Page 125 of What We Bury

“What?”

“You’re not going to comment on this?” I wiggle my toes against him.

“On what?”

“On my foot.”

“What about your foot?”

“It’s on you.”

“Is it?” He sets his glass down, but he doesn’t look over. “Huh. Strange. I’m sure it’ll work itself out.”

I bite my lip. Hard. I press my foot up another inch.

A muscle jumps in his jaw.

“You know,” I say, conversational, “for a man who has talked nonstop since the moment he met me, you’ve gone awfully quiet.”

“I’m watching the freaking show.”

“You already know what’s happening in the show.”

“Yes. They’re having sex. This is a sex montage.” He adjusts the cushion on his lap.

“Milo.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

“Nope.”

I almost laugh out loud. I push my foot another inch up his shin. He swallows hard enough that I see his throat work. The cushion in his lap shifts a fraction—his hands now on either side of it, holding on like a man in a lifeboat.

“Why won’t you look at me?” I ask, soft now. Curious.

“Because if I look at you, kitten, I’m going to do something.” His voice has dropped an octave. He’s still staring at the TV.“And I don’t want to be the guy who takes from you. I’d like to make sure it’s something you actually want.”

Oh.

Heat rolls down my spine in a slow wave.

“What if I do want?” I ask.

“Thenyoutell me. With words. Like a grown-up.”

“Pushy.”

“Careful,” he murmurs.

I press my foot all the way up to his knee, wiggle my toes beneath the edge of the cushion.

He makes a small sound. Like the air got punched out of him a little.

“Sage—”

“Mm?”