Page 128 of What We Bury

“Oh, fuck,” I breathe, heat taking over me.

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Milo.”

“Want me to stop?”

“No!”

“Want me to keep telling you what an excellent decision you’re making?”

“Yes!”

“You’re making an excellent decision.”

I bite his shoulder through his T-shirt. He laughs again. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.

He shifts under me—angles his thigh up between mine—and the friction changes and gets better, building, low and tight and rising.

I moan.

“That’s it, kitten,” he murmurs into my throat. “Use me. Take what you want. I’m here to be used.”

“Milo, oh my god?—”

“I know. I know. That’s it.”

His hand finds my hair and gathers it at the back of my neck. He tugs gently, tipping my head back, his mouth at my throat. I’m grinding down on his thigh and he’s pressing up to meet me and the laughter is gone now from his voice, replaced by something warmer and more focused, his breath ragged along with mine.

“You’re going to come on me,” he growls. “On my leg. Just from this.”

“Yes.”

“Sage. Look at me.”

I look at him.

His eyes are dark. The grin is gone. His hand is in my hair and the other is at the small of my back holding me against him and his face is open in a way I have never seen it. The chaos clerk, the patter machine, the man who would not stop talking through dinner—quiet now. Watching me. Looking at me.

“Come for me.”

I do.

I come grinding on his thigh with my mouth on his and his hand fisted in my hair and his voice in my ear saying, “That’s it, that’s it, that’s my girl, beautiful, fuck, that’s it,” and it tears through me bright and easy.

I collapse against him.

He holds me. His hand at my back slows to lazy circles. His other hand has migrated to my hair, stroking, slow.

“Milo.”

“Mm.”

“You didn’t?—”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not, I can feel you?—”