Page 150 of Bitter When He Begs

Sage

WhenIpushopenmy bedroom door, the last thing I expect to see is Luca fucking Devereaux spread out on my bed, completely naked.

Like, completely naked.

No boxers. No shirt. Just him, golden and unbothered, lounging like my bed is a chaise lounge in the damn Louvre, and he’s the art piece that came alive. One arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach, eyes locked on me the second I step inside like he’s been waiting all day to catch me off guard.

He has. I know it. This is a trap.

I stand frozen in the doorway for a solid two seconds before my body remembers how to function. I blink fast, my heart doing something embarrassingly loud in my chest.

Then, because I’m apparently a thirteen-year-old boy with no chill, I slam the door shut and turn the lock with a click, just in case one of my roommates decides now is the time to “borrow” my printer or drop off an overdue hoodie.

When I turn back around, he’s still looking at me, that smug little smirk carved into his mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, my voice a little higher than I’d like, which only makes his grin widen.

“Waiting,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You said you’d be home at six. It’s six-oh-three.”

“Oh, my bad,” I mutter, trying very hard not to look directly at any of the parts that are very much there. “Let me just rewind time so I can walk in exactly when your exhibitionist ass scheduled it.”

Luca stretches, long and slow, muscles flexing because he knows I’m watching. I’ve seen him naked before—more than once, in fact. Hell, I’ve woken up to this exact sight before. But something about the confidence he wears like a second skin always hits me sideways.

It’s not just that he’s hot. Which, yeah, painfully so. It’s the way he knows it. The way he carries himself like he’s already won and he’s just waiting for the world to catch up.

He pushes himself upright, still gloriously bare, and walks toward me with the kind of swagger that should be illegal. Every step is casual like this is his room and his space, and he has every right to exist in it like this.

“You’re blushing,” he says, stopping in front of me. He’s not even trying to be subtle. “You’ve seen me like this a hundred times.”

“Yeah,” I manage, trying not to back up. “And every time, it still fries my brain.”

He leans in, voice dropping low. “You sure it’s just your brain?”

I groan and cover my face with my hands. “Why are you like this?”

“Because it works,” he says, and now he’s crowding me against the door, hands braced on either side of my head, caging me in with a grin that should be considered a weapon. “Because you get all red and flustered, and your pupils dilate and it’s the best fucking thing to watch.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I know.”

I want to roll my eyes, but I’m still smiling behind my hands. Still feeling the flush crawl down my neck and chest, and everywhere else that lights up when he’s near.

“So, why exactly are you naked on my bed?”

Luca scoffs like it should be obvious. “Because I missed you.”

My chest tightens. “You saw me two hours ago.”

“Too long,” he says smoothly, kissing my neck, and I immediately melt.

“Luca—”

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs, tilting his head up, that smug, lazy smirk still playing at his lips as his hands grip my hips, his very warm, very naked body pressing up against mine. “Miss me, too?”

My breath shudders out of me. “You are unbelievable.”

“Mmm. But you love it,” he counters, rubbing slow, teasing circles against my waist, his fingers dipping just under the hem of my shirt. “You love that I’m here, waiting for you, needing you.”

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