Page 170 of What We Bury

I freeze for a split second, my grin faltering as the question sinks in—dark and delicious, pulling us right back to the edge of what got us here. Her voice is breathy, not accusatory, but there’s an uncomfortable spark in her eyes, like she’s testing the line between betrayal and something filthier. My cock twitches at the thought, even spent, because fuck, the idea of her performing for me—for us—on her terms? It’s the hottest redemption arc I can imagine.

“Serious as a hanging, kitten,” I murmur, leaning in to nip at her earlobe, my voice dropping low and rough. “But only if you ask for it. Only if you flip the switch yourself and give me that show—let me watch you touch yourself, knowing I’m fisting my cock on the other end, obsessing over every moan. Hell, invite the others to tune in. Make it a group screening. But it’s your call. Your control.”

I look right at her, because this part can’t be dirty talk. “No more secret cameras. No more watching without asking. I learned my lesson.”

Only then do I let my mouth tilt. “If you ever want a camera on you, kitten, you turn it on. And I’ll worship whatever you choose to show me.”

Her breath hitches, cheeks flushing deeper, and she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she presses closer, her hand sliding down my chest like she’s already imagining it. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”

I kiss her again, slower this time—like I’m rewinding the last five minutes to taste every second properly. Her hands roam under my shirt, flattening against my ribs, tracing the lines of me in a way that makes my skin tingle. For the first time in my life, I want to stand still, let someone else do all the moving. I want to be studied and cataloged and archived in the part of her brain that keeps the things that matter.

I pull away at last, just enough to see her face. She looks high and happy and a little victorious. I want to look into this face forever.

“You should get back inside,” I say softly. “Your customers are gonna think you got kidnapped.”

She looks at my face and wipes the corner of my mouth with her thumb. “Okay.” She gives me another quick kiss, then turns toward the open back door, pausing just before she enters. “Hey, Milo?”

I lift my brow, waiting for whatever she wants to say.

“Put a camera on the ceiling. I want you to be able to see everything.”

FORTY-SEVEN

MICAH

Milo’s got a drill in one hand and the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth, and he’s boring a neat little hole in Sage’s bedroom ceiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“We might need to shift her bed to the left,” he says, squinting up at it. “I want the whole thing in frame. Symmetry matters, Micah. We’re not animals.”

“We’re exactly animals.” I’m by the door with my arms crossed, which is as close to this as I’m willing to get. “That’s sort of the entire problem.”

The drill whines. Plaster dust drifts down onto the gray duvet—it’s soft, and it smells like her if you press your face into it, not that I’d admit that to the man currently turning her bedroom into a film set. He’s humming. Actually humming.

“You know what’s funny,” I say, in a voice that makes it clear nothing is.

“Lots of things. I’m a delight.”

“Earlier today, you were on your knees, repenting for putting cameras in our girlfriend’s home.”

“I also got her a beautiful floral wreath that some fucker stole off the street while we were in the alley performing the ritual of exhibitionist make-up sex.” Milo snorts. “Which, for the record, was beautiful and healing. Very vulnerable of me.”

I watch him fish a tiny black lens from his pocket and thread the wire up through the hole.

“None of that explains why I’m standing in her bedroom watching you mount yetanothercamera over her bed.”

He stops and looks down at me. For once the grin loses a few watts.

“I know,” he says. “I know, okay? I screwed up the first time. You were all very clear about it.” He twists the lens into its housing.

“And the one thing—the only thing—any of us gave you credit for was that you hadn’t put one in the bathroom or the bedroom.”

“Correct.”

“Then what the fuck, Milo? You asked me to come and help you set up a surprise for Sage. This feels like another violation.”

He climbs down, dusts his hands on his jeans, and looks at me with something almost solemn underneath all the Milo of him. “This is different, Micah.”

“Then tell me how. Convince me, because right now I’m two seconds from putting that drill somewhere the sun doesn’t reach.”