Page 169 of Bitter When He Begs

He laughs, breathless. “You already sucked my soul out through my dick—what else is there?”

“You’re gonna feel what it means to be mine.” I climb over him, straddling his hips, kissing a path from his throat down to his chest, biting each nipple until he’s squirming again.

“I’m gonna fuck you slow,” I whisper, licking the underside of his jaw. “Until you’re crying and begging, and calling me King for a whole different reason.”

He whimpers, hips grinding into the mattress.

I push two fingers into him—he’s already prepped, always ready for me now—and I curl them just right. “You stood up to the man who made me afraid of my own name. And now I’m gonna fuck you like you just gave it back to me.”

I line up and sink into him slowly, both of us groaning in sync. It’s both too much and not enough all at once.

He wraps his thighs around me, and I fuck him slow and deep. Every thrust matched with a stroke to his cock. Every kiss to his neck a “thank you.” Every gasp, every sound he makes, I collect them. Hoard them like they’re proof that someone loves me loud enough to burn for it.

He sobs into my neck, shaking beneath me as I take him apart, again and again, saying his name into his mouth like a mantra. When he comes the second time, untouched, I hold him through it while still inside him, still thrusting, still letting him feel what he did for me in the way I know how to give it back.

With my body.

With my mouth.

With everything I am.

Afterward, when he’s half-asleep against me with his head tucked under my chin, I can’t stop running my hand down his back. It’s not even conscious anymore. It’s muscle memory now—soothing, claiming, needing.

Every time he exhales, it brushes against my chest, and every now and then, he murmurs something I can’t quite catch.

The room is quiet except for the hum of the ceiling fan and the sound of our hearts doing their best to slow the hell down. I’ve never felt more wrung out, more full, more… safe.

That’s the word I’ve never known how to use before now. Not because I didn’t understand it, but because I never thought I’d get to feel it. Not like this. Not with someone who sees me instead of just the football captain or the pretty face or the messed-up kid with a record of fucking up anything good. Just me.

Sage shifts a little, and I tilt my head down, pressing my lips to his damp temple. He hums, barely awake, and his lashes flutter but don’t lift.

“You good?” I whisper.

He nods without opening his eyes. “Too good.”

“That’s not a thing,” I say, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

He huffs a tiny laugh and finally looks up at me. His eyes are glassy and half-lidded, pupils still blown wide. “If you keep looking at me like that, we’re not sleeping tonight.”

I grin. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

His fingers twitch against my chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

I nudge his nose with mine. “You love it.”

“I really fucking do.”

The silence that follows is easy. Comfortable. He doesn’t shift away or start building walls again. He just breathes and lets me hold him like we have all the time in the world.

I think about what he said earlier. About how I didn’t have to thank him.

But I do. And I always will.

Because this boy—this stubborn, smart-ass, sarcastic, painfully beautiful boy—saw every part of me and didn’t flinch. He met my demons at the door and told them to fuck off. He told my father the truth I never could, walked straight into that storm with his chin up and his mouth loaded, and didn’t blink once. He wears my shirt like a second skin and tells people I’m his without ever needing to say a word.

“Hey,” I say softly, my fingers tracing the curve of his spine. “Thank you for loving me, Sunshine.”

He doesn’t answer with words, just a sleepy smile, and a breathless sound that could’ve been my name.