Her palm is warm through my shirt, and I can feel my heart hammering beneath it. Every instinct in me screams to argue, to pull her back, to keep her away from the worst parts of me. But her eyes—steady, fierce, sure—cut through the noise. She’s not afraid of the storm. She’s demanding a place in it.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” I whisper.
“I already did,” she says, voice soft but unflinching. “The day you started deciding for me.”
That lands like a slap—one I deserve. My breath leaves me in a rush, and before I can stop myself, I reach for her again. This time she doesn’t just let me—she steps into it, into me, closing the last inch between us.
The touch isn’t gentle. It’s desperate.
The kind of collision that happens when words fail and everything else takes over.
The kiss starts soft—hesitant, uncertain—but that restraint lasts maybe a second. Then it’s fire. A breaking point. Every unspoken word turns to heat, to movement, to the need to feel something other than fear.
I slide my hands to her waist, fingers tracing the curve of her spine, memorizing the tremor in her breath as she leans into me. “Sage,” I murmur, my voice low, unsteady. “You sure?”
She looks up at me then—eyes dark, determined. “I’m done being afraid of what people think,” she says. “Aren’t you?”
It’s not just a question. It’s a challenge. And it knocks the air right out of me.
I kiss her again, deeper this time, until the counter gives way to the couch, until thought dissolves into heat and instinct. Every touch feels like a confession—of fear, of want, of everything we’ve tried to outrun.
Sage’s lips are still pressed against mine, her breath is hot and unsteady, as I guide her back. The couch presses against the backs of her thighs, a silent witness to the raw hunger between us.
Her hands begin to claw at my shirt, nails scraping against my skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. I rip the fabric off, tossing it aside without breaking our kiss, the sound of tearing cloth lost in the urgency of the moment.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, her body arching into mine, and I could feel her heartbeat racing against my chest, a frantic rhythm that mirrors my own. The air is thick with thescent of her skin, the taste of her still lingering on my tongue, a heady mix of desire and desperation.
I am hard, achingly so, my cock throbs against her as she grinds her hips into mine. Her movements are both desperate and deliberate, a dance of need that leaves me breathless. “Leo,” she pants, her voice a raw whisper, “now.”
I tear my mouth from hers, trailing kisses down her neck, my lips brushing the delicate skin of her collarbone. My teeth graze the swell of her breast, and I pause to unhook her bra with one hand, the fabric falling away to reveal her full, heavy breasts. I cup her in my hands, my thumb brushing her nipple until it tightens into a peak, a testament to her arousal. She moans, her head falling back, her hair cascading over her shoulders, and I kiss my way lower, my lips mapping the contours of her body.
My hands move with rough urgency, unbuttoning her jeans, sliding them down her legs until they pool at her ankles. I pause, drinking her in, my gaze lingering on the lace panties that barely contain her.
Her skin is flushed, her body trembling, and I feel a surge of possessiveness, a primal need to claim her as mine. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” I murmur, my voice hoarse, my breath ghosting over her skin.
I hook my fingers into the elastic of her panties and pull them down, my eyes never leaving hers. She steps out of them, and I am on my knees, her thighs parting as I press my mouth to her core.
She is wet, so wet, and I groan against her, my tongue plunging deep, circling her clit, sucking gently. Her hands tangle in my hair, her hips bucking against my mouth, and she cries out, her body tightening like a drawn bow. “Yes Leo,” she begs, her voice breaking, her need echoing my own.
I begin shedding my pants and boxers in one swift motion, my cock throbbing, pre-cum glistening at the tip. She watchesme, her eyes dark with desire, and I grip her hips, guiding her to the edge of the couch. She spreads her legs, her hands reaching for me, and I slide inside her in one slow, relentless thrust. She gasps, her walls clenching around me, and I swear I’d never feel anything so tight, so hot.
“Fuck,” I grit out, my voice rough, “you feel incredible.”
I start to move, pulling back slowly before slamming into her. Her nails dug into my back, her breath coming in sharp gasps, and I lean over her, our bodies press together, my mouth finding hers again. Our kisses are fierce, desperate, each one a promise and a plea. “Harder,” she demands, her voice fierce, and I give her what she wants, pounding into her with a force that makes the couch creak.
Her legs wrap around my waist, her heels dig into my ass, pulling me deeper, and I can feel her building, her body tensing around me.
She screams my name, her body shaking as she shatters around me, her walls milking my cock, dragging me over the edge. I follow, my orgasm ripping through me, my cum pulsing deep inside her, and I hold her tight, my forehead pressing to hers, our breaths mingling.
For a moment, we are still, our hearts pounding in unison, the world outside forgotten. I brush her hair back, my thumb tracing her cheek, and she looks up at me, her eyes soft but steady. “You can’t protect me from everything,” she says, her voice quiet but firm. “But you don’t have to face it alone.”
I kiss her, slow and deep, pouring every unspoken fear, every ounce of trust, into that touch. When I pull back, I see it in her eyes—the same surrender I felt. We aren’t just fucking. We are fighting—for each other, for us. And in this moment, it is enough.
Her hands slide up my chest, her touch gentle but insistent, and she pulls me down beside her on the couch. The room wasquiet now, the only sound is our ragged breathing and the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. I wrap an arm around her, pulling her close, her head resting on my chest, her heartbeat slowly syncing with mine.
When it finally slows, the silence that follows is different. Not tense. Not heavy. Just full.
Sage’s head rests against my chest, her breathing steady. I can still feel the thrum of my pulse where her fingers trace lazy circles along my jaw.
