“You want me,” she murmured. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”
I did want her.
That was the problem.
The anger, the jealousy, the hunger—it all braided together until it felt indistinguishable from desire.
But standing there, sand sticking to my skin, friends watching like they didn’t know where to look?—
For the first time, it didn’t feel hot.
It felt old.
“Let’s go inside,” I said quietly. “Now.”
She smiled.
Not sweet.
Victorious.
“Thought so.”
And as she dragged me toward the house, her wrist still marked from my grip, my cheek still burning from her hand, one ugly thought kept circling:
This used to feel like foreplay.
Now it just felt like something everyone else was done watching.
Sage’s fingers were still hooked in my shirt, her body pressed hard to mine, breath warm and sweet against my jaw. Not sloppy. Not falling-down drunk.
Just… fueled.
“You like this,” she murmured. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”
I did.
That was the problem.
But I also knew we couldn’t keep doing it here.
Not on the beach.
Not in front of everyone.
Not with the house full of people who didn’t sign up for this.
I wrapped my hand around her wrist—careful this time—and leaned in close.
“Come on,” I said low. “Inside. Now.”
She smirked. “Why? Afraid someone’s watching?”
“Yes,” I said flatly. “Because they are.”
That annoyed her.
I felt it instantly—the way her body went rigid, the way her eyes sharpened.
