Page 206 of What We Burn

“I can guarantee you one of the guys called in sick for you. You needed rest.”

“You needed it too.” She wriggles closer to me, and I hold her tighter, feeling her heartbeat. “Last night was a lot, huh?”

“It was, baby girl.” I drop a gentle kiss on the back of her neck, right above the collar she’s still wearing. “But we made it through okay. Even if that bastard did get one good shot in.” I touch the bruising at her temple.

I almost expect her to flinch, but she just grins. “You should see the other guy.”

I laugh, and it aches behind my ribs, a tightness that feels too much like relief. Somewhere along the way, her pain became mine. I don’t know when it happened, but now I count every bruise like a tally against myself. I run my hand down her arm, palm open so she can pull away if she wants to. She never does.

“Can we just . . . stay like this for a bit?” she whispers.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” I bury my face in her neck and just breathe her in, the vanilla lotion clinging to her skin, her own warmth layered beneath it. She shifts back into me, hips moving in a way that isn’t accidental. Soft little undulation, warming up the whole room.

I palm her stomach, press her closer, and feel her exhale against my cheek. She parts her thighs slightly, just enough to make space for my hand, and I don’t need to be asked twice.

We’re both only half-dressed—me in clean boxers, her in Holden’s T-shirt and nothing underneath. I slide my hand beneath the hem and feel how wet she is already, the heat of her against my palm. I don’t bother going slow. I know what she wants, and it’s not a gentle wake-up. She’s always liked the way we fuck when we’re still half in a dream—urgent, thick with the residue of whatever darkness we left behind.

She’s slick and hot, and her hips buck up at my hand. I circle her clit, light at first, and she lets out a noise that’s nearly a sob. I slip a finger inside her and her breath goes sharp, hips grinding against my hand. She tips her head back, exposing her throat, and her eyes flutter closed like she’s half-drowning in the sensation. My cock is hard and aching, pressed against her ass, but I hold back, wanting the first sound out of her to be need.

I love that she never hides it. She shudders, moans, and all the resistance melts out of her. It’s just pure want—direct line from her heart to her cunt to my hand. Her fingers twist in the bedsheet as I add a second finger, curling them just so, and she bites down on a gasp.

“You want me to fuck you?” I whisper into her hair, barely more than a vibration.

She nods. “Yes.” It’s like it’s the only word left in her mouth. I move behind her and shove my boxers down just enough. Her ass presses to my hips, desperate and sweet, and the sound she makes is ragged and honest. I line up and slide inside her in one long, slow push. She takes me all at once, always does, greedy for it, and the shock of being surrounded by her heat is almost enough to make me lose it right there.

“Fuck. You feel so good, baby girl. So good.”

We move together. My hand finds her hip, the inside of her thigh, her breast beneath the shirt, and she’s always pushing back, meeting every thrust. The rhythm isn’t frantic, but it’s fast enough. She buries her face in the pillow and lets go of a noise that makes me moan in return. There’s nothing I want more in this world than to hear her lose herself like that. Every time she comes on my cock, it feels like I made a promise and then kept it.

She starts to shake, and I know she’s close. I reach around and rub her clit in slow, hard circles until her whole body goes taut.

“Fuck. Yes⁠—”

I brace my hand over her mouth to keep her from alerting the entire house, which only makes her wild for it. She comes with this muffled, frantic sound, squeezing my dick as she pulses around me, and it’s only pride or pure stubbornness that keeps me from blowing immediately.

She keeps moving, greedy for more, grinding me deeper, and I bite down on her shoulder to keep my own voice in check. It’s not pretty this time—no slow finish, just her, milking every last bit of me. But right as I’m about to lose it, there’s a pounding at the door.

“Dinner in five!” Milo sing-songs. “If you’re porking in there, finish fast, I’m not waiting!”

Sage doesn’t let go of me. If anything, she laughs and clenches harder, rolling her hips in a move that’s so bratty and so her I think I might die from loving her this much.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers. “He can wait.”

The pounding starts again in Milo’s own Morse code: dash dash dot, dash dash dot. His get-your-ass-moving rhythm, reserved for meals and other disasters of equal importance. I ignore it and fuck her harder, hand back over her mouth to stifle the sounds. She’s coming again, raw and shivering, and I chase her over with two more thrusts, emptying so hard every nerve goes numb. We collapse together, sticky and ruined, laughing into the tangle of blankets. I bite at her shoulder again, just to hear her yelp, and then nuzzle the spot after. Neither of us moves. The idea of putting on pants is a violation of the Geneva Conventions.

After a minute, she rolls over, facing me, her eyes gone sparkly and soft at the edges.

“I like waking up with you,” she says. Her fingers trace my jaw, slow and lazy.

“I like it, too,” I whisper. “Even if it means I have to fight off the rest of the boyfriends to get some time alone with you.”

She laughs and snuggles her face into my chest, letting the moment go loose and animal and sweet. “You realize if we leave this bed, it’s over, right?”

“What is?”

“This.” She points between us. “I mean, not over over—but. Once we go out there, we have to be adults again. Team meeting. Rules. Whatever file Holden has waiting.”

I twirl a lock of her hair between two fingers. “We do, don’t we? Your first official Hangman outing. You excited?”