37. Sage #2
He’s patient. Takes his time, learning me with his tongue, finding every spot that makes me shake, every rhythm that makes me grip the sheets. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t perform. Just gives and gives and gives, his hands holding my thighs steady while I come apart against his mouth.
“Micah—Fuck—I’m—”
He hums against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my core, and slides two fingers inside me at the same time, curling them, finding the spot that makes my vision blur.
I come with his name on my lips, my back arching off the bed, my fingers fisted in his hair.
The orgasm rolls through me in waves, each one cresting higher than the last, and he doesn’t stop until I’m shaking, until I’m pulling at him, until I gasp out, “Come here, come here—”
He rises over me, bracing his arms on either side of my head, and I pull him down into a kiss that tastes like me and him and everything we’ve been building toward since the night on the beach.
I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle, and he helps me.
Both of us laughing a little because the angle is awkward and his jeans are tight and neither of us wants to stop kissing long enough to make it easier.
He kicks them off. His boxer briefs follow. And then he’s bare above me and I let myself look at the full length of him, hard and flushed, and the wanting is so acute it’s almost painful.
“Are you on birth control?” he asks, breathless. “I’m clean. The club makes us test all the time.”
“Fuck,” I moan, the idea of having just him inside me and nothing else making heat rush to my core. “Yes. I’m good. On birth control. Clean. Fuck me. Please.”
He settles between my thighs, the head of him pressed against my entrance, and pauses. Locks his eyes on mine.
“Tell me to stop and I stop,” he says. “Any time. For any reason. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And tell me if it’s too much. Or not enough. I want—” He swallows. “I want this to be good for you. I need it to be good for you.”
I wrap my legs around his hips and pull him forward. “Micah. It’s you. It’s already good.”
He pushes inside me with a slow, controlled thrust that steals the air from my lungs. The stretch of him—the fullness—makes me cry out, and he freezes, searching my face.
“Don’t stop,” I breathe. “Don’t you dare stop. Please move, Micah. I need it.”
He moves in me with a rhythm that’s steady, deep, deliberate—every thrust measured, every angle intentional, hitting exactly where I need him.
He drops to his forearms, his body covering mine, forehead pressed to my shoulder, and I hear every ragged breath, every bitten-off groan, every whispered fuck and baby girl and you feel so goddamn good.
I rake my nails down his back and he hisses, his hips stuttering, his control slipping just enough to show me what’s underneath. The hunger, the raw need, the part of Micah that isn’t gentle at all.
“Harder,” I say into his ear.
He lifts his head. Looks at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The careful, tender lover peels back, and what’s underneath is still Micah, but the leash is off.
He drives into me harder, deeper, one hand gripping my hip to angle me up, and the new depth makes me see stars.
I’m making sounds I can’t control. The headboard knocks against the wall in a rhythm that would be embarrassing if I could think about anything other than the way he’s filling me, the weight of him, the friction of his skin against mine.
“Look at me,” he says, and I do. His face is wrecked, flushed, desperate, beautiful, and he’s watching me with an intensity that borders on devotion. “I want to see you when you come. Don’t look away.”
“I won’t.”
His thumb finds my clit, circling with a pressure that’s perfect, and the combination of his hand and his cock and his eyes locked on mine pushes me over the edge so hard I scream.
It tears out of me and fills the room, and he follows me over with a groan that sounds like it’s been pulled from somewhere deep and primal, his whole body shuddering, his face buried in my neck.
We lie there. Breathing. His weight on me, grounding, real. And so, so good.
He lifts his head after a long, quiet moment. Looks at me. And the smile that spreads across his face is so open and unguarded that I feel something crack in my chest—not breaking, but opening. Making room.
“Baby girl,” he breathes.
I trace the line of his cheekbone with my thumb. “You’re shaking.”
“I know.” He turns his face into my palm and presses a kiss there. “Give me a minute. I’ll be chill again soon.”
“Don’t.” I pull him closer. “I like you unchill.”
He laughs, soft and warm, and rolls to the side, pulling me with him so I’m tucked against his chest, my leg thrown over his hip, his arm wrapped around my back.
He presses his lips to my forehead and just holds me, and for a few perfect, suspended minutes, the world is exactly this small and exactly this safe.
“Micah?”
“Mm.”
“Thank you.”
His arm tightens around me. “You don’t have to thank me for being with you. If anyone should do any thanking, it should be me.”
“I just know how complicated this all is. And I want you to know how much you mean to me.” I trace the scar on his ribs.
“The feeling’s mutual, baby girl.”
He kisses me on the forehead and pulls me in closer, and for some reason a flood of emotion pricks the back of my eyes.
I bury my face in his chest and breathe.