Page 119 of Bitter When He Begs

I elbow him, but it’s all muscle and warmth behind me, a steady presence that wraps around everything good about this moment. And I let myself enjoy it. Let myself bask in it.

Because right now I’ve got a best friend who’s finally stopped threatening to maim my boyfriend, and a boyfriend who sneaks up behind me just to kiss my neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I don’t feel like I’m holding my breath waiting for the other shoe to drop.

For once, I just feel lucky.

Sage

Luca’sbreathingisstilluneven under me. Not in a ragged, out-of-breath way, but in that post-everything softness that happens when you’re too wrecked to care about anything except the body next to yours.

His chest rises slow and deep against mine, and the only thing between us is heat, sweat, and the boxer briefs we never managed to get rid of after we tangled ourselves up in each other an hour ago.

My cheek rests just under his collarbone, one arm flung across his ribs, my leg slotted between his. His skin is warm and smooth, and smells like body wash and whatever cologne he always forgets he wears too much of.

I should move. I should let him breathe properly, give him space to stretch out, maybe go and get water or do something productive with my night. But I don’t.

I just lie there, pressed against him, clutching him like the second I let go he’s going to disappear into those four days away like he never existed.

I hate it.

I hate that, tomorrow morning, his alarm will go off before the sun rises and he’ll roll out of bed to grab his duffel, throw on a hoodie, and leave for his away game.

I hate that he’ll be three cities over for half a week.

I hate that, after four months, I’ve gotten used to falling asleep with his hand on my back and his leg tossed over mine, and now I’m going to have to learn how to sleep like a regular fucking person again.

“You can sleep here while I’m gone,” he murmurs suddenly, his voice low and scratchy against my forehead.

I look up at him. His eyes are still closed, and he doesn’t open them, but his mouth tugs slightly at the corners. “If you want,” he adds like it’s not already obvious how much he wants it.

I exhale, letting my fingers drag slowly across the plane of his stomach. “I might take you up on that,” I admit. “Your bed smells better than mine.”

His lips twitch into a lazy smile. “That’s because I don’t keep peppermint wrappers in my nightstand.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s not like I keep them for decoration.”

“You don’t throw them away, though,” he says, his voice a little lighter now. “It’s weird. You’re a weird little gremlin.”

“You love it.”

He hums. “Yeah. I do.”

It gets quiet again after that. Comfortable, but also… not. I feel it in the way his hand flattens against my back instead of tracing the curve of my spine and the way his breath changes.

I lift my head just slightly, and his eyes are open now, staring at the ceiling like it has something to say that he hasn’t figured out yet.

Luca always has something to say, whether it’s teasing, smug, or just plain obnoxious. He talks constantly—about football, about practice, about what he’s gonna eat next, about me.

But right now?

Right now, he’s quiet, and it makes my stomach twist.

I let the silence stretch for another few seconds before finally nudging him lightly with my foot. “You good?”

He blinks, almost like he forgot I was here, and then he exhales slowly. “Yeah,” he says.

I don’t believe him for a second. “You’re lying, Devereaux.”