Page 116 of What We Become

“When?” I say.

Eli looks at me. “When what?”

“When do we go?”

Eli’s smile is slow and dangerous, like he sees himself inside me, the creature that lives behind my sternum. The one that woke up on a beach with a knife in its hand and has been pacing ever since.

“Not tonight,” he says. “You need sleep. Real sleep, not nightmare sleep.”

“I’m not going to get real sleep, Eli. Not here. Not yet.”

“We’ll do it tomorrow night.” He puts the phone down and takes my face in his hands. “But we need to do this right. We plan it. We don’t go in angry—we go in precise. That’s the rule.”

“Whose rule?”

“Mine. And Holden’s. And it exists because we’ve all killed angry.” His thumbs trace my cheekbones. “And we all know angry gets messy. Messy gets you caught.”

“Unless you have five amazing boyfriends who clean the murder scene for you,” I joke. Brock on the sand. Stine in his motel room. Two messes I made and never had to look at again.

“That can’t keep happening, little savage. You do it our way, the monster gets fed, but it eats on a schedule. It doesn’t gorge itself on a rampage.”

I almost smile. “You’re giving my murder impulse a meal plan.”

“I’m a teacher. Structure is what I do.”

“Which reminds me—are you going back to school this semester?”

“No. Not until after that asshole is burning inside Dean’s retort.”

I lean forward, placing my hands on his chest and pressing my fingers into his skin. “And what am I supposed to do with the monster while we plan Freely’s death?”

His eyes go dark as his fingers hook into the hem of the oversized T-shirt I’m wearing, brushing against my skin. “You let me take care of it,” he whispers, lips ghosting over mine before he lifts the shirt up and over my head, folding it back and pinning me so my arms are locked behind my back and the only part of my face that’s free is my mouth.

His kiss crashes into me, all heat and demand, his body crowding mine against the counter until the edge digs into my lower back. I arch into it, trapped arms straining against the fabric, but he doesn’t let up, his free hand sliding down my bare side, fingers splaying possessively over my hip. The monster inside me stirs, hungry for the distraction, the raw anchor to the present.

Eli breaks the kiss just enough to growl against my lips, “Let it out on me, Sage. Use me.” His hand dips lower, finding me already slick and ready, and he doesn’t tease—just slides three fingers inside me, stretching me so suddenly, my knees buckle. I gasp, head falling back, the shirt over my face blinding me as all I get is the sensation of him adding another finger. His thumb. I moan when his knuckles press against me. “That’s it. Feel this instead. You’re gonna take all of me.”

“Oh fuck.” I rock against his hand, the friction building fast and frantic, chasing the edge he promised to dull. “Eli!”

His hand pistons, wrist twisting, pushing for more. The heel of his palm grinds my clit, and with the next thrust, the burn crosses the threshold into a sick, greedy craving. I want it. I want all of him inside me.

My knees threaten to fold, and Eli spreads me wider, until the raw stretch of him makes my hips cant forward, begging for everything. He chuckles, low and almost mirthless, pure hunger in sound form.

“That’s it. Open up for me. Let the world disappear for a minute.”

His hand twists and pushes, circles, never relenting, while his fingers drive deeper. I’m close to coming already, and I whimper into the darkness of the bunched-up shirt, straining my wrists behind my back to try to hold on to something, but there’s no leverage, nothing to do except lean all my weight into Eli’s onslaught.

“You’re greedy tonight,” he rasps, “but that’s all right. You’ve got so much room for me, little savage. Messy or not, I’ll always clean it up.” He jams his fingers deep, curling hard, his knuckles finally pushing past the rim with the wet pop of muscle. His entire hand fills me in a way that makes me sob his name into the hot, wet fabric. I can feel him all the way up inside, stretching me to a brutal, blissed-out hurt that I crave enough to chase with every wild flex of my hips. There’s no air, no room, just Eli’s fist buried inside me, locked in place as my body clamps and spasms and the monster uncoils, starved and greedy and finally fed.

“Fuck—Eli—it’s—” My hips slam forward, greedy aftershock rolling, and he fills me till the stretch is a burn that wipes my brain clean.

“That’s it,” he coaxes. “You can take it. You want the pain, Sage?” His hand is a lock inside me, and every time I think I can’t, I do, and it sends me further. “You love what hurts, don’t you?”

I don’t answer—not with words. My legs give, and he hauls me up onto the counter, half bare, legs splayed so wide they ache. The shirt stays tangled around my arms, roping me in. I can’t see him, but I can feel his breath, hot and quick, his body crowding me until there’s nothing left of the kitchen, just the force of him splitting me inside out.

“Eli, oh fuck, don’t stop.” I jerk on the counter, grinding down onto his fist like I’ll die if I lose that connection.

He fucks me with it, relentless, bruising, the stretch twisting beyond pleasure and back again till it’s both at once, till I shatter and soak his hand and scream through gritted teeth, “I hate you. I hate you. I love you!”