Page 12 of One Room Vacancy
And maybe that should be enough, maybe it has to be.
Because if he and Kara are really done, if this isn’t just a one-time thing to blow off steam…then we’d have to talk about what it means.
We’d have to stop pretending.
And I don’t think either of us is ready for that.
So, I arch toward him instead. I bury my hand in his hair and let myself fall back against the pillows, breath caught in my throat.
He doesn’t ease into it. Doesn’t tease.
He just settles in like it’s instinct. Like he knows exactly how to touch me, because he does—he always has.
His tongue works in lazy, confident strokes at first—measured, almost like he’s savoring every second. But when my hips lift toward him and I thread my fingers through his hair with a breathless gasp, he groans into me and shifts closer. His hands grip my thighs, pulling me to the edge, anchoring me there.
One hand slides up, thumb finding that perfect pressure point, and I break.
I gasp, thighs tensing around his shoulders.
He groans again, this time louder. “God, Sage…” It’s wrecked, worshipful. “You’re so fuckin’ sweet.”
I laugh—more of a choked, breathless sound, because it’s the least suave thing he could’ve said.
But he means it; that’s the worst part.
I can feel it in the way his mouth moves, the way he shifts to get deeper, to keep going, to give.
I clutch at the sheets with one hand, his hair with the other, and let go of every reason this shouldn’t be happening.
Because it is.
And, for one stupid second, it almost feels like more.
Like maybe he means it the way I do, or…sometimes do. In moments of weakness.
But that’s not what this is—that’s never what this is.
I force the thought out of my head like it burned me. Dig my fingers into his copper strands a little harder, not to guide him, just to ground myself.
Because the second I start pretending this is anything but sex, I lose.
Gabe doesn’t get to be more. Not again.
He gets to be this—hot mouth, rough hands, the sound he makes when I fall apart for him. He gets to say he missed it, to mean it even, but he doesn’t get to stay.
He never does.
So, I stop thinking.
I tip my hips toward his mouth, chase the pressure, the rhythm, the way he groans like he can’t help himself.
I let myself drown in it.
Because if this is all I get?—
If this is all we are?—
Then at least it’ll hurt less when he leaves.
