47. Micah
FORTY-SEVEN
MICAH
Milo’s got a drill in one hand and the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth, and he’s boring a neat little hole in Sage’s bedroom ceiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“We might need to shift her bed to the left,” he says, squinting up at it. “I want the whole thing in frame. Symmetry matters, Micah. We’re not animals.”
“We’re exactly animals.” I’m by the door with my arms crossed, which is as close to this as I’m willing to get. “That’s sort of the entire problem.”
The drill whines. Plaster dust drifts down onto the gray duvet—it’s soft, and it smells like her if you press your face into it, not that I’d admit that to the man currently turning her bedroom into a film set. He’s humming. Actually humming.
“You know what’s funny,” I say, in a voice that makes it clear nothing is.
“Lots of things. I’m a delight.”
“Earlier today, you were on your knees, repenting for putting cameras in our girlfriend’s home.”
“I also got her a beautiful floral wreath that some fucker stole off the street while we were in the alley performing the ritual of exhibitionist make-up sex.” Milo snorts. “Which, for the record, was beautiful and healing. Very vulnerable of me.”
I watch him fish a tiny black lens from his pocket and thread the wire up through the hole.
“None of that explains why I’m standing in her bedroom watching you mount yet another camera over her bed.”
He stops and looks down at me. For once the grin loses a few watts.
“I know,” he says. “I know, okay? I screwed up the first time. You were all very clear about it.” He twists the lens into its housing.
“And the one thing—the only thing—any of us gave you credit for was that you hadn’t put one in the bathroom or the bedroom.”
“Correct.”
“Then what the fuck, Milo? You asked me to come and help you set up a surprise for Sage. This feels like another violation.”
He climbs down, dusts his hands on his jeans, and looks at me with something almost solemn underneath all the Milo of him. “This is different, Micah.”
“Then tell me how. Convince me, because right now I’m two seconds from putting that drill somewhere the sun doesn’t reach.”
“Because last time, I decided. This time she did.” He spreads his hands.
“She asked for this one. Looked me dead in the eye and told me to put it on the ceiling so we could see everything. I’m not taking anything from her.
She’s handing it to me.” His voice gentles, which on Milo is so rare it almost knocks me over.
“There’s a difference between theft and a gift, even if the object is the same. ”
Milo in serious mode always hits wrong—like finding a knife in the cutlery drawer where the teaspoons should be. It unsettles me more than his bullshit ever does.
“You’re right,” I say eventually. “There’s a big difference. But I need to be sure here. So forgive me, but I’m gonna ask her myself.”
“Knock yourself out.”
I drag my phone out of my pocket before I can overthink it.
Me:
Quick consent check, baby girl. Are you still feeling good about the camera in your room?
Milo goes back to work without saying anything, which I appreciate.
My screen lights up almost immediately.
Baby girl:
lmao that was fast
But yes, I want it. The idea of you all watching me is really hot.
Is that okay with you? I promise it won’t be on when we’re together.
unless you want it.
Something in my chest eases and tightens at the same time.
I type back immediately. I don’t ever want her second-guessing her own desire.
Me:
It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you.
Just needed to hear it from you.
You never need permission to want what you want, baby girl. I just needed to know you were the one holding the switch.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Comes back.
Baby girl:
It is.
I’m at work for another hour. Don’t overthink it.
Or think really hard about it . . .
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
Milo glances down from the step stool. “Good news?”
I hold up the phone. “She wants it.”
“Told you.” He sounds smug, but there’s less performance than usual.
“I also have this text from her telling me explicitly what she wants.” He shows me his phone.
“She wants a private feed. Password protected. Accessible only when she turns it on. No cloud backup. No passive recording. No motion trigger. Nothing unless she hits live and sends the invite herself.”
I read over the text as he rattles off the list. “She really gave this a lot of thought.”
Nodding, he pockets his cell. “She’s frighteningly competent when she’s horny.”
I shake my head, amused. “I hate that I’m saying this, but fine. Finish the install.”
“I already have,” he says. “Consent-compliant depravity. Ready to go.”
I stare at it. The little red standby light blinks once. “She’s gonna love it.”
By nine p.m. we’re in the back room at the club, and the Hudson job is spread across the table like a board game designed by lunatics: Pinecrest locker-room map, camera-closet schematic, and locker forty-seven circled in red.
