Page 27 of Bitter When He Begs

He narrows his green eyes at me, and I can see when worry sets in. “I don’t like this, dude.”

I let out a rough breath, running a hand through my hair. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Nate studies me for a moment longer, and for a second, I think he might actually let it go. Then he exhales, mutters something under his breath, and turns toward the door. But before he leaves, he glances back, his jaw tight. “If he touches you, if he hurts you—”

“He won’t,” I cut him off, lying through my fucking teeth again.

Nate doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t say anything else. And when the door shuts behind him, I let out a long, shaky breath, curling in on myself again, my chest tight, my heart pounding, and my thoughts racing.

Because Nate is too fucking close to the truth. And if he keeps pushing, I don’t know what Luca will do.

Luca

Ishouldbeoverit by now.

One kiss. One grind. One fucking gasp that I dragged out of him with nothing but my hands and my voice and the pressure of my hips between his legs. That’s usually enough. That’s how this shit works. You want something, you take it, you wring it out until you’re done with it—and then you move the fuck on.

But I always seem to get addicted to shit I shouldn’t want, and Sage Blackwell is the worst of my temptations.

I see him across campus and I feel it in my fucking chest. Like some primal warning siren blaring under my skin, telling me I’m not done with him. Telling me I won’t ever be done, even when he throws words like knives and spits insults like venom.

And now he’s here again. In my house. In my fucking space.

He’s standing in the middle of the living room, his open laptop on the coffee table, camera gear scattered across the floor next to Roman, who’s ranting about ISO and focus like Sage’s presence doesn’t throw off the gravity in this place.

I’m leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing a Red Bull I don’t need and watching like I’m not. Pretending I didn’t position myself here on purpose just to get a better view. Like I don’t know his exact schedule this week, or that Roman conveniently “forgot” how to set up his gear again just to get Sage back in the house.

Sage is wearing that black hoodie again, sleeves pulled over his hands like he’s cold even though the house is warm. He’s got a peppermint between his teeth again. Always fucking peppermints. Always chewing or sucking or unwrapping one like it’s some nervous tic he doesn’t even notice.

And I’ve started to notice when he switches from chewing to sucking. He only sucks the mints when he’s trying to keep his mouth shut. When he doesn’t trust himself not to say something. Like now, when Roman leans over to show him something and Sage stiffens, his lips pressed into a tight line.

He bites the mint so hard I hear the crunch from here, and I know that’s the second he senses me watching.

I push off the counter when he walks out, set the Red Bull down without drinking any more of it, and head for the hallway like I’m just passing through. By the time he hits the driveway, I’m right behind him.

He doesn’t hear me until his hand touches his door.

“Sage.”

He flinches just enough for me to see it. Then he exhales and turns, jaw already set, expression already defensive. “I’m not doing this with you right now.”

I nod like I hear him. Like I’m going to step back. But my body doesn’t listen. It never fucking does when it comes to him. One step. Then another. Then I’ve got him backed against the driver’s side door of his car, and I stop just shy of touching him.

Close enough to count his heartbeats.

Close enough to ruin us both.

He doesn’t move, he never does. That’s the part that messes with me. If he hated this—if he really wanted me gone—he’d walk. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, spine straight, eyes hard, wrapped in that fake calm he always wears when he’s pissed and pretending he’s not.

His sleeves are tugged halfway down his hands again, and his knuckles are white from the way he grips the edge of his hoodie like it’s armor.

“You always do that,” I say, nodding toward his hands. “Hide your fingers when you’re nervous.”

He blinks, caught off guard, and pulls his sleeves tighter like he just realized. “I don’t—”

“You do,” I cut in. “Every time you’re overwhelmed. Every time you don’t want me to see you fidget.”

His breath stutters and I see it the moment the words land. His eyes widen just a fraction, but it’s enough.