Page 17 of Bitter When He Begs

Luca

Ishouldbethinkingabout football. I should be thinking about the next game, about the plays I need to run, about how I can’t afford to fuck up if I want to keep my draft stock high.

I should be thinking about anything but him.

But I can’t.

Because ever since Friday, ever since I had my hands on him, ever since I dragged him into my truck and listened to those perfect, filthy little sounds spill from his lips, ever since I had him under me, pinned, panting, blushing, squirming—I haven’t been able to think about anything else.

Not pills.

Not withdrawal.

Not the dull, aching pull in my gut that used to keep me reaching for another hit just to shut my brain off.

Just him.

Sage fucking Blackwell.

He’s in my head, and I hate it. Hate that I can still feel him against me, hate that my fingers are twitching with the need to grab him again, to pin him down and see just how far I can push him, to find out what other pretty fucking sounds I can drag out of his mouth before he shatters.

The pills used to be the first thing I craved when I woke up. Now all I can think about is that stubborn little fucker with his smart mouth and his even smarter hands, his flushed skin, the way he squirmed underneath me, the way he tried to fight it even when his body was already giving me the answer.

I need him.

And when I need something, I get it.

I don’t know how I got his number. Maybe I have more connections than I realize, maybe someone in Sigma Rho Alpha gave it up without thinking twice, or maybe I was just meant to own this stupid little brat one way or another.

Either way, I use it. I don’t even give him a warning. No casual “Hey, it’s Luca,” no small talk, no fucking lead-up.

Me: Did you miss me?

It takes an hour for him to respond, and when he does, it’s predictable.

Sage: Lose my number.

I grin, stretching out on my bed, my muscles lazy, my fingers hovering over the screen before I type back.

Me: That’s not a no.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Sage: Go fuck yourself.

I laugh, dragging my tongue over my teeth, my fingers already moving.

Me: I’d rather fuck you.

I groan, my head dropping back against my pillow, my hand sliding over my stomach. He’s perfect. So, for the next two days, I torment him in ways that make me grin and drive him insane.

Me: You know you want me.

Me: Bet you still feel me.

Me: Touch yourself thinking about me yet?

He ignores some of them. Responds to others with pure fucking rage.

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