“Hudson is less than a week out,” Holden says, tapping the calendar. “Gym days he’s in by six. One of the last to leave. Real fond of the steam room. We get it done and the feed clean well before any of the staff finds him.”
“Rope’s sorted,” Knox says.
“The noose will go up over this shower cubicle,” Eli adds, tapping the page.
“It’s not his usual, but we’ll block that off as out of order so he’s forced into here.
Operationally, it’s a safer choice. Outside any open sight lines.
Plus, it’ll take longer to find him. Reads like a man who was making sure he wasn’t interrupted. ”
“Walk me through the choke points again,” Holden says.
Milo opens his mouth—and every phone in the room goes off at once.
A hard little chorus of vibration and notification pings.
“Well, that was ominous,” Milo says, reaching for his.
Knox is first to move, hauling his phone out. Holden already has his in hand. Eli’s eyes drop to the screen and his brow knits. I slide mine from my pocket.
Kitten’s Hangmen lights up across the top.
“Ho-ly fuck,” Holden mutters as I tap mine open and find a message from Sage.
A link. No message. Just a link, dropped into the chat.
My mouth goes dry. “Dean can’t see into her room, right?” I ask Eli, who’s already staring at his screen wide-eyed.
“No,” Eli says, too fast, too distracted, eyes fixed on whatever’s loaded onto his screen. “Can’t see.”
Relief punches out of me so hard my knees go weak.
“Thank fuck,” I breathe, tapping the link.
The screen opens.
For half a second, it’s dark and pixelated, the camera feed stabilizing. Then Sage comes into view.
I forget how to breathe.
She’s on top of the duvet in a white tank and tiny sleep shorts, hair spread over the pillow like a dark halo. The camera angle catches all of her—every inch Milo obsessed over—one knee bent, the other stretched long, toes flexing against the sheets. Her eyes go straight to the lens.
Straight to us.
My cock jumps so hard it’s painful.
“Jesus Christ,” Holden says quietly.
Sage’s mouth curves. Not a smile exactly. More like she knows what she’s doing to us and likes it. Then her hand slides down her stomach, slow enough to be cruel, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her shorts.
The room goes dead silent.
All I can hear is the faint buzz of the feed through my phone speaker and five different men trying not to sound wrecked.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until my chest starts to ache.
Sage’s hand disappears under her shorts, the slow press of her knuckles creating a little ridge in the cotton, and for a moment all I can process is the fact that I’m watching her, that all of us are watching her, that she’s looking straight into a camera and letting us.
Her tank top clings to her chest, nipples peaked sharp against the thin fabric. She shifts, knees up, hips rocking subtle as her hand works underneath—she is not fucking around, she’s going for it, and it’s so clearly for an audience that my brain shorts out.
“Does she know we’re all in the same room right now?” Milo stage-whispers, but no one’s voice has enough air in it to respond.
Eli just gives a flat shake of his head, his hand shaking on the phone—nobody else is looking, but I see it, the way his thumb trembles on the glass as he zooms in, like if he gets close enough, he’ll be the only one she’s fucking herself for.
She’s not. She’s doing it for all five of us, and there’s no point pretending otherwise.
I clear my throat, force myself upright in the chair. Holden is sitting dead still, his jaw clenched and eyes fixed on the screen like maybe if he focuses hard enough, he’ll pull her through the fiber optic cables and onto this table.
Milo has his phone propped against a water bottle, both hands in his lap, and he’s blushing so hard I can feel the heat coming off him like a space heater.
Eli hasn’t moved since the link opened. His face is locked down, but one hand is fisted on the edge of the table, knuckles bloodless, like control has become something physical he can grip.
Knox, for his part, stays still. He doesn’t even blink. Just watches, jaw tight behind all that silence, every ounce of him aimed at the screen.
On the screen, Sage is working herself harder now—white-knuckled grip on her own thigh, the other hand lost all the way in, her mouth parted, chin tipped up like she’s showing off for us.
She hooks a knee out wide and her hips grind up into her own palm, and the tank has rucked up just enough to show the start of underboob, the definition of her stomach, the flex and shudder of every muscle working to get her off.
“Fuck,” I whisper, because I have to let it out somehow.
When her hand breaks free from her shorts—shoving them down enough to bare her thighs, then her cunt—my brain goes white with want.
Nobody says anything. Not even a joke or a muttered fuck, until Holden—who’s shifted in his seat, propped one heavy boot on the edge of the table—says, “I’m going to jerk off now, so if anyone’s squeamish, avert your fuckin’ eyes.”
He means it. He’s already got his hand on his belt, popping the buckle, and his cock is out in three seconds flat.
Milo lets out a soft, delighted giggle. “Thank God someone broke the seal. It was getting awkward in here.” And just like that, he’s got his own dick out. No shame. All showman.
Eli and Knox go quiet as ever, but I see it—the way their chests rise, the way their hands disappear under the table, the way Eli grits his jaw like a man trying to keep his skin on.
And me?
I don’t even try to hide it. I grab the ridge in my sweats and squeeze, not caring that there are four other men here doing the same thing. The only person I care about is on the screen, owning all of us without even touching.
Sage flicks her gaze to the camera, dead center, as if she can see us all lined up, dicks out, throats raw.
She pushes her tank up, baring her breasts, her free hand cupping one and squeezing, pulling at the nipple until she moans.
Then she brings her fingers—wet, glistening—from between her legs to her fucking mouth, and sucks them, drawing them out slow, like she knows she’s making every one of us lose it.
Eli’s chair creaks. That’s all. But I see the muscle twitch in his forearms, see the way his hips fuck up into the table once before he regains composure.
Holden’s making no attempt at composure, strong hand working his cock slow, almost lazy, like he’s got all night and nothing to distract him but the girl on the screen.
And Sage, knowing—or just hoping, or maybe orchestrating for this exact moment—goes all in. She shoves her shorts lower, kicks one leg out of them, splits herself open for the camera, and I’m pretty sure it’s me who lets out a moan.
“Fuck, baby girl.”
Two fingers in, thumb rolling over her clit, fucking herself with the kind of hunger I’ve only seen when we’re together, flesh and heat and sweat.
Her head goes back, hair wild over the pillow, and she moans so loud the phone speaker distorts.
I want to be inside her so bad my teeth hurt.
But more than that, I want her to see me, want her to know she has us completely.
Nothing but her voice and the sound of her, no matter how or where we get it.
The orgasm hits and she shakes, toes curling, thighs locking together, and when her voice breaks and she cries out, every single one of us loses all pretense.
I come just watching her, hand locked around my cock, not even trying to look away as I spill all over myself and the floor.
The entire table goes quiet for a long, hot minute, except for the chorus of ragged breathing and the faint echo of her panting, still coming down on the screen.
Sage smiles, lazy and sated, and she licks her own fingers. Then she blows a kiss to the camera and ends the feed. Nobody moves.
After a while, Milo says, “Well, that’s going in the mental highlight reel.”
Holden zips up and just laughs. Low, fucked-out, wild. “She’s something else.”
Eli’s eyes are still locked on the screen, unmoved.
Knox wipes a hand over his face and just nods.
My heart finally restarts, thudding in my chest. I roll my head, stretch my neck, and wipe a bead of sweat from my brow.
“She knows what she’s doing,” I say, voice hoarse.
“Yeah,” Eli finally says, clearing his throat. His voice is rough enough to scrape. “She does.”
He doesn’t look at any of us when he says it, and that’s how I know he’s talking about more than the camera.
Milo, not even bothering to hide his junk, just grins at all of us. “I love this family.”
“Shut up,” Holden mutters, but he’s smiling.
Knox puts his chair back on four legs, stands. “Hudson,” he says, like he’s desperate to pull this back. He looks at his cell again. Shakes his head in disbelief then taps out a quick message.
The group chat buzzes.
Knox:
Hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Yeah, Hudson,” Holden says, also typing out a message. “We need to review his access pattern at the gym.” He hits send.
Holden:
Wildcat. You are playing a very dangerous game.
Milo:
Hotter than baking a pizza at 500°. Also, she’s clearly requesting a group meal soon.
Me:
If that was an invitation, I RSVP yes.
Eli:
You just say yes to everything.
Me:
Untrue. But to watching baby girl make herself come? Yes forever.
Milo:
There’s something wrong with us, isn’t there?
Holden:
That’s the sexiest part.
Knox:
Time to work, guys.
Milo:
Kinda weird to sign off with a boner, big man, but you do you.
Sage sends through a row of heart emojis and I close the chat with the biggest smile I’ve worn since the beach and actually take time to clean up my mess. Holden hands me a napkin, and instead of sarcasm, he just wipes his own hands and says, “She’s got us.”
I nod. Yeah. She fucking does.