Her breath hitched.
I released her immediately.
For a second we just stared at each other, chests heaving, adrenaline buzzing hot between us.
“This is foreplay for you,” I said quietly. “You know that, right?”
She stepped back into me, lips brushing my ear.
“Only because you never stop me.”
And that was the part I couldn’t argue with.
Because even now—angry, embarrassed, half-worried about who might hear us—I was already losing.
Her hands slid under my shirt. Mine found her hips.
We crashed together again, not tender, not gentle—kissing like we were trying to erase what had just been said instead of dealing with it.
Outside, laughter drifted from the house.
Inside the cabana, it was just heat and salt and jealousy and the sick, familiar rush of wanting her hardest when things were already going wrong.
And somewhere under the desire, a quieter thought pressed in:
This used to feel dangerous in a good way.
Now it just felt inevitable.
Afterward, everything went quiet.
Not peaceful.
Just… spent.
The kind of quiet that comes after a storm when the air feels heavier instead of lighter.
Sage lay half on top of me, skin warm, breathing slow like she’d just run a marathon. My cheek still stung faintly where she’d hit me. Her wrist still had the ghost of my fingers around it.
Neither of us mentioned either one.
We never did.
We just skipped straight to the part where we pretended we were fine.
“I love you,” she murmured into my chest.
“I love you too,” I said automatically.
It came out like muscle memory.
Not a choice.
Outside, I could hear everyone laughing back at the house.
The sound made my stomach twist.
Fourth of July weekend.
