Page 127 of Rush

He chuckles, then slips my thong aside, thrusting into me without hesitation.

It hurts—in the best way.

His hips slam into me, catching my moans with his mouth. I cling to him, arms locked around his neck, thighs tight at his waist, needing him closer.

While Avery had planned to fuck him, I’m the one taking him—right here, right now.

Satisfaction flares hot inside me.

We’re ravenous—despite already indulging yesterday, it’s like we hadn’t touched in weeks. Sex with him is addictive. Like the heat between us resets every time.

Then he slows, pulling out inch by inch.

I whimper, aching for the feeling back.

“You looked so fucking sexy walking down that aisle, Elena.”

Broderick drags his tip against my slick, rubbing hard over my clit.

I moan, thighs twitching, “Brody?—”

“I couldn’t wait to mess you up.”

He pushes back in slowly—it’s torturous.

My body arches.

He builds the rhythm again, purposeful, deep strokes that make me feel euphoric.

Then his pace snaps back to punishing—hips pounding into mine, hands gripping my thighs so tight they might bruise. The thought sends shivers through me.I’ll feel him for hours.

The table creaks beneath us, but I don’t care. Every thrust is dizzying, searing, unraveling me.

“Brody—” I choke, nails digging into his shoulders. “I’m?—”

“I know,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to mine, eyes locked on mine. “Give it to me.”

And I do.

I shatter around him, legs trembling, breath stuttering as the orgasm tears through me sharp and fast. He keeps moving,chasing his own release, and I can barely keep upright, hips jerking with each stroke.

He groans low in my ear—rough, guttural—and then he follows, pulsing inside me as he holds me tight against his chest, like he needs the anchor just as badly.

We hold each other for a moment, ragged breaths, spent and satisfied, as he peppers kisses across my bare shoulders.

We hurriedly redress, fumbling with buttons and smoothing fabric like that could erase what just happened. I’m flushed tugging my dress back into place—slightly wrinkled now, clinging in all the wrong places.

Fucking silk.

“You’re trouble,” I mutter.

He grins—proud to be my undoing—tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his thumb brushing lightly against my cheek. “You love trouble.”

I hum, but it comes out faint.

The warmth of release still pulses through me, but already the edges are cooling. The high—short-lived. And in its place:her voice.

Creeping back in like smoke under a door.