Page 65 of What We Bury

“Touch me.”

There’s zero hesitation in her voice. I look at Eli. He’s locked onto Sage’s face with the kind of focus you’d give a thing you knew you only had a moment to memorize before it was taken from you.

I settle my hand between her legs again.

She gasps—sharp, oversensitive—and her hips jerk up off the bed, and one of her hands fists in my hoodie while the other drifts. Reaches across the empty space toward the foot of the bed. Toward him.

Her fingers don’t reach him. The bed is too wide. But the hand stays there, stretched out, extended.

“Slower,” Eli says. “I want to see your fingers coated with her.”

I slow.

She’s so fucking slick it’s hard to keep the pressure light. I push in slow, let her clamp around me, watch the way her breath stutters. I drag my fingers out, just a little, then slide in again, coating myself with her and circling her clit until she’s shaking.

I hold my hand up so Eli can see how wet she is, glistening in the thin morning light, and he makes a sound—almost a growl, almost a plea—that I’ve never heard from him before. It’s the sound of holding back a scream.

“Let her suck your fingers,” he says.

I do. My body’s almost on autopilot now. I lift my hand and Sage opens for me, tongue flicking out to taste herself, lips wrapping around two fingers at once. Fuck. I watch her eyes as she does it, the hunger there, the delighted, gone look of someone who stopped caring about shame a long time ago.

Her tongue is hot and greedy, swirling around them, and I’m pretty sure she’s fucking with me when she bites down—just enough to make me gasp and twitch. And when I look up, Eli’s jaw is clenched so tight I worry he might break something.

Sage pulls my hand away, leaves a thread of spit and slick between us—then sucks in a breath and glances down the bed. “Eli,” she says, voice wobbling.

EIGHTEEN

MICAH

He moves before she finishes. Drops to his knees at the edge of her mattress like some kind of worshipper. He doesn’t say anything. Just looks—at her, at me, at the outline of my body where I’m hard and straining through the sweats I slept in.

That’s when I understand.

He’s not angry. Not jealous. Not even a little.

He’s desperate.

Hungry in a way that makes my own need feel like a pebble in the ocean.

“Eli,” she breathes. “Please.”

Sage reaches for him again, hand in the air, urging him to close the distance.Closer.

He doesn’t move.

But he speaks.

“Make her come, Micah.”

I ease my hand between her legs again, crooking my fingers as I press my palm against her. Her body bows and she tries to stifle the next wild cry with a fist against her mouth, but I don’tlet her. I slide my free hand up and pull her knuckles down, splay her wrist gently so her face is bare and open to me—to Eli, to all of us. I want to see every filthy, honest moment.

“Let him watch you,” I whisper. “Let him see how beautiful you are like this.”

“Eli—Eli, please?—”

She sobs, a wrecked, grateful noise, and Eli makes a sound so soft I almost miss it under the thunder of my own pulse.

“I’m here,” he says, voice barely audible.