Page 191 of What We Become

“I’d like to hear about those plans.”

“Well,” Milo says, sliding around the curve of the booth and hooking a hand behind her neck. “They start a little like—” He kisses her.

It’s not subtle. Not remotely. It’s Milo, so of course it isn’t—full mouth, delighted sound, one hand splayed over her thigh through the slit in her dress. Sage makes a startled little noise and then melts into it, laughing against his lips for half a second before the laugh turns into heat.

Micah follows him around the table. He catches her jaw gently when Milo breaks away and kisses her slower, deeper, like he’s trying to pour her back into her own skin one careful inch at a time.

Eli leans in before Micah fully releases her, his hand sliding from the leash to cradle the back of her head as he takes her mouth with a controlled hunger that makes my jaw ache with wanting. The collar catches light between them, silver against black leather, his thumb tracing the edge where it meets her pulse.

“Knoxie.” Sage reaches for him, and he tugs her into his lap. I watch her hands find the heavy muscle of his shoulders, her fingers digging in as he hauls her onto his thighs. Knox doesn’t do anything halfway; he anchors her with those massive hands, one flat against her lower back, the other pinning her thigh. When he kisses her, it’s the raw pressure of his mouth against hers and the way he pulls her flush against his chest, making her look small and precious and entirely his.

My pulse thrums in my ears, a rhythmic, demanding heat. The VIP booth feels smaller now, the shadows deeper, the air thick with the scent of her perfume and the heat of our combined need.

She pulls back from Knox, her breath hitching, her maroon lips swollen and wet. Her eyes are glassy, dark with the kind of hunger that usually ends with me pinning her to a mattress. She doesn’t stay in his lap. She slides off and rounds the table, the silk of her dress whispering against his suit as she reaches for me.

“Holden,” she whispers.

I don’t wait for her to close the final step. I rise to meet her, my hand tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck and tilting her head back until she’s forced to look at me.

My mouth crashes into hers, the collision of every dark thought I’ve had since she walked down those stairs, every protective instinct that has been screaming at me to lock the doors and keep her for ourselves. She tastes like champagne and the heat of the club, and I drive my tongue into her mouth, claiming the space. She meets me with a ferocity that nearly snaps my composure. Her hands fist in my shirt, and it takes everything I have not to drag her onto the table in front of Odin’s high-priced voyeurs.

I break the kiss, my forehead resting against hers, both of us gasping. I can see the silver of the leash swaying between us, the D-ring at her throat glinting like an invitation.

“I’m done being good out here.” Her voice is breathless and low enough that only we hear it. “Take me to the room.”

I look at her one beat longer, then lift two fingers toward the concierge. She’s moving before my hand is back on the table. Every person in this building has been watching us since we walked in, and it’s the first night in months I haven’t minded.

FORTY-FOUR

SAGE

The concierge opens the door, and I walk into a room made of reflections.

Knox closes the door behind us. The club noise vanishes, leaving only the low hum of monitors, our breathing, and the faint fizz of champagne in the waiting glasses.

Screens. Everywhere. The walls are paneled with them—floor to ceiling, seamless, each one showing a different angle of the room. The ceiling too. I look up and see myself looking up, multiplied and fragmented. We’re everywhere.

“Oh.” Because what else do you say when you walk into a hall of mirrors with a sex-dungeon upgrade?

The screens aren’t static. Hidden cameras capture us in real time from every conceivable angle: my back, my profile, Knox filling the doorway, and the leash draped across Eli’s palm. Six silver-masked versions of us stare back.

I remove my club mask. One by one, the others follow, setting theirs on the narrow shelf beside the door until the room gives us back our real faces.

The first time I stood in front of all five of them, they were the ones behind the masks. I was the only face in the dark.

“What is this?”

I move to the far wall. Mirrored drawers run from floor to ceiling. Dozens of them. I pull one open—silk blindfolds, neatly rolled. Another—restraints, leather and velvet, lined up like expensive chocolates. A third—vibrators in a row, arranged by size, because someone at this club understands that organization is its own form of foreplay.

“This is obscene,” I say.

“This is amazing,” Milo says, already conducting inventory.

“Cake before or after, baby girl?” Micah asks from the corner where a table draped in black linen holds a cake—three layers, dark chocolate, HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAGE in gold script—and a row of champagne flutes already filled, bubbles climbing each glass like tiny escapees.

“Cake and champagne first. We have more cake at home for after, right?”

“We sure do,” Milo says, joining Micah at the table and picking up glasses to hand out. “And don’t forget presents. This night won’t end until you feel so incredibly full of love and attention that your teeth start aching.” He hands me a glass. “Happy birthday, kitten.”