“God, yes,” she breathes, starting to ride me hard, hips rolling in that ruthless rhythm she knows drives me insane. Her full breasts bounce with every thrust, nipples hard against the thin fabric of her dress. “Look how you love me riding your cock, Ethan. Look how deep I take you. This pussy is yours—only yours—and it’s saying sorry so much better than words.”
I thrust up to meet her, hands sliding under her dress to grip her ass, spreading her wider as she slams down again and again. She’s filthy and gorgeous, hair whipping around her face, moonlight painting her skin silver as she leans forward, lips brushing mine.
“You feel that?” she gasps, grinding slow and deep, circling her hips until I’m seeing stars. “That’s me making it up to you. Every bounce, every clench. I’m your dirty little apology tonight—fucking you until you can’t remember anything but how good I feel wrapped around you.”
It’s too much—her words, her body, the way she owns me completely. I come hard, buried deep, groaning her name into her neck as she milks every pulse from me, her own climax hitting seconds later with a sharp cry that echoes over the water.
We collapse together, breathless, tangled, her body draped over mine like a promise.
By morning, the phone feels like an afterthought.
The Verizon store smells like plastic and carpet cleaner and possibility.
We’re both a little hungover, but Sage is glued to my side, fingers laced through mine like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” she murmurs for the fifth time. “I still feel terrible.”
“I survived,” I say dryly. “Barely.”
She smiles at me, relieved.
The guy behind the counter pulls out the newest model like he’s unveiling a prize.
“Slick, right?” he says. “Motorola V60. Chrome finish. Real clean.”
It is slick. Silver. Heavy. Looks like something Batman would own if Batman had a phone.
He walks me through the basics—how to flip it, how to set up voicemail.
“So you hit *7,” he says, “then set a four-digit PIN. Just don’t make it something obvious.”
I don’t think.
I punch in 0109.
My mom’s birthday.
The system accepts it. Beeps cheerfully.
“Good to go,” the guy says.
Same number. New phone.
Problem solved.
Or so it seems.
Sage squeezes my hand, grinning up at me. “See? Fixed.”
I smile back.
But as I clip the new phone onto my belt and feel its unfamiliar weight there, something unsettles quietly in my chest.
Because everything is fine.
Too fine.
And I don’t know yet that some mistakes don’t disappear when you replace what’s broken.
