Page 47 of One Room Vacancy
“I did, you know,” I murmur. “Say your name while I fingered myself. While I made myself come.”
He stills.
“If you were really listening,” I add, soft and wicked, “I would’ve thought you’d have heard it.”
And that’s all it takes.
His mouth crashes into mine, hungry and rough, like he’s starved for it—like I’ve been torturing him, and maybe I have. Maybe that was the goal. His hands find my hips and grip tight, pulling me flush against him as his tongue slides against mine, hot and insistent. There’s nothing soft about it. It’s all teeth and need and months of everything we’ve been pretending not to feel.
My back hits the brick again, and he groans against my mouth as I fist the front of his shirt and drag him closer, like I could pull him under my skin if I tried hard enough.
One of his hands trails up my thigh, fingertips dragging over the hem of my dress, making me gasp into his mouth. He eats the sound like it’s what he came out here for.
“You drive me fucking insane,” he mutters against my jaw, lips trailing lower. “Do you know that?”
I don’t answer.
I just yank him back in and kiss him like I mean it.
Because I do.
Even if I still don’t know what the hell that means.
His hand slides up my thigh, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing against the inside like he’s testing how far he can push.
Then he leans in, lips grazing the shell of my ear.
“If I reached under this dress,” he murmurs, voice thick with want, “would I find you wet for me, baby?”
My breath catches, because he already knows the answer.
And I hate that he does.
I meet his eyes, defiant, breathless.
“I don’t know,” I say, voice low. “Why don’t you find out?”
His gaze darkens, as though understanding I just handed him permission wrapped in a dare.
One hand slips under the hem of my dress, fingers trailing up—slow, reverent, filthy.
There’s a beat where I think he might pause, might hesitate. He doesn’t.
He groans when he realizes.
“No panties?” he murmurs, like it physically pains him to say it out loud.
I smirk. “Told you it was hot out.”
His hand disappears beneath the hem of my dress, fingers grazing up my thigh—and then higher.
The second he finds me, he groans, low and wrecked.
“Fuck, Sage…you’re soaked.”
My breath catches. My whole body pulses toward him.
He leans in, voice rough in my ear. “You always get this wet for me?”
