34. Sage
THIRTY-FOUR
SAGE
Milo washes the dishes, humming something that sounds like a horrible rendition of “Paparazzi” by Lady Gaga, while I’m on the couch with the Netflix menu open and I’ve finally found what I’m looking for.
I press play and tuck my feet under me and try not to grin.
The Bridgerton title card swells.
Milo’s humming stops.
There’s a beat of perfect silence from the kitchen. “Sage?”
I hide a smile. “Yes?”
“Sage Adams?”
“Yes, Milo—I don’t know your surname.”
“It’s Hart.”
I grin. “Seriously?”
“Milo Hart. Yes. I’m adorable. I know. Now, are you putting on softcore Regency porn for us to watch together?”
I hide a giggle. “It’s a critically acclaimed Netflix series and the soundtrack is outstanding.”
“It’s a critically acclaimed Netflix softcore Regency porn series and you know it.”
I shrug. “I have no idea what you mean.”
He tosses the dish towel and crosses the living room in three loose strides to drop onto the far end of the couch. With a groan, he props his feet on the coffee table.
“Cool,” he says. “Cool cool cool. We’re doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Not making eye contact. Both pretending we’re here for the costumes.”
“The costumes are very good,” I point out.
“Sure. The costumes are spectacular. I love an empire waist. And let’s not forget those sideburns, they deserve their own award.”
I bite my lip to keep from grinning. On screen, two people in elaborate clothing are exchanging meaningful looks across a ballroom. I’ve seen this episode. I know what’s coming and I know roughly when.
Milo knows too. He has gone very, very still on the far end of the couch.
“What’s this one about?” he asks.
“A Duke and a Lady. They’re dancing.”
“And?”
“They have a complicated relationship.”
“Mmhmm.” His gaze is locked on the screen.
“Lots of tension,” I add.
“I can tell from the close up of the kissing.”
“Tasteful tension, though.”
He doesn’t answer. We watch for a while in silence—long enough for me to notice he’s gone unusually quiet. His arm rests along the back of the couch. His fingers stay still. Every so often the music swells and he takes a slow, deliberate sip of his wine like he needs something to do.
I watch him not look at me.
He’s good at it. He’s very good at it. He hasn’t turned his head in five minutes. Whatever’s left of dinner—the confession, the support hands, the all of you I can’t take back—is sitting between us like a third person on the couch, and we’re both pretending not to see it.
Onscreen, the Duke and the new Duchess find their way to bed.
Milo’s jaw works. Just once.
I bite the inside of my cheek but it’s no use.
“Sage?”
“Mm?” I ask, my shoulders shaking with laughter.
He turns toward me slowly, his gaze narrowed with suspicion. “You picked the smutty episode on purpose, didn’t you?”
“I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
He huffs, grabs the cushion from between us and stuffs it on his lap. I laugh outright now, because he looks personally victimized by my television choices.
“You are so dramatic.”
“I’m appropriately dramatic.” He glares at the screen. “I know for a fact those two are about to get down and dirty in the—”
Onscreen, breathy moaning starts.
Milo turns to me slowly. “Murder kitten.”
“What?” I ask, the picture of innocence as the characters onscreen begin to get naked.
“You’re a menace.”
“Maybe you should put the cushion down and show me what a menace I am.”
The music from the TV keeps playing—strings and breathy moans and scandal—but the room itself goes still. Milo goes still. The hand he’d been using to pin the cushion to his lap flexes once.
His light-brown eyes cut to mine.
“You really want to play this game?” he asks softly.
I swallow. My pulse kicks, hard and stupid. “Maybe.”
He studies me like he’s trying to decide whether I’m teasing him or handing him a loaded weapon. Fair question. I’m not totally sure myself.
The scene on the TV grows more obscene by the second. Skin. Silk. Gasps.
His eyes cut to it.
“Watch the show, kitten.”
I smile sweetly and turn back to the screen.
For about ten seconds, I behave.
Then I sneak a look at him. He’s facing forward but his eyes aren’t tracking the action.
His hand is white knuckled around his wineglass, his shoulders are too still, and there’s a muscle ticking in his jaw that has nothing to do with Bridgerton.
The cushion is still clamped to his lap like a hostage.
I could leave him alone. I could let him sit there in his very studious refusal to look at me, finish the episode, and in the morning we’d both pretend we hadn’t spent the whole night on this couch waiting for the other one to break.
Or I could see what happens if I push.
I stretch a leg out, letting my foot trail across the floor. Slowly, I let it land, very softly, on top of his.
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t acknowledge his foot. He just stares at the screen like there’s going to be a quiz.
I drag my foot up and press my toes against his shin.
Nothing.
I run them up half an inch.
Nothing.
But his fingers tighten on his wineglass. Just slightly. So slightly that if I weren’t watching for it, I’d miss it.
I’m watching for it.
“Milo?”
“What?”
“You’re not going to comment on this?” I wiggle my toes against him.
“On what?”
“On my foot.”
“What about your foot?”
“It’s on you.”
“Is it?” He sets his glass down, but he doesn’t look over. “Huh. Strange. I’m sure it’ll work itself out.”
I bite my lip. Hard. I press my foot up another inch.
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
“You know,” I say, conversational, “for a man who has talked nonstop since the moment he met me, you’ve gone awfully quiet.”
“I’m watching the freaking show.”
“You already know what’s happening in the show.”
“Yes. They’re having sex. This is a sex montage.” He adjusts the cushion on his lap.
“Milo.”
“What?”
“Look at me.”
“Nope.”
I almost laugh out loud. I push my foot another inch up his shin. He swallows hard enough that I see his throat work. The cushion in his lap shifts a fraction—his hands now on either side of it, holding on like a man in a lifeboat.
“Why won’t you look at me?” I ask, soft now. Curious.
“Because if I look at you, kitten, I’m going to do something.” His voice has dropped an octave. He’s still staring at the TV. “And I don’t want to be the guy who takes from you. I’d like to make sure it’s something you actually want.”
Oh.
Heat rolls down my spine in a slow wave.
“What if I do want?” I ask.
“Then you tell me. With words. Like a grown-up.”
“Pushy.”
“Careful,” he murmurs.
I press my foot all the way up to his knee, wiggle my toes beneath the edge of the cushion.
He makes a small sound. Like the air got punched out of him a little.
“Sage—”
“Mm?”
“Is this your version of trying something?”
“Maybe.”
He turns his head slowly, like he’s giving himself one last chance to be a gentleman before he stops trying. His eyes find mine.
They’re dark.
“Okay,” he says. “Cool. Cool cool cool. Just wanted to confirm the situation. But you’ve gotta be the boss of this. Now what?”
“Now you come over here.”
“No. You come over here.” His hand drops the cushion and wraps around my foot. “I’m not the one with a leg full of opinions.”
“I thought you said I could be the boss. This feels like a power struggle.”
“It is.” His thumb strokes once along the arch of my foot. Then he lets go. “Come here.”
I uncurl from my end of the couch and crawl across.
Eighteen inches. On hands and knees. The TV is still going and I don’t care. I climb into his lap and straddle his thighs, putting my hands flat on his chest. Milo’s eyes go wide for one second. His hands find my hips and he holds on as if for dear life.
“I like this show way better, kitten,” he says, his voice rough.
“Me too.”
He sighs as I move a little on his lap, pressing against his now prominent erection.
“Sage . . . this is escalating.”
Some Pokémon pun is probably forming in his head right now, so I cut him off before it can land, “Yes.”
I grind down on him.
He groans. “Okay. I am one hundred percent fine with this. I just want to be on record.”
“Great, glad I have your consent.” I lean in and kiss him.