Page 29 of Bitter When He Begs

I suck harder, biting just enough to leave a bruise that’ll bloom over the next few hours. He’ll wear it all goddamn day. It’ll peek out from his hoodie, just visible enough to make people wonder, just clear enough to remind him of me every time he catches a glimpse in the mirror.

Every fucking time someone looks too long, I want him to feel it.

My mark.

My fucking name without letters.

I pull back and watch the color rise under his skin, a purpling, angry bruise that makes me smirk even as my jaw clenches.

His lips are wet. His breath’s ragged. That dark hickey is already blooming on his neck like a bruise under glass. It’s brutal, ugly and goddamn perfect.

But the only thing I feel is rage.

I close my eyes briefly and exhale. Then I drag a hand down my face, and step back before I do something even dumber. “Get in your car.”

He breathes out my name like it hurts to say. “Luca—”

“Get in your fucking car, Sage,” I snap, louder than I mean to.

He stares for a second. Then he opens the door and slides in without another word. I watch him go, jaw clenched, fists curled, heart hammering so hard it hurts.

This should’ve been over, but it’s not.

He’s still in my head. Still under my skin. Still mine in all the wrong fucking ways.

And I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to let him go when I never wanted him in the first place.

Sage

Islamthedoorthe second I step inside the frat.

It’s too loud. It echoes down the hallway like a warning shot, but I don’t give a fuck. Let them hear it. Let them know I’m back and I’m in a mood. Let them fucking try me.

My whole body is vibrating with heat, my throat raw with the sting of words I didn’t get to say, my jaw clenched so hard it aches. That fucking asshole. That smug, moody, fucked-up mess of a quarterback had the nerve to press me against my own car, grind against me, suck a goddamn hickey into my neck—and then make itmyfault.

I didn’t ask to be his favorite obsession. I didn’t ask to be his fucked-up version of a coping mechanism. I didn’t want any of this.

I just let it happen every goddamn time. Where the hell does my backbone go when I’m around him?

I stomp up the stairs two at a time, hoodie sleeves clenched in my fists, the fabric tight around my hands like it’s the only thingkeeping me from punching a wall. I’m halfway to my room when I hear footsteps behind me, faster than casual, closer than polite.

Nate.

“Yo,” he calls. “Sage. Hey.”

I don’t stop.

“Don’t make me chase you, Blackwell.”

By the time I slam my bedroom door and throw my bag across the room, my heart’s still trying to pound its way out of my chest. My pulse is loud in my ears. My skin itches like I want to crawl out of it.

I press the heel of my hand to the side of my head like I can squeeze the memory out. His voice. His mouth. The way he pinned my wrists like I belonged to him.

“Sage,” Nate says from the hallway, already annoyed.

I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to explain. But the door creaks open anyway because Nate doesn’t give a shit about boundaries when I’m spiraling.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, face pinched in a frown. “You looked like you were about to murder someone on your way in. Do I need to hide the body?”

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