43. Sage
FORTY-THREE
SAGE
We’re standing too close. Holden’s hand still wrapped around my wrist, his thumb pressed against my pulse point, and I know he can feel how fast my heart is hammering.
“Holden—”
“Wildcat.” His free hand comes up to my jaw, tilting my face toward his. His thumb traces my lower lip, and I taste the faint copper of my own blood on his skin. “Tell me to stop and I will. Right now. No questions, no pressure, no—”
This isn’t forgiveness for Milo. It isn’t me trying to outrun what just happened. And it isn’t Holden taking anything from me.
It’s my blood, my anger, my want.
I grab the front of his shirt and pull him down to me.
The kiss is a collision. His mouth hot and demanding, his hand fisting in my hair, his body pushing me back against the counter until the edge digs into my spine and I don’t care, I don’t care about anything except the taste of him and the way his free hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise.
He kisses like it’s a fight, aggressive, strategic, reading every response and adjusting in real time.
When I gasp, he swallows it. When I bite his lip, he groans against my mouth and presses harder.
When my hands slide under his shirt and rake up his back, he breaks the kiss just long enough to pull it over his head and throw it somewhere behind him.
I stare. Because Holden without a shirt is a problem.
Broad shoulders, defined chest, a tattoo that winds from his ribs around to his back.
Something dark and intricate that I want to map with my fingers.
A body built for exactly this, for pressing a woman against a counter and making her forget every rational thought she’s ever had.
“See something you like?” he asks, grinning like a wolf showing its teeth.
“Quit being cocky and kiss me.”
He lifts me onto the counter in one motion. My legs wrap around his waist and he steps between them, his hands sliding up my thighs, pushing my shirt higher. The cold countertop against my bare skin, his hot mouth on my neck, the contrast making me shiver and arch into him at the same time.
“Been thinking about this,” he murmurs against my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point.
“Since I had you against that wall on day one. The way you looked at me. Those eyes.” He bites down, just hard enough to make me yelp, then soothes it with his tongue.
“You didn’t flinch. Everyone flinches. But not you. ”
“Maybe I liked it.”
“You definitely liked it.” His hands find the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head.
I’m not wearing a bra—I’ve been home all morning—and his eyes rake over me with an appreciation that borders on obscene.
“Fuck, wildcat. You’re—” He stops himself.
Shakes his head. “I had something smooth to say and I completely forgot it.”
“Good. I don’t want smooth.”
“You want rough?”
“Fuck yes.”
Holden laughs—a low, dangerous sound that vibrates against my bare skin—and his mouth is on me.
His hands are everywhere. My waist, my ribs, one palm cupping my breast and rolling my nipple between his thumb and finger like he’s testing the limits of my pain tolerance.
I moan, and he drags his mouth back to mine and bites my lower lip, sucking the spot from Sunday until it splits again.
I cry out as I taste blood. I want to match him. I want to hurt him back, so I dig my nails into his back and drag them down hard enough to leave red stripes. He shifts, hips grinding into me, and the heat between my legs is molten, insistent, so urgent it makes me desperate.
He has my leggings off before I even realize he’s doing it, kissing down my stomach as he slides them over my hips, mouth leaving a wet trail lower, lower, and—fuck. He drops to his knees. His teeth on my skin, fingers digging into my thighs.
His breath is hot against my core, teasing, but he doesn’t dive in right away.
No, Holden drags it out—lips brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, teeth grazing and nipping just enough to sting, his hands pinning my legs open like he owns this moment, owns me.
I arch my hips toward him, needy, shameless, and he chuckles low in his throat, the vibration skating over my nerves.
“Patience, wildcat,” he murmurs, voice muffled against my skin. “I’ve got you.”
Then his mouth is on me, tongue flat and insistent, licking a slow stripe up my center that makes my toes curl and my hands fist in his hair.
Fuck—it’s overwhelming, the way he devours me like he’s starving.
He sucks at my clit, circles it with the tip of his tongue, and when I buck against him, he growls and holds me harder, fingers bruising my thighs in the best way.
I can’t think. Can’t breathe properly. It’s all sensation—wet heat, building pressure, the scrape of his stubble against my most sensitive skin.
The blood from my lip is probably still on his tongue, mixing with me, and the thought is filthy, twisted, and it sends a fresh wave of heat pooling low in my belly.
Who knew I’d get off on something so dark?
But here I am, grinding against his face, chasing the edge he’s pushing me toward.
“Holden—god, don’t stop—”
He doesn’t. If anything, he amps it up, sliding two fingers inside me, curling them just right while his mouth works me over.
The rhythm is punishing, relentless, and I’m climbing, climbing, my whole body tightening like a spring.
I glance down and catch his eyes on mine—dark, intense, watching me unravel—and that’s what tips me over.
The orgasm tears through me, my thighs clamping around his head as I cry out, loud and broken. He doesn’t let up, rides it out with me, licking and thrusting until I’m shaking, oversensitive, begging for mercy.
He finally pulls back, lips glistening, a smug grin on his face as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Tastes like trouble,” he says, voice rough. “My favorite.”
I grab his shoulders and haul him up, kissing him hard, tasting myself on his tongue. It’s messy, desperate, and I fumble for his belt, yanking it open while he shoves his jeans down. He’s hard, straining against his boxers, and when I wrap my hand around him, he hisses, thrusting into my grip.
“Do we need a condom?” I ask, breathless.
He goes still for one sharp second, then gives me the answer like it’s evidence. “Clear. Tested after the last time. No one since. You?”
“Birth control. Tested too.”
“Good.” He pauses, searching my face. “You sure?”
