Page 160 of What We Bury

“Patience, wildcat,” he murmurs, voice muffled against my skin. “I’ve got you.”

Then his mouth is on me, tongue flat and insistent, licking a slow stripe up my center that makes my toes curl and my hands fist in his hair. Fuck—it’s overwhelming, the way he devours me like he’s starving. He sucks at my clit, circles it with the tip of his tongue, and when I buck against him, he growls and holds me harder, fingers bruising my thighs in the best way.

I can’t think. Can’t breathe properly. It’s all sensation—wet heat, building pressure, the scrape of his stubble against my most sensitive skin. The blood from my lip is probably still on his tongue, mixing with me, and the thought is filthy, twisted, and it sends a fresh wave of heat pooling low in my belly.Who knew I’d get off on something so dark?But here I am, grinding against his face, chasing the edge he’s pushing me toward.

“Holden—god, don’t stop?—”

He doesn’t. If anything, he amps it up, sliding two fingers inside me, curling them just right while his mouth works me over. The rhythm is punishing, relentless, and I’m climbing, climbing, my whole body tightening like a spring. I glance down and catch his eyes on mine—dark, intense, watching me unravel—and that’s what tips me over.

The orgasm tears through me, my thighs clamping around his head as I cry out, loud and broken. He doesn’t let up, rides it out with me, licking and thrusting until I’m shaking, oversensitive, begging for mercy.

He finally pulls back, lips glistening, a smug grin on his face as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Tastes like trouble,” he says, voice rough. “My favorite.”

I grab his shoulders and haul him up, kissing him hard, tasting myself on his tongue. It’s messy, desperate, and I fumble for his belt, yanking it open while he shoves his jeans down. He’s hard, straining against his boxers, and when I wrap my hand around him, he hisses, thrusting into my grip.

“Do we need a condom?” I ask, breathless.

He goes still for one sharp second, then gives me the answer like it’s evidence. “Clear. Tested after the last time. No one since. You?”

“Birth control. Tested too.”

“Good.” He pauses, searching my face. “You sure?”

“Fuck me now, Holden,” I gasp, yanking him closer by the waistband of his boxers before shoving them down myself.

He doesn’t hesitate. Grabs my hips and pulls me to the edge of the counter, lining himself up in one fluid motion. His eyes lock on mine—dark, hungry, a question in them even as his body screams yes. I nod, dig my heels into the small of his back, and he thrusts into me hard, filling me completely in a single stroke that punches the air from my lungs.

“Fuck—Sage—” His voice breaks, rough and reverent, like he’s cursing and praying at the same time.

It’s overwhelming. The stretch, the heat, the way he fits like he was made for this—for me. I arch into him, nails scraping down his arms, leaving red trails that make him growl low in his throat. He doesn’t go slow. Doesn’t ease in like Micah did. Holden’s pace is brutal, punishing, each snap of his hips driving deeper, harder, until the counter digs into my ass and I don’t give a damn because it feels so fucking good.

I wrap my legs tighter around him, meeting every thrust, our bodies slamming together in a rhythm that’s as much war as it is want. His hands are everywhere—gripping my thighs, palming my breasts, one sliding up to my throat, fingers curling just enough to make my pulse thunder under his touch. Not choking. Controlling. And god, I love it. Love the edge of danger, the way he walks the line without crossing it, reading my gasps like a map.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he mutters against my ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “So wet for me. Been waiting for this—imagining your tight little cunt since I saw you put the knife in.”

His words hit like sparks, igniting something feral in me. I bite his shoulder, and he hisses, hips stuttering before he redoubles, pounding into me with a force that rattles the dishes in the sink. The cut on my finger throbs, a sharp reminder mixedwith the building pressure in my core, and I taste blood again when I kiss him—mine, his, ours.

“Harder,” I demand, voice wrecked, because I need more. Need him to break me open, to chase away the anger from earlier, the betrayal, the everything.

He obliges. Lifts me off the counter like I weigh nothing, spins us around, and pins me against the fridge. Magnets scatter, clattering to the floor, but I barely hear them over the sound of our breathing, the wet slap of skin on skin. The new angle is deeper, hitting that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. I cling to him, legs locked around his waist, hands in his hair, pulling until he groans.

“Wildcat,” he murmurs, thrusting harder, his grip on my throat tightening just a fraction—enough to make my vision spark. My pulse kicks hard under his palm, and instead of the jetty, instead of rope, all I feel is him watching my face for the answer.

I bare my throat into his hand.

“Yes.” I gasp, the pressure building again, coiling tight in my belly, and I pull at his hair, yanking his head back so I’m hurting him too.

“Fuck—yes, like that,” he growls, his rhythm faltering for a split second before he slams into me again, the fridge rocking behind us with every brutal drive. I laugh, wild and breathless, because this is insane, this is us, crashing together like a storm that doesn’t give a damn about the wreckage.

His hand leaves my throat, slides down to where we’re joined, thumb finding my clit and rubbing circles that match his thrusts—rough, insistent, no mercy. I’m close, so fucking close, my body clenching around him, pulling him deeper, and he feels it, I know he does, because he leans in, mouth against my ear, voice a ragged whisper. “Come for me, Sage. Let me feel you break around me.”

He pinches my clit. Hard. And that’s all it takes. The orgasm crashes over me, pulling me under, my nails digging into his shoulders as I scream—raw, unfiltered, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls. He follows right after, thrusting deep one last time with a guttural curse, his body shuddering against mine as he empties inside me, hot and pulsing.

We stay like that for a moment—panting, pressed together, his forehead resting against the fridge door behind me. My legs are jelly, still wrapped around him, and I can feel the ache starting to bloom in my thighs, my core, the spots where his fingers dug in. Good aches. The kind that remind you you’re alive.

“Jesus,” he mutters finally, pulling back just enough to look at me. His hair’s a mess from my hands, lips swollen, a bite mark blooming on his shoulder where I got him good. He looks wrecked. Satisfied.

I push his hair off his forehead. “You okay?”