Page 94 of Bitter When He Begs

He huffs, but he doesn’t fight me when I pull him up, guiding him toward my bathroom. The second the warm water hits our skin, I realize just how fucking gone I am for this boy.

I don’t let people see me like this—unguarded, soft, vulnerable in a way that isn’t just physical. I don’t share this kind of intimacy, the kind that isn’t about sex, isn’t about some quick, fleeting moment of pleasure.

But here I am, standing under the stream, hands smoothing down Sage’s back, feeling the tension drain from his body as the heat works its way into our skin. He lets out a quiet sigh, tilting his head forward slightly as I trail my fingers up the nape of his neck, washing away the remnants of the day.

I don’t rush it.

Neither of us do.

For once, there’s no urgency, no teasing, no game being played. Just this. Just the feel of his body close to mine, the weight of him leaning against me slightly as I press my lips to his shoulder.

He doesn’t pull away.

And fuck—I don’t want to stop touching him.

I press my forehead against the back of his neck, closing my eyes for a moment as the water beats down around us, our breathing the only other sound filling the space.

This is dangerous; I know it is. This isn’t just fucking around anymore. This is me letting him in, and if I let him in… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let him go.

Sage shifts slightly, rolling his shoulders before tilting his head back to look at me. “You okay?”

I blink, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “Yeah,” I murmur. “You?”

He studies me for a second, eyes flickering over my face like he’s trying to figure something out. Then, finally, he nods. “Yeah.”

I press a quick kiss to his temple before reaching for the shampoo, lathering my hands, and then running them through his hair. He lets out another sigh, his eyes fluttering shut as I massage his scalp, my fingers working slowly, like I’m trying to memorize every inch of him.

And maybe I am.

Because I don’t want to forget this.

I don’t want to forget him.

After we rinse off, I hand him a towel, watching as he dries himself before stepping out of the shower. I follow, wrapping a towel around my waist and shaking my hair out, water droplets splattering against the mirror.

Sage rolls his eyes. “Really?”

I smirk, and he mutters something under his breath about me being a dog before stepping out of the bathroom and heading straight for my dresser like he already knows what he’s looking for. He pulls open the second drawer, digs through the mess of shirts and workout gear, and yanks out a pair of boxers and one of my old Blackthorne football shirts—the dark navy one with the gold print, the one from last year’s finals.

He holds it up like he’s checking the size, then tugs it over his head. When it settles over him, hanging loose and long past his hips, I fucking groan, throwing my head back. “Sage.”

He smirks like he’s already won something. “What?”

“You know what,” I mutter, grabbing a pair of boxers from the drawer beside him. “You can’t just put that on like it doesn’t mean something.”

He shrugs, trying to look casual, but I can see the flush crawling up his neck. “You let me raid your drawer. That’s on you.”

“No,” I say, pulling the shirt down just enough to get a better look at him in it, the hem brushing his bare thighs where his tattoo is playing peekaboo. The collar is too big and falls to one side, revealing the mark I left on his neck. “This is on you. You’re doing this on purpose.”

He rolls his eyes, slips on the boxers, and flops onto the bed, dragging the blankets up like he’s already done for the night and hasn’t just short-circuited every coherent thought in my brain.

I climb in after him and toss my arm over his waist, dragging him close until his back hits my chest and my nose is buried in the crook of his neck. He smells like my soap now. My shirt. My fucking everything.

For a while, we just lie there, his breathing slow and steady, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of the blanket and I know he’s still too deep in his head. I let it sit for a while. Let the silenceget comfortable. Then I press my mouth to his shoulder and murmur against his skin.

“I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t move, but he goes still enough that I know he’s listening. I keep my voice low and honest. “For how I treated you before. For every time I made you feel like you weren’t worth something. I was a dick. I knew it then and I really fucking know it now.”