“Fuck me now, Holden,” I gasp, yanking him closer by the waistband of his boxers before shoving them down myself.
He doesn’t hesitate. Grabs my hips and pulls me to the edge of the counter, lining himself up in one fluid motion.
His eyes lock on mine—dark, hungry, a question in them even as his body screams yes.
I nod, dig my heels into the small of his back, and he thrusts into me hard, filling me completely in a single stroke that punches the air from my lungs.
“Fuck—Sage—” His voice breaks, rough and reverent, like he’s cursing and praying at the same time.
It’s overwhelming. The stretch, the heat, the way he fits like he was made for this—for me.
I arch into him, nails scraping down his arms, leaving red trails that make him growl low in his throat.
He doesn’t go slow. Doesn’t ease in like Micah did.
Holden’s pace is brutal, punishing, each snap of his hips driving deeper, harder, until the counter digs into my ass and I don’t give a damn because it feels so fucking good.
I wrap my legs tighter around him, meeting every thrust, our bodies slamming together in a rhythm that’s as much war as it is want.
His hands are everywhere—gripping my thighs, palming my breasts, one sliding up to my throat, fingers curling just enough to make my pulse thunder under his touch.
Not choking. Controlling. And god, I love it.
Love the edge of danger, the way he walks the line without crossing it, reading my gasps like a map.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he mutters against my ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “So wet for me. Been waiting for this—imagining your tight little cunt since I saw you put the knife in.”
His words hit like sparks, igniting something feral in me.
I bite his shoulder, and he hisses, hips stuttering before he redoubles, pounding into me with a force that rattles the dishes in the sink.
The cut on my finger throbs, a sharp reminder mixed with the building pressure in my core, and I taste blood again when I kiss him—mine, his, ours.
“Harder,” I demand, voice wrecked, because I need more. Need him to break me open, to chase away the anger from earlier, the betrayal, the everything.
He obliges. Lifts me off the counter like I weigh nothing, spins us around, and pins me against the fridge.
Magnets scatter, clattering to the floor, but I barely hear them over the sound of our breathing, the wet slap of skin on skin.
The new angle is deeper, hitting that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
I cling to him, legs locked around his waist, hands in his hair, pulling until he groans.
“Wildcat,” he murmurs, thrusting harder, his grip on my throat tightening just a fraction—enough to make my vision spark. My pulse kicks hard under his palm, and instead of the jetty, instead of rope, all I feel is him watching my face for the answer.
I bare my throat into his hand.
“Yes.” I gasp, the pressure building again, coiling tight in my belly, and I pull at his hair, yanking his head back so I’m hurting him too.
“Fuck—yes, like that,” he growls, his rhythm faltering for a split second before he slams into me again, the fridge rocking behind us with every brutal drive.
I laugh, wild and breathless, because this is insane, this is us, crashing together like a storm that doesn’t give a damn about the wreckage.
His hand leaves my throat, slides down to where we’re joined, thumb finding my clit and rubbing circles that match his thrusts—rough, insistent, no mercy.
I’m close, so fucking close, my body clenching around him, pulling him deeper, and he feels it, I know he does, because he leans in, mouth against my ear, voice a ragged whisper.
“Come for me, Sage. Let me feel you break around me.”
He pinches my clit. Hard. And that’s all it takes.
The orgasm crashes over me, pulling me under, my nails digging into his shoulders as I scream—raw, unfiltered, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls.
He follows right after, thrusting deep one last time with a guttural curse, his body shuddering against mine as he empties inside me, hot and pulsing.
We stay like that for a moment—panting, pressed together, his forehead resting against the fridge door behind me.
My legs are jelly, still wrapped around him, and I can feel the ache starting to bloom in my thighs, my core, the spots where his fingers dug in.
Good aches. The kind that remind you you’re alive.
“Jesus,” he mutters finally, pulling back just enough to look at me. His hair’s a mess from my hands, lips swollen, a bite mark blooming on his shoulder where I got him good. He looks wrecked. Satisfied.
I push his hair off his forehead. “You okay?”
He laughs. It’s not the smooth, practiced laugh he uses in public. It’s rough and startled and real. “I’m supposed to ask you that.”
“I asked first.”
He studies my face for a long moment. Then he presses his lips to my forehead. Soft, careful, the most gentle thing he’s done since he walked through my door.
“Yeah, wildcat,” he says quietly. “I’m okay.”
“I’m okay too. Great, actually.”
He grins and helps me down. My legs are shaky enough that he keeps his hands on my waist until I’m steady.
We clean up in companionable silence, him pulling his shirt back on, me finding my leggings, both of us moving around the kitchen like neither of us is interested in pretending the kiss from two days ago didn’t just finish detonating.
He rinses the blood out of the sink. Finds a Band-Aid in the bathroom and puts it on my finger himself, pressing the adhesive down with a care that makes my chest tight.
“For the record,” he says, smoothing the Band-Aid flat, “I came here to remove cameras and be honest with you. This was not the plan.”
“Well, if this was unplanned, I can’t wait to see what happens when you’ve had time to prepare.”
His grin flashes, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I’ll make you a calendar invite. Subject: Extremely Hot Kitchen Sex. Please RSVP by end of business today.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s impossible not to smile. “You are absurd.”
“And you’re dangerous,” he shoots back, gaze dropping pointedly to my mouth, then lower. “If you keep looking at me like that, we’re both going to be late for our next appointments.”
“I don’t have any appointments.” I lick my lips, because I can, and catch the way his eyes darken all over again.
“Neither do I, wildcat,” he says, crowding me against the counter again. “Neither do I.”