“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
She stepped into me hard, palms flat on my chest, shoving once—not enough to move me, just enough to provoke.
“I know what I saw,” she said. “I saw you checking out that girl’s ass. Don’t gaslight me.”
“Sage—”
“Say I’m wrong,” she demanded. “Say it.”
I didn’t answer fast enough.
Her hand came up again.
SMACK.
Heat flared across my cheek.
Not playful.
But not unfamiliar either.
My pulse kicked hard anyway.
“Sage,” I warned, voice low.
Her mouth curved. “There it is.”
She hit me again—open palm, sharp crack—then kissed me immediately after, teeth grazing my lip, breath hot and demanding.
It was the same switch we always flipped.
Anger → heat.
Jealousy → hunger.
Rage → need.
I grabbed her wrists, pinned them briefly to the cabana wall—not hurting her, but holding her there, close enough that her body pressed fully into mine.
“Enough,” I said.
She smiled like I’d just dared her.
“You don’t mean that.”
Her knee nudged between my thighs. Her hips rolled once, deliberate.
I groaned despite myself.
She felt it.
Her eyes darkened with triumph.
“There,” she whispered. “That’s what this is. You get hard when I push you. You get off on me losing my mind over you.”
My grip tightened reflexively—not bruising, not crushing—but firm enough to remind us both how close this was getting to something else.
