Page 34 of One Room Vacancy
Every thrust punches a moan from my throat, louder than I mean to be, borderline screaming now, each cry ripped from me like a confession.
And still, he doesn’t stop.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my mouth, his voice broken. “You feel—God, Sage?—”
I shut him up with another kiss, sloppy and open and wild.
My body is fire and ache and too much all at once. Pressure builds so fast I barely register it; I only know I’m shaking, hips chasing his with a rhythm I can’t control.
He groans my name again, and this time I let it slide, let him have it.
Because whatever this is, it’s not forgiveness.
And I’m so close to falling over the edge that I can’t bring myself to care.
His hand grips the back of my neck, the other steadying us at my hip, and he buries his face against my jaw, breath hot, words nearly choked.
“Please—fuck, please let me feel you come.”
I whimper, becauseGod.
“I miss it,” he says, voice wrecked, thrusts getting sloppier. “The way you fall apart, the way you clench around me like you don’t want to let go.”
It’s filthy, desperate, unforgivable.
And it undoes me.
Heat coils low in my stomach, tight and blinding. Every nerve sparks under my skin as my body goes taut.
“Let me have it,” he grits out, mouth against my throat. “I need it, Sage. I needyou.”
And I break.
Shattering around him with a cry that borders on a sob, my entire body convulsing as the orgasm rips through me, raw, violent, overwhelming.
He groans, loud, guttural, as I clamp down around him, and I barely register his rhythm faltering, the way his whole body tenses as he follows me over the edge with a growl against my skin.
And then, silence.
Nothing but the sound of our breathing.
Harsh. Shallow. And, unfortunately…real.
EIGHT
GABE
We’re in the middle of a heat wave, the kind that makes the air inside feel thick no matter how high the AC is cranked. I offered to install a second fan in the living room yesterday—Sage didn’t say no, but she didn’t say yes either. Just nodded once and kept scrolling through her phone like I wasn’t there.
That’s been the theme lately.
She doesn’t ignore me, not exactly. It’s worse than that. She’s polite. Efficient. Cordial, even. Like a stranger you thank for holding the elevator door.
I still make dinner most nights, still do the dishes, still take out the trash before she can think to. And I keep showing up at Harry’s on her longest shifts—not because she asks, not because she notices, but because someone has to.
She doesn’t thank me, doesn’t need to.
I’m not doing it for gratitude.
