There's a rhythm between the three of us, one that feels almost practiced, like muscle memory we didn't know we shared. It's strange. Me and Kayden, we understand each other well enough, but that understanding is usually threaded with tension. He grates on me more often than not, playing the wayward brother to perfection. Always smirking. Always testing.
But this morning it flows.
We move around each other as if we've done it before: coffee poured—hers sipped and savored, ours more for the illusion of normalcy—pastries shared, tension dulled.
When the magic shop opens, it's anticlimactic. The woman behind the counter—barefoot, braided hair, beads jangling with every move—is a time capsule from the 1960s. It takes her a full ten minutes to rummage through the chaos behind the register before she emerges, triumphant, holding the celestite crystal.
It's smooth, polished, about the size of half a palm. And expensive. Not outrageously, but enough to make Sage wince the moment she sees the price tag.
I catch that flicker of discomfort, but I say nothing. Not because it's not worth a word. It is. I want to tell her not to worry, that this is the least of my concerns. That I'd do far more for far less. But I know her. She'd take it the wrong way. Hear it as pity. As proof that she's indebted, that I'm some benefactor offering charity after what happened last night.
And what happened last night was not a transaction.
So I simply pay. She doesn't argue, thanks me under her breath, and takes the little box with the crystal and chain inside that will help to fashion it into a necklace, then follows us out.
Back near Kayden's car, I maneuver things with subtlety. Open the door to the backseat, gesture for her to slide in first. She does, without question. I follow.
That part of me—the one trained to suppress emotion, to follow protocol—registers the irrationality of this pull toward her. The quiet obsession of wanting her close, always. It's not logical. Not safe. I shouldn't be making decisions from this place.
But for once, I don't care.
We hit the highway. Easy cruising now. The sun cuts across the windshield in long, golden slants. I catch Kayden watchingus through the rearview mirror. Suspicion in his eyes. Curiosity. Maybe a little irritation.
He thinks I'm up to something. And he's right.
Sage has been quiet since we left the shop. Head turned to the window, lost in thought, fingers tracing the box on her lap like it holds the next step of her life. Which, in a way, it does.
I reach for her hand, let my fingers wrap around hers.
"Come to me, Sage," I murmur.
She turns, meets my gaze. Then nods, and climbs over the seat, into my lap, graceful and sure, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Kayden frowns in the mirror. His jaw tightens.
I smirk.
Your car. My moment.
He gets the message.
Sage shifts against me, her back to my chest. My hands slide over her, deliberately slow, reading every nuance of her body as if it's a language. She shudders and leans into me. Her scent curls around us, a smell of spring: earthy, wild, and alive.
She's not resisting. She's wanting.
So am I.
She's wearing a knee-length skirt today, paired with thick leggings suited for the early spring chill. But a skirt still means access.
As I guide her gently, bunching up the skirt, she lets me. Her lips parted, breath soft, body already responding in subtle ways that drive me wild.
My cock is pressing painfully against the zipper just from the weight of her on me.
I begin to slowly peel her leggings down along with her panties, whispering low in her ear, "I picked up something in the shop. Something that might… enhance the ride. But only if you want to try it. Here. Now."
I retrieve the small bottle of lubricant from my jacket pocket and let her see it. Clear intent. Her choice.
Sage's eyes widen, pupils dilating as the realization settles. A flush blooms down her neck. "You want our first time like that to be here?" she murmurs, voice a whisper of disbelief. "In the backseat. While your brother is driving."
