Page 260 of What We Bury

“It’s perfect.” His arms wrap around me, pulling me flush against him, and I feel the tension in his body—the rigid control he carries everywhere, all the time—start to loosen. His chin rests on the top of my head. His thumbs trace slow arcs across my stomach under the water.

We stay like that for a long time. Long enough for the water to cool a degree and the steam to thin. Long enough for my breathing to sync with his, rise and fall, rise and fall, a rhythm so steady it feels like it could hold me together even if everything else fell apart.

I turn in his arms.

The movement brings us face to face, my knees straddling his hips, the water sloshing against the sides of the tub. His handssettle on my waist—automatic, instinctive—and he searches my face with a question he’s too careful to ask out loud.

I answer it by kissing him.

It’s slow. So slow. A press of lips that builds by fractions, his mouth soft at first—testing, letting me lead—and then opening when I lick along his lower lip. He tastes like beer and warmth and the low groan he makes when I sink my fingers into his hair reverberates through both of us, and the sound, holy hell, the sound of this man coming undone at a pace that’s torturously gentle does things to me.

“Sage.” His hands tighten on my waist. Not stopping. Holding.

“I need you,” I whisper against his mouth. “Please.”

His forehead drops to mine. His eyes close. And when they open again, the way he looks at me is so freaking soft it makes my heart bleed.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

He lifts me, water streaming off both of us, and carries me out of the tub. Bracing me against the bathroom counter, he grabs a towel with one hand and wraps it around my shoulders, then folds me into him so tightly all the fear in my body drains out through my toes.

His skin is hot, chest to my chest, my knees locked around his hips and my arms up around his neck. He just holds me there, not rushing anything, not pushing.

Every part of our bodies is pressed together so I can feel how hard he’s holding back. The mirror behind us fogs up, turns us to blurs—just color and shape and motion. That makes it easier to let him touch me. To let myself want him back.

He doesn’t lift me or lay me out like an object. I move because I want it—because it’s the only way to feel grounded now.

My thighs lock tighter around his hips and his hands cradle my face, his thumbs moving over my cheekbones until I shudder.

He kisses me, all tongue and patience, and my head falls back, arching instinctively to meet his mouth when he drags it down my throat, biting and sucking with enough pressure to leave reminders.

His hands travel my body. The towel drops to the floor. My skin is still damp, my hair dripping down my back, and he sinks his teeth gently into my shoulder, as if he can’t help wanting to consume even more.

I ride the insistent current in my body, the way it wants him, the way it answers every question he asks with his hands. The hard length of his cock presses against my belly, and I feel it pulse, twitch with every shallow breath he takes. He’s not the only one holding back—I bury my nose in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent, clean and damp and so damn perfect.

He breaks away, just enough to whisper, “Tell me what you want, wildcat.”

I squeeze his waist with my thighs. The towel is somewhere over my shoulders, but I don’t care. I’m shivering for all the right reasons. I want to say everything,everything, but all that comes out is, “I want you inside me. Slow. Please, Holden.”

He shudders, and it’s a real effort for him, keeping it together. I see it in every restraint, every measured movement—he wants to take me apart, but tonight, he loves me enough to let me come together first.

He tilts my chin up, searching my eyes. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” My answer is instant.

Holden holds me steady, one hand cradling my ass as he bends his knees, bringing our bodies level. The blunt head of his cock nudges me, and I reach between us, guiding him home, wet heat meeting him and opening for him because I’m ready andI’m not afraid. He presses in. Slow. Steady. Each inch burns in the best way, stretching out the ache, making it into something I can love.

When he’s buried to the hilt, he stops, forehead to mine. “Jesus, Sage.”

“I know,” I breathe. Because I do. I feel it too. The enormity of this, the way it’s different from every other time. Like a conversation stripped down to the words that actually matter.

He moves. Slow, like he promised. One hand braced on the counter behind me, the other wrapped around my lower back, holding me flush against him. Every thrust is measured—deep enough to make me gasp, controlled enough that I feel every inch of him, the drag and push, the way my body opens for him like it was always supposed to.

My arms tighten around his neck. My forehead presses to his. We’re breathing the same air, sharing the same steam, and I close my eyes and just focus on sensation.

“Don’t disappear, wildcat,” he murmurs. “Stay with me.”

I do. I keep my eyes on his while he moves inside me, and it’s the most exposed I’ve ever been—more than the group, more than being watched, more than any act of kink or performance. This is just us. Two people, skin to skin, looking at each other with nothing left to hide behind.