Page 138 of Rush

And fuck, it’s intoxicating.

This man—this man—one of the strongest, most composed men I’ve ever met, is kneeling in front of me. The way he looks at me—like I’m a goddess reincarnate—melts me.

He licks his lips. His hands find the curve of my thighs, his fingers firm, possessive, reverently.

I feel powerful. Desired.

Knock knock.

“Mr. Schwartz?” Stacey’s voice filters in from the hallway.

We both freeze.

His forehead rests against my stomach for a beat. I groan, tension snapping like a cut wire.

“Not now, Stacey.”

“Apologies, sir—it’s urgent,” she says again.

“I said not now,” he barks, gripping my thighs as if he’s scared I’ll disappear.

“It’s okay, Broderick. Take it.”

“I’ll come see you tonight,” he offers.

I thread my fingers through his hair, and he groans—low, needy—undone by the simplest touch.

God, this gorgeous man.

“I have SNL rehearsals.” I lean into him, exhaling slowly. My body wants this, but it would be impossible to work into our schedules. “Maybe we should stop for now. I won’t see you for a while. The tour, your work—it’s too much.”

He looks up at me, still on his knees, devotion written in the line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to see you. For you, baby, I’ll do anything. Please, El. Let me prove it. I’m in this.”

And how the hell am I supposed to resist that?

I bend down, cupping his face. His skin is warm beneath my palms, rough with stubble and burning with sincerity. I want to believe him. But I’ve been here before—trusted too quickly, hoped too hard. And I was the one left shattered and disappointed.

“Okay,” I whisper, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, putting him out of his misery and maybe easing some of mine.

When I pull back, his eyes search mine—clear, unwavering, filled with something I can’t quite name.

Chicago

When I slamthe dressing room door behind me, the roar of the Chicago crowd still pulses in my veins, adrenaline blazing through every nerve. Sweat chilling my heated skin, the electric rush of the stage lingering like a drug. And then I see him.

Broderick.

Casually leaning against the vanity, ankles crossed, tie loosened, collar undone, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. Pure temptation wrapped in chaos. He looks up slowly, eyes dark, heated, and mischievous, as though he’s been patiently waiting for exactly this moment.

My breath catches sharply.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, voice trembling, heart knocking wildly against my ribs. I’d told myself not to expect anything. But here he is—exhausted yet undeniably here, just for me—just like he promised.

He smiles crookedly, pushing off the vanity with seductive ease, his eyes dragging hungrily over my stage outfit—over me, like he’s starving and I’m his next meal.

“I told you I’d find a way.”