Page 106 of Bitter When He Begs

He pops off again with a loud, messy suck, spit trailing from his lips to the tip of my cock as he pants, flushed and smug, and glowing with satisfaction.

“You’re already close, aren’t you?” he whispers, letting me fuck his fist. “All that muscle and attitude, and I’ve got you about to blow just from using my mouth right.”

I grunt, my jaw clenched so tight I swear it’s going to crack. “You keep running that mouth and I’ll fuck the brat out of you right here.”

“You’ve tried,” he says, dragging his tongue around the head again before looking up at me through his lashes. “Still a brat, though.”

He smirks like he’s challenging me to do something about it. Like he wants me to break. Then he spits right on the tip of my cock and jerks me twice, sloppy and slow. “Fuck my throat, King. Show me who owns it.”

I grab his jaw, force his mouth open, and slide back in deep—no warning, no patience—just filthy, raw need. He takes it, choking once before adjusting, moaning low in his chest as I fuck into his mouth. I watch his lips stretch, his throat bulge around me, his hands clutching at my thighs like he needs me to keep going. Like he needs the push.

He fucking thrives on it.

I groan, fucking into the warmth of his mouth, losing rhythm with how tight it feels. “You talk all that shit and still take me like a good little cockslut.”

He moans again, and I feel it all the way down my spine.

“You love this, don’t you?” I rasp, hips stuttering. “Getting on your knees just to make me fall apart. You fucking love turning me into this.”

He gags once, eyes fluttering, and I pull back just enough for him to breathe. He coughs, breathless, spit and pre-cum smeared down his chin. He looks ruined and proud of it.

“Imake you this desperate, not the other way around.” And then he leans forward and licks the tip again, one more act of power even from the floor. “So go ahead and use my throat. Just remember who got you there.”

I lose whatever thread of control I had left.

I grip his hair, shove back in, and fuck his mouth like it’s mine to ruin. He moans, garbled and raw, his hands sliding around my thighs to hold on tight, letting me use him, dragging my cock deep into the slick heat of him over and over.

His throat spasms. His fingers dig in. His entire body is trembling now and fuck, the sounds he’s making could end me. Little whines. Guttural moans. Half-choked praise I can’t even make out.

And when I pull out to let him breathe again, he gasps, coughing a little, eyes shining with tears and pride. “Come all over my face, King.”

“Fucking hell.”

I jerk myself once, twice, and come with a broken groan, thick and hot across his tongue, chin, and cheek. He closes his eyes and tilts his head up like he wants it. Like he’s proud of it. Like this is exactly how he planned it all to end.

Because that’s Sage. Sweet on the surface, disaster underneath. A brat who kneels like a sinner but devours like a king.

And I’m his favorite sin.

When it’s over, I sag against the wall, breath coming in harsh bursts, and watch as he wipes his mouth with two fingers, slowly, before sliding them into his mouth and sucking them clean.

He sighs, leans forward, and presses his face to my thigh; his voice is smug and breathless when he whispers, “Next time, I ride it. And you don’t come until I say.”

He just grins—filthy, triumphant, on his knees in the middle of a stairwell like the fucking problem he is.

Sage

Theskyistheperfect shade of fall blue, the kind that makes everything look like someone turned up the contrast on reality. The stadium’s packed, students spilling into the rows in a sea of Blackthorne black and gold, cheers already echoing off the metal bleachers as the marching band warms up.

My palms are sweating and I’m annoyed about it, mostly because this isn’t even my first game. Not even my tenth. But it’s the first time I’m sitting up here wearing Luca’s number across my chest—number seventeen in bold gold lettering on a black hoodie that smells like him—and maybe I’m not as chill as I like to think I am.

Nate is already beside me, long legs stretched out obnoxiously far, and a tub of nachos balanced precariously on his knee like we’re not about to be surrounded by half-drunk frat guys screaming their lungs out.

His dark hair is loose today, and even in his Blackthorne hoodie and jeans, he somehow looks like he stepped out of agoddamn catalog. His soccer player build is all long lines and lean muscle, and I know for a fact he only came to talk shit today.

“Don’t start,” I mutter, tugging my hoodie over my hands as I glance toward the field.

He raises a brow. “I didn’t say anything.”

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