Page 111 of Bitter When He Begs

Because maybe he did.

Or maybe I just finally found someone who makes the sky look different.

Luca

TheSinBin’salivetonight. Packed wall to wall with too many bodies, loud music pulsing from someone’s speaker, and the scent of cheap beer, fried food, and sweat clouding the air like a second skin.

Someone spiked the fruit punch, I’m almost sure of it. Every few seconds, a whoop of laughter cuts through the bassline—usually Eli or Julian throwing each other into the couch, or someone yelling about the game like we didn’t just win it four hours ago.

We’re riding the high, drunk off the adrenaline, the attention, the kind of glory that only comes from watching the scoreboard flip in your favor with the whole damn school watching.

I’m in the kitchen with the guys, a half-empty Pepsi in my hand and that post-win ache setting into my bones. Not the kind of pain I mind. My shoulder’s sore from that second quarter tackle, and I think my ribs are bruised from the pile-on in the final minute.

But the only thing I can feel right now is the heat of Sage’s thighs bracketing my hips where he’s perched behind me on the kitchen counter.

He’s solid and familiar, thighs on either side of me, knees brushing my hips as I lean back against him while Julian talks shit about some ridiculous play Eli fumbled, and Eli tries to pretend it wasn’t his fault. There’s laughter, someone throws a chip, and I’m mostly listening, my mouth curled into a lazy smirk as I sip my drink and let the noise wash over me.

It’s easy.

My boy is wearing that hoodie I like—the faded one that hangs too loose on his shoulders, sleeves long enough to hide his hands. I reach behind me every now and then, brushing my hand over his knee or squeezing his calf, not saying a word about it, just grounding myself in the fact that he’s there with me.

And then his mouth is at my ear.

Soft.

Low.

Velvet and venom.

“You looked so fucking good out there, King,” he murmurs, and just like that, my pulse stutters. His breath is warm against the shell of my ear, his fingers brushing lightly against the side of my hip in a way that probably looks innocent from across the room, but I know him too well. I know exactly what he’s doing.

My jaw tightens. I take another sip of my drink to keep from reacting.

Sage’s voice drops lower. “The way you tackled that guy in the third quarter? Fuck. I could feel it from the stands. Had me thinking about what else you could do with that kind of force.” He shifts forward slightly, chest brushing my back, lips almost brushing my skin. “Had me thinking about how I want you to fuck me like that. Brutal and deep.”

My grip on the can tightens, so I put it down. My knuckles ache. My teeth grind together, and still, I don’t move.

He knows what he’s doing. He knows what this does to me.

“I’ve been thinking about it all night,” he whispers, his voice so soft it’s almost inaudible over the party noise. “About getting you inside me. Stretching me out while I tell you how good you feel.”

I stare straight ahead, at Julian and Eli laughing, like nothing’s wrong, like the world isn’t tilting under my feet, like I’m not two seconds from grabbing this little brat by the throat and ruining him.

“You gonna bend me over the bed again tonight, King?” he breathes. “Or should I ride you while your teammates hear every fucking sound I make?”

My hands tighten on his thighs, but he lightly pinches my side. “Don’t react,” he adds sweetly. “They’re watching.”

And then he licks the edge of my ear.

Quick. Wet. A flash of tongue that lights my whole goddamn spine on fire—and I snap.

Fuck the audience.

Before I even think it through, I turn, pull him forward by his thighs, and hoist the little fucker over my shoulder like I’m hauling a sack of misbehaved sin. He yelps, somewhere between a laugh and a challenge, and I hear Eli bark, “Jesus, Devereaux, what the hell—”

“Keep partying,” I grunt. “He’s got a mouth on him, and I need to fill it.”

Sage is laughing now. Squirming, but not trying to get free. His fist tugs at the back of my shirt, and his voice is muffled as he hisses, “Luca, you can’t just throw me—”

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