Because I shouldn’t be doing this — not like this, not when my head’s still spinning from the game, from Grayson, from everything I’ve been holding in. But the second I touch her, the noise fades. The anger, the pressure, the ache — it all burns out in the heat between us.
She pulls back just long enough to look at me, her pupils blown wide, lips swollen. “This isn’t—” she starts, but the words die when I kiss her again, slower this time. Deeper.
Her protest melts into a sound that goes straight through me. I catch her around the waist, lifting her onto the counter in one motion. She wraps her legs around me, breath hitching as I press closer, the rhythm of our heartbeats syncing in uneven bursts.
Clothes scatter between us, lost to the floor one piece at a time. My mind blanks, every rational thought drowned under the simple, overwhelming need to feel her — to prove through touch what I can’t say out loud.
Her fingers trail down my back, nails scraping lightly across my skin. I groan into her mouth, the sound low and rough, and she answers with a breathless laugh that’s more surrender than defiance.
Sage’s legs tighten around my waist like a vise, her nails digging into my back as I press her harder against the cold granite counter. Her breath comes in sharp gasps, mingling with mine, hot and desperate. I can feel her heartbeat pounding against my chest, a rhythm that matches the throbbing in my cock, aching to be inside her. “Leo,” she whispers, her voice raw and pleading, “not the counter?—”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My mouth is too busy devouring hers, my hands are too busy tearing at the buttons of her shirt, exposing her soft, creamy skin. The fabric gives way easily, revealing her lacy black bra, but I don’t stop. My fingers fumble with the clasp, and her breasts spill free, full and heavy, hernipples already tight buds begging for my mouth. I groan against her lips, a primal sound that vibrates through both of us.
She arches, a sharp cry escaping her as her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer. Her taste is intoxicating—sweet and salty, like the woman herself. “Fuck, Leo,” she pants, her voice shaking. “Not here?—”
But I am past listening. My belt is already undone, my jeans are sliding down my thighs, my cock throbbing, desperate for her. I lift her hips, tearing her panties aside with a rough tug. I position myself at her entrance. She is so fucking wet, her heat is radiating against my tip, teasing me. I groan, low and rough, and thrust in, burying myself deep in one savage stroke.
Her scream is music, her walls clenching around me like a vice. “Leo?—”
I didn’t give her time to finish. I pull back, and slam into her again, the counter creaking under her weight as I set a brutal pace. Her head falls back, her ponytail brushing the edge of the counter, her breasts bouncing with each thrust. I grab one, squeezing, thumbing her nipple. She gasps, her legs tightening around me, her heels digging into my ass.
“Harder,” she demands, her voice a ragged whisper. “Fuck me harder, Leo. Make me forget?—”
I don’t need to be told twice. I grip her hips, bruising her skin, and pound into her, the sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the room. Her pussy is tight, so fucking tight, milking my cock with every stroke, and I knew I won’t last long. But I don’t want to. I want to lose myself in her, in this, in the way she feels wrapped around me, her breath hot on my neck, her nails scratching down my back.
“Cum for me, Sage,” I growl, my voice hoarse. “Let me feel it?—”
Her answer is a broken moan, her body trembling as her orgasm rips through her. Her walls pulse around my cock,milking me, and I can’t hold back. I thrust one last time, deep and hard, and let go, my cum shoots into her, hot and relentless. Her body shudders against mine.
When it is over, I am trembling, my forehead pressing against hers, our breaths mingling. As I pull out slowly, her lips parting with a soft, wet sound, I slid her off the counter, her legs shaky as she stood.
She leans against me, her head on my chest, and I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight. The silence is heavy, dangerous, but it was ours. For now, it is enough.
The world takes its time coming back.
For a long moment, all I hear is our breathing — ragged, uneven, too loud in the small kitchen. The air smells like heat and salt and something faintly metallic, the leftover edge of adrenaline. My hands are still braced on the counter beside her hips, every muscle locked, afraid to move.
Sage leans back against the cabinets, skin flushed, lips parted. Her hair sticks to her temple in messy strands. When her eyes meet mine, something in my chest twists. There’s no triumph in her expression, no satisfaction — just shock. And underneath it, something that looks a lot like regret.
She reaches for the nearest fabric — her shirt, my jacket, maybe both — and pulls it around herself like armor. “This was a mistake,” she whispers.
The words hit harder than any body check I’ve ever taken. I step back a little, trying to find my breath. “Sage?—”
“Don’t,” she says, voice soft but steady. “Please don’t.”
The quiet between us stretches again, sharper now. I can still feel her everywhere — on my skin, under it — but her walls are already rebuilding faster than mine can drop. I drag a hand through my hair, searching for something to say, something to fix it, but there’s nothing that won’t make it worse.
So I don’t say anything.
I just find my sweats on the floor, pull them on, and grab the nearest water bottle from the fridge. The plastic crackles as I twist the cap open and take a long swallow. It’s too cold, burning its way down, but it gives me something to focus on that isn’t the ache behind my ribs.
She’s watching me the whole time, one hand gripping the counter for balance, the other clutching the fabric against her chest. Her voice barely carries when she speaks again. “I can’t be the thing you run to when you’re angry.”
“I wasn’t—” I start, but stop. Because maybe I was. Maybe that’s exactly what this was. I exhale, slow and shaky, setting the bottle down with a hollow thud.
“Do what you need to do, Winslow,” I say finally. It comes out harsher than I mean it to, but I can’t pull it back. Using her last name feels like drawing a line — one that neither of us knows how to cross again.
Her face tightens. She nods once, like she expected it. Then she gathers the rest of her clothes and walks past me without another word. The sound of her bedroom door clicking shut feels final.
