Page 18 of Bitter When He Begs

Sage: I would rather staple my hand to a desk.

Sage: You’re delusional.

Sage: Jesus fuck, do you ever shut up?

But he never blocks me, and I know exactly when he reads them. I know exactly when he types something out, only to delete it and sit there stewing in frustration, knowing I’m right, knowing that no matter how much he wants to fight me, he wants me more.

I can taste his denial, and it only makes me hungrier.

By Tuesday night, I can’t take it anymore. Flirting is fun. Fucking with him is even more fun. But I want to see him. I want him in my space, in my bed, where I can put my hands on himagain, where I can listen to those gorgeous sounds drip from his lips as I remind him exactly who he belongs to.

So I send one more text.

Me: Come to my room tonight.

The dots appear immediately, and I can just see him on the other side, glaring at his phone, trying to figure out how to respond. I stare at the screen, waiting, my pulse heavy, my body wired with restless energy.

Sage: In your fucking dreams.

I smirk.

Me: You’re already in them, Sunshine. But tonight I want you in my bed.

The dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.

I can see the way his brain is working. Can see the way he’s fighting himself, the way he wants to argue, wants to tell me to fuck off, wants to act like he’s in control. But I don’t have to check my phone to know he’s coming.

I feel it in the way the air shifts, in the way the house settles, in the way my body tenses with anticipation, muscles coiled tight. Because Sage can run his mouth all he wants, can tell himself he doesn’t want this, doesn’t need this—but at the end of the day, he always listens.

He always comes when I call.

And, sure enough, a few minutes later, there’s a knock at my door. I don’t move right away, I just let the silence stretch. I let him wait, let him stand there long enough to wonder if this was a mistake, long enough for the nerves to settle in, long enough to second-guess himself.

“Door’s open, Sunshine.”

There’s a pause, but then the handle turns and Sage steps inside—jaw tight, arms crossed over his chest.

His entire posture screams defiance even though I can see the nerves underneath; the tension in his shoulders and the way his hands flex like he’s not sure what to do with them. His glasses sit low on his nose, and his ash blond strands are slightly tousled like he ran his hands through them too many times on the way over.

He looks fuckable.

He looks like mine.

And even though I want him under me, I don’t move yet. I stay where I am, sitting on the edge of my bed, legs spread, arms resting casually on my thighs, watching him with a slow, lazy smirk.

Sage shifts, eyes narrowing slightly. “What am I doing here, Luca?”

I hum, studying him, letting my gaze drag over him like I’m deciding what I want to do with him. His black sweats are loose, hanging low on his hips, his fitted t-shirt clinging to his frame in a way that makes my fingers twitch with the urge to grab him.

Instead, I tip my head slightly, my smirk widening. “You tell me.”

His scowl deepens. “You made me come here.”

I shrug. “I told you to come. You chose to listen.”

His nostrils flare, and fuck, he’s pissed. It only makes me grin. “C’mon, Sunshine. Don’t look so mad. Or is it frustration? You been sitting at home, all restless, all wound up, thinking about me?”

He scoffs, arms tightening over his chest. “Fuck you.”

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