Page 96 of Bitter When He Begs

“Couldn’t help yourself, huh?” My voice is rough with sleep, but there’s a teasing edge to it.

Sage’s fingers hesitate for a split second before he huffs, rolling his eyes. “I mean… your body is ridiculous.”

That definitely gets a smirk out of me. Because fuck yeah, it is. I work my ass off to stay in peak condition, and hearing him—this little shit—actually admit it?

Yeah.

That does things to me.

Sage must see it, because his eyes narrow slightly, suspicion creeping into his expression. “Oh my god, don’t—”

But it’s too late.

I motherfucking preen. My abs tense under his fingers, letting him feel exactly how hard I work for this body, soaking up the way his face burns at the realization.

Sage groans, flopping onto his back beside me. “I knew you’d be insufferable about this.”

I smirk, turning my head to look at him. “What? You like my body, baby. Nothing wrong with that.”

He glares at the ceiling. “You must hear that all the time.”

I shrug, stretching my arms above my head. “Yeah, I do.”

Sage groans again, rubbing his hands over his face. “Then why are you acting like it’s the first time anyone’s ever said it?”

I roll onto my side, propping my head up with my hand as I look at him. “It’s you saying it.” I pause, letting the words settle before shrugging. He looks at me, brow furrowed, and I shrug one shoulder again, trying not to make a big deal out of it even though it kind of is. “Yeah, I’ve heard shit like that before.‘Oh my god, your abs, how are you real?’ and all that crap. Girls,guys, drunk fans—doesn’t matter. It all blends together. But you? You say it, and it means more.”

He blinks, and I watch it land. I watch the way his expression softens, the way his lips press together like he’s fighting a smile he doesn’t want to give me yet.

“I mean, they are really fucking nice,” he says after a beat, and the smirk he gives me is unfairly smug for someone who still looks like a kicked puppy when I call him pretty.

Sage’s whole face softens. He doesn’t say anything for a beat, just looks at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m being real. When he sees that I am, that I’m not trying to play or flatter my way into anything, he shifts a little closer and presses his mouth to the center of my chest.

“You’re lucky you’re so hot,” he mutters.

“I really am,” I agree, resting a hand on the back of his head and threading my fingers through the mess of his hair. “You’re especially soft in the morning.”

“You bring it out of me,” he says dryly, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips when he pulls back. “We gotta get up though. I need to swing by the frat and change before class.”

“Boo,” I groan, rolling over and dragging him down with me. “Let’s skip. Stay here. We’ll order pancakes, and you can keep admiring my abs.”

“As tempting as that is, I have a film critique due, and you’ve got two labs and an econ quiz today.”

“I really hate how much you know my schedule.”

“You gave me access to your Google Calendar last night, dumbass.”

“Right. Forgot.”

We get up eventually, slow but steady. He gets dressed in the jeans he wore yesterday, but when he can’t find his shirt, he rifles through my closet and grabs one of mine—black cotton, soft, and worn in, with my name and number printed across theback in faded white. It’s not a jersey, not one of the oversized game day shirts, but one I wear to the gym sometimes. It fits him too well.

I stop in the middle of brushing my teeth and just stare when he walks out wearing it, tugging it down over his stomach and looking at himself in the mirror like he’s checking the fit. He doesn’t see me looking at first.

But I see him.

And fuck, I’m done for.

It’s the casual way he wears it. The familiarity of it. My name is sitting across his shoulders like it belongs there. I don’t even know how to describe the feeling that hits me, but it’s somewhere between pride and possession, and a very unhelpful dose of horniness.