Page 63 of What We Bury

“Touch me,” she breathes. “I don’t want to beg.”

There’s no way I’ll make her.

My hand slides under the covers, under the hem of her shirt, across the warm skin of her stomach. She shivers, and I pause, giving her time to tell me to stop. She doesn’t. She just looks at me with those gray eyes, pupils blown wide, and nods.

I move lower.

She’s not wearing anything under her sleep shorts. Just soft skin and heat and wetness that makes my breath catch. I find her with my fingers, gentle at first, learning what she likes by the sounds she makes—the gasps, the whimpers, the way her hips rock up to meet my hand.

“Fuck, baby girl. You’re so wet for me.” I circle her clit with my fingers, slow, delicate, coaxing.

Her head falls back into the pillow, mouth opening on a broken little sound that goes straight to my cock.

I kiss her before she can get embarrassed by it. Slow at first, then deeper when she grabs my shirt and keeps making those noises into my mouth. I stroke her in small circles, light and steady, and she trembles under me.

“Just like that?” I murmur.

“Yes.” Her voice hitches. “God, yes. Give me more.”

My fingers slip inside her so easy I swear she’s pulling me in, her legs opening to give me room, her nails digging into my shoulder as my thumb strokes her clit, fingers moving through her heat. Back and forth.

I shift back just to watch her. God, she’s beautiful. Face flushed, mouth parted, that perfect pulse under her jaw hammering as I fuck her with my hand. I want to see more—want to see her come apart—but I hold back, keep it gentle, keep reading every signal she gives me. She likes it like this, slow but deep, a rhythm she sets by grinding against my palm.

“Micah—” She gasps, her whole body tensing. “Don’t stop. I—just don’t?—”

Her head tips back, exposing the long line of her neck, and I press my mouth there, tasting salt and heat. She comes so hard it wrings a sob out of her, her body going rigid, then shuddering, her nails raking my back through my shirt. The sound echoes in the quiet room, wild and a little desperate. I don’t stop, getting off on the way her thighs lock around my wrist, her face buried in my hair, muffling the cries that come in helpless, irregular bursts.

“Micah—oh my god—” Her words dissolve into a string of curses, and then her body sags, limp and heavy, sweat slicking her skin. I withdraw my hand and she flinches a little, hypersensitive. She gives me a lazy, satisfied look.

I sense movement behind me as her gaze flies to the door and she abruptly jerks into a seated position.

“Eli,” she gasps.

I freeze.

For one horrible second, I think she’s been imagining him this whole time—that I was just a stand-in, a warm body, a means to an end. But then I follow her gaze to the doorway, and my stomach drops.

He’s standing there.

Eli. In the doorway of her bedroom. His face carved from stone, utterly unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes are burning. I can’t tell if it’s anger or hurt or something else entirely, but whatever it is, it’s aimed at both of us.

How long?

The thought is the only thing my brain can produce.

How long has he been standing there?

Long enough to see her come apart on my hand? Long enough to hear her say my name? Long enough that he could have made his presence known at any point in the last two minutes?

Sage isn’t breathing.

“I was worried.” His voice is flat. Controlled. “You missed check-in and you weren’t outside. The door was open. I thought—” He stops. Swallows. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You don’t have to leave,” I blurt, because my default setting around Eli is managing him. Smoothing edges. Making the room safe.

It’s reflex. Stupid fucking reflex.

Eli’s jaw ticks.