Page 32 of One Room Vacancy
I look up at him, my voice sharp even though it’s quiet. “Don’t look at me like that, just touch me.”
He blinks, caught off guard by the venom in my tone.
“And you don’t have to pretend it means something,” I add, because I can’t stop myself. “We both know that’s never been your strong suit.”
That lands, hard.
He goes still.
I see it—how the words knock the breath out of him for half a second before he swallows it down, shoving the reaction somewhere deep behind his eyes. He doesn’t defend himself, doesn’t argue. Just nods once, because he knows I’m right.
But his grip on my waist tightens.
And when he leans in, it’s with a heat that’s laced with guilt. A hunger that tastes like punishment.
Exactly what I wanted, exactly what I asked for.
And when he kisses me again, it’s not soft or searching. It’s bracing, like he’s ready for the weight of this.
I drag him down by the collar of his shirt, mouth crashing into his. There’s nothing careful about it. I bite his bottom lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make him feel.
He exhales heavily, a sound caught between a groan and a curse, and I chase it like I want to bottle it.
My fingers tangle in his hair, nails scraping just a little too roughly at the nape of his neck.
And he lets me—doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stop me.
His hands are everywhere now—spanning my ribs, my thighs, sliding under my clothes—like he needs to memorize what used to feel like his to touch.
But I don’t want tenderness.
Not now, not ever again with him.
So, when his lips skim too gently along my jaw, I pull his head back by his hair, forcing him to look at me.
His eyes are wide, mouth parted, chest heaving like he knows what this is.
“Don’t be careful with me,” I say.
His voice is ragged when he answers. “I’m not.”
And he proves it—dragging my Harry’s hoodie up and off, pushing it over my head like he’s done it before. I yank his shirt up with the same urgency, needing skin, needing heat, needing friction.
This isn’t about love; this isn’t even about like.
This is about the ache that’s lived under my ribs since the night he left me standing in that hotel hallway, pretending I didn’t care.
I sure as hell won’t make that mistake again.
I lift onto my toes slightly as I press my mouth to his collarbone, bite hard enough to make him hiss, and drag my teeth along his skin as I move lower. Not sweet, not reverent, just present.
He pulls me closer, hands splaying across my back.
His jeans press tight between my thighs, but I don’t grind down—I reach between us and cup him through the denim, squeezing just enough to make him groan.
“Fuck, Sage…” It slips out like he didn’t mean to say it, like it was torn from him.
“Shut up.” I don’t mean it to be cruel; I just can’t hear him say my name like that. Not when it sounds like he means it.
