Soren,” I groan, writhing, but his grip tightens.
His nose bumps my slit, and he breathes me in. It’s obscene and sexy as hell. “Fuck, Bells,” his voice is thick and heated. “You smell like mulled cider and second chances.”
I whimper. Or maybe I sob. It’s a thin line.
Soren doesn’t wait for permission. He dives in, tongue sliding up from my entrance to my clit in one long, devastating stroke that has me seeing stars behind my eyes.
My back bows. The air leaves my lungs. This man knocked it out of me with one flick of his mouth.
He does it again, but slower this time, tasting each syllable of my arousal.
A moan rumbles deep in his chest and vibrates against me.
Soren pushes my legs wider, his shoulders wedging in between, massive and immovable as those gifted hands slide under my thighs, lifting, securing, making me the offering I clearly am.
Then he devours.
His tongue works me in slick, punishing strokes, each pass over my clit more electric than the last. My whimpers melt into moans, my hips rising off the mattress in search of more, more, God, more—
The only background noise is the fire crackling in the hearth. Otherwise, it’s the slick sound of his mouth on me. The scrape of his scruff. The wet heat of his tongue. The raw desperation in every gasp he pulls from my throat.
When his hands tighten around my thighs, I know what’s coming, and he’s not letting up. Not until I fall apart on his tongue and repent for leaving him.
The world fades. All I know is the pressure building, cresting, teasing the edge. And then—Soren pulls back. Blows a slow, hot breath over the place he just left.
I nearly scream, “Please don’t stop.”
“That,” his voice hoarse, tone punishing, “was for disappearing without a goddamn trace.”
“What’s for coming back?” I pant.
Soren rises from his knees like a storm gathering strength, he catches my wrist before I can grab at him, snatching my hand and pressing it flat over his chest. His heart pounds frantically beneath my palm. He stares at me like it’s the only truth he has left.
“This,” he rasps, squeezing my hand tighter, “is for coming back. It’s yours, Bells. Every beat. Each broken piece. My heart hasn’t belonged to me in a long time—it’s been spelling your name with every pulse. You left, and it still beat for you. You’re here now, and it always will.”
Tears prick my eyes, his words tangling around me while his heartbeat drums beneath my palm. I blink through the wet droplets, a laugh breaking free even as I choke on it.
“You’re insane,” I whisper, pressing closer, clutching his chest as though I can hold the rhythm myself.
“Insane for loving me like that. Insane for waiting, for forgiving me, for still beating my name when I didn’t deserve it.
” His silver eyes shimmer, steady on mine.
“But if your heart is mine, then you need to know—” My voice breaks, then steadies again.
“—mine’s been yours since the moment you looked at me like I wasn’t just another storm.
But like I was worth being ravaged by it.
Keep spelling my name, Soren. And I’ll be here—right here—to read every letter. ”
Those silver eyes turn dark. He doesn’t give me a chance to breathe before he grips my hips, spins me, and yanks me to the edge, pressing a kiss to my shoulder, then murmuring against my skin:
“I love you,” he says with a low voice, ravaged with need and too much restraint.
Calloused palms drag up my sides, over the curve of my corset, and back down again—slow and possessive. Soren kicks my legs a little farther apart to expose and brand me in the best possible way.
“Bend over the bed, Bells.” A hand slides down to squeeze my ass. “I’m going to split you open and make you beg for every inch.”
Glancing back over my shoulder, a wicked smile tugs at my lips even as my body trembles. “Begging’s not really my style. But if you think you can fuck it out of me…try.”
A just as wicked grin spreads across his face as his other hand curls around my waist, tugging me back so my ass presses flush to his hard, thick cock, twitching with anticipation. “Challenge accepted, Bells. Now, fist the sheets,” Soren commands, hot breath dragging over my ear.
My fingers toy with the fabric instead of gripping it. My voice comes out as a teasing dare. “What if I don’t? What if I make you work harder for it? What’ll you do then, Soren?”
I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m baiting the wolf—also the man I broke. Every moment I shut him out built this one like kindling. Now I want him to strike the match, punish me in the best way.
“Baby, I’m not stopping until your screams make the walls bleed and the glass shatter.
So,” Soren grits, sliding the head of his cock into me—infuriatingly slow.
“Fist.” He pulls out, leaving me clenching on nothing.
“The.” Another sharp thrust of just the tip.
“Damn.” Out again, deliberate torture. “Sheets.” Back in, deeper this time, holding me there, his transforms into a snarl. “Now.”