Page 155 of Rush

“Don’t make me fuck that smart mouth—yes or no, baby?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to stretch that sweet little ass, get you ready to take meone day. But tonight…” His eyes are almost black, voice rough. “Tonight I’m going to tie you up and tease you until you’re begging for me.”

My mouth goes dry. Heat licks through me.

“Do you want to play?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

He pushes me higher on the bed, guiding my arm out and fastening it to a bedpost with deliberate care. That’s when I notice—Broderick’s bed isn’t just four posts. Each one has a hidden compartment. From it, he pulls a metal ring, eyes locked on mine.

Holy shit. He’s got a fucking Transformers bed.

Broderick takes the silk scarf from the bedside table and drags it along my skin in a slow, teasing path. The light touch makes my nipples pebble instantly, every nerve sparking alive. My breath catches as he wraps the scarf tight around my wrist, the restraint sending a shiver straight through me.

“Now,” he says, his voice steady, commanding but gentle. “If at any moment you want to slow down—yellow. If you’re okay to proceed—green. Understood?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“And if you want me to stop—red.” He threads the end of the scarf through the hidden ring on the bedpost, tugging once to test the knot. My arm is immobile, pinned above my head.

I nod automatically, but his hand cups my chin, thumb brushing over my lips. “Words, baby. This only works if we communicate.”

“Yes, green,” I breathe, impatience bleeding into my tone. The buildup is killing me. My body aches for him.

A low, dark chuckle rumