Page 55 of One Room Vacancy
She reaches for the clasp of her bra, pauses like she’s waiting to see if I’ll look away.
I don’t. Not because I’m trying to prove something, but because this moment feels sacred. Because I want her to see I mean it—that I’m here, really here, and I’m not going anywhere.
The bra slips from her shoulders. I trace a hand over the curve of her waist, let it settle just above the hem of her shorts. She leans into the touch like she’s been waiting for it, like maybe she’s finally done pretending this doesn’t matter.
I kiss her again, slower this time, more deliberate. She tastes like toothpaste and tea and something warmer, something that feels like home.
She hooks her fingers into the waistband of her shorts and nudges them down her hips. I follow, my hands brushing over her thighs as I help ease them off, every inch of her revealed like a truth I don’t deserve but get to hold anyway.
There’s no rush, no fumbling, just the sound of our breathing, the rustle of sheets, and the quiet pull of gravity between us.
When I move to undress, she stops me with a touch to my chest—gentle, open-palmed, not asking me to wait, just to see her, to be here, fully.
And I am.
God, I am.
I ease her back into the pillows and settle beside her, close enough that our foreheads touch. Her eyes search mine, and whatever she finds there, whatever she’s been looking for, makes her smile, soft and sure.
She pulls me in again, and this time when we kiss, it’s slower still. Like we’re not kissing to start anything, but to stay right here in the feeling of it.
She shifts next to me, legs parting slightly, her thigh brushing against mine, and it hits me all over again—this is Sage.Sage. And she’s here, with me, letting herself be seen, touched, loved.
I slide my hand down her side, over the curve of her hip, and lower it between her thighs. She’s already wet, warm and open, and when I drag two fingers through her, she exhales sharply and arches into my palm.
Fuck.
I stroke her slowly, just enough to draw a shiver, to make her hips roll without thinking. Her breath hitches again when I circle her clit, featherlight at first, then firmer, more intentional. She grips my bicep, nails digging in, her forehead tipping forward to press against mine.
“Gabe,” she whispers, the sound raw and pleading, like she’s too full of feeling to hold it in.
I kiss her again, deep and slow, while I keep touching her, fingers sliding through her arousal, learning every response. When I slip one inside, her whole body tenses, then softens around me.
She’s so fucking beautiful like this.
Open, unrushed, letting me in.
When I add a second finger, she moans, quiet, choked off by another kiss, and grinds down to meet the rhythm I’ve set.
She’s not performing, she’s not hiding, she’s just feeling, and fuck if I’m not already half gone for it.
I pull back just enough to see her face, flushed and soft, her full lips parted, breath unsteady.
“I need you,” she says, voice barely a breath. “Please.”
I press my forehead to hers and whisper, “I’ve got you.”
I move over her, between her legs, and she guides me with a hand around the back of my neck, pulling me down as though she can’t bear the space between us anymore.
When I press into her, it’s slow, careful, every inch a surrender. She gasps beneath me, legs wrapping around my waist, and I pause once I’m fully inside, both of us breathless from the way it means something this time.
We stay like that for a beat, breathing, pressed together, feeling it.
Then she rocks her hips gently, and we fall into a rhythm, slow and steady at first, like we’re relearning what it means to be with each other. Like we’re memorizing this, in case it’s the only time we get it right.
Her hands roam my back, nails dragging lightly down my spine, and every movement is a question I already know the answer to.
I kiss her again as I thrust deeper, and she moans into my mouth—low and desperate and real.
