Page 173 of What We Bury

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until my chest starts to ache. Sage’s hand disappears under her shorts, the slow press of her knuckles creating a little ridge in the cotton, and for a moment all I can process is the fact that I’m watching her, that all of us are watching her, that she’s looking straight into a camera and letting us.

Her tank top clings to her chest, nipples peaked sharp against the thin fabric. She shifts, knees up, hips rocking subtle as her hand works underneath—she is not fucking around, she’s going for it, and it’s so clearly for an audience that my brain shorts out.

“Does she know we’re all in the same room right now?” Milo stage-whispers, but no one’s voice has enough air in it to respond.

Eli just gives a flat shake of his head, his hand shaking on the phone—nobody else is looking, but I see it, the way his thumb trembles on the glass as he zooms in, like if he gets close enough, he’ll be the only one she’s fucking herself for.

She’s not. She’s doing it for all five of us, and there’s no point pretending otherwise.

I clear my throat, force myself upright in the chair. Holden is sitting dead still, his jaw clenched and eyes fixed on the screen like maybe if he focuses hard enough, he’ll pull her through the fiber optic cables and onto this table.

Milo has his phone propped against a water bottle, both hands in his lap, and he’s blushing so hard I can feel the heat coming off him like a space heater.

Eli hasn’t moved since the link opened. His face is locked down, but one hand is fisted on the edge of the table, knuckles bloodless, like control has become something physical he can grip.

Knox, for his part, stays still. He doesn’t even blink. Just watches, jaw tight behind all that silence, every ounce of him aimed at the screen.

On the screen, Sage is working herself harder now—white-knuckled grip on her own thigh, the other hand lost all the way in, her mouth parted, chin tipped up like she’s showing off for us. She hooks a knee out wide and her hips grind up into her own palm, and the tank has rucked up just enough to show the start of underboob, the definition of her stomach, the flex and shudder of every muscle working to get her off.

“Fuck,” I whisper, because I have to let it out somehow.

When her hand breaks free from her shorts—shoving them down enough to bare her thighs, then her cunt—my brain goes white with want.

Nobody says anything. Not even a joke or a muttered fuck, until Holden—who’s shifted in his seat, propped one heavy boot on the edge of the table—says, “I’m going to jerk off now, so if anyone’s squeamish, avert your fuckin’ eyes.”

He means it. He’s already got his hand on his belt, popping the buckle, and his cock is out in three seconds flat.

Milo lets out a soft, delighted giggle. “Thank God someone broke the seal. It was getting awkward in here.” And just like that, he’s got his own dick out. No shame. All showman.

Eli and Knox go quiet as ever, but I see it—the way their chests rise, the way their hands disappear under the table, the way Eli grits his jaw like a man trying to keep his skin on.

And me?

I don’t even try to hide it. I grab the ridge in my sweats and squeeze, not caring that there are four other men here doing the same thing. The only person I care about is on the screen, owning all of us without even touching.

Sage flicks her gaze to the camera, dead center, as if she can see us all lined up, dicks out, throats raw. She pushes her tank up, baring her breasts, her free hand cupping one and squeezing, pulling at the nipple until she moans. Then she brings her fingers—wet, glistening—from between her legs to her fucking mouth, and sucks them, drawing them out slow, like she knows she’s making every one of us lose it. Eli’s chair creaks. That’s all. But I see the muscle twitch in his forearms, see the way his hips fuck up into the table once before he regains composure.

Holden’s making no attempt at composure, strong hand working his cock slow, almost lazy, like he’s got all night and nothing to distract him but the girl on the screen.

And Sage, knowing—or just hoping, or maybe orchestrating for this exact moment—goes all in. She shoves her shorts lower, kicks one leg out of them, splits herself open for the camera, and I’m pretty sure it’s me who lets out a moan.

“Fuck, baby girl.”

Two fingers in, thumb rolling over her clit, fucking herself with the kind of hunger I’ve only seen when we’re together, flesh and heat and sweat. Her head goes back, hair wild over the pillow, and she moans so loud the phone speaker distorts. I want to be inside her so bad my teeth hurt. But more than that, I want her to see me, want her to know she has us completely. Nothing but her voice and the sound of her, no matter how or where we get it.

The orgasm hits and she shakes, toes curling, thighs locking together, and when her voice breaks and she cries out, every single one of us loses all pretense.

I come just watching her, hand locked around my cock, not even trying to look away as I spill all over myself and the floor.

The entire table goes quiet for a long, hot minute, except for the chorus of ragged breathing and the faint echo of her panting, still coming down on the screen.

Sage smiles, lazy and sated, and she licks her own fingers. Then she blows a kiss to the camera and ends the feed. Nobody moves.

After a while, Milo says, “Well, that’s going in the mental highlight reel.”

Holden zips up and just laughs. Low, fucked-out, wild. “She’s something else.”

Eli’s eyes are still locked on the screen, unmoved.