Page 178 of What We Bury

Not the complicated happiness of sex, or the fragile happiness of a stolen morning with Micah, or the fierce happiness of Milo’s obsessiveness and Holden’s claiming. Just . . . easy. Three people who like each other, eating dinner, being stupid.

After dinner, we migrate to the couch. The movie is Milo’s pick, some horror film he swears is “a masterpiece of modern cinema.” Holden calls it “unwatchable garbage.”

I end up in the middle, because of course I do. Milo on my left, his arm slung across the back of the couch behind my shoulders. Holden on my right, his thigh pressed against mine, solid and warm.

The movie is terrible. Truly, magnificently terrible.

“This is art,” Milo insists.

“This is a war crime,” Holden replies.

“You have no taste.”

“I have excellent taste. Which is why I’m not enjoying this.”

I’m barely watching the screen. I’m too aware of the heat on either side of me: Milo’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder, Holden’s hand resting on my knee, his thumb doing that slow circle thing that makes my brain short-circuit.

The energy has been building all evening, a slow tide we’re all pretending not to notice.

Milo’s fingers drift from my shoulder to my neck. Holden’s hand slides an inch higher on my thigh.

I stop breathing.

“You know,” Milo says casually, eyes still on the screen, “this is the part where the girl usually makes a terrible decision.”

“Is that right,” I manage.

“Mm-hm. She goes into the basement alone. Opens the creaky door. Walks toward the noise.” His fingers brush the sensitive skin behind my ear. “Very unwise. Very entertaining.”

“And what should she do instead?” My voice is steadier than I feel.

“Personally?” Milo turns his head and looks at me. His eyes are dark and bright and completely, devastatingly serious beneath the grin. “I think she should stay exactly where she is. Between the two people who’d never let anything bad happen to her.” His gaze flicks past me to Holden, just for a second. Something passes between them. An agreement. A green light.

Holden’s hand tightens on my thigh. “What do you want, wildcat?”

I look at Milo. Then at Holden. Then back at Milo.

“Both of you,” I say. “I want both of you.”

Milo’s grin could power a city. Holden’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes—God, his eyes go dark in a way that makes my whole body clench.

“Good answer, kitten,” Milo murmurs.

Then he kisses me.

FORTY-NINE

SAGE

The movie continues playing, but all I can see is Milo’s eyes as he tilts my chin up and kisses me, slow and deep. I sink into it, one hand fisting in his shirt while Holden’s fingers slide higher up the inside of my thigh.

“That’s it,” Milo murmurs against my lips. “Just feel it.”

I do. Milo’s tongue slides against mine, Holden’s hand inches toward the seam of my panties, and heat gathers low in my belly, too much and not enough all at once.

Holden’s mouth moves along my jaw. Hot. Deliberate. He kisses a path to my collarbone, and I gasp into Milo’s mouth, my hips shifting restlessly. “I can already smell how much you want us, wildcat.”

The crudeness of it should make me flinch. Instead my hips lift toward his hand, a small, shameless answer before my mouth can catch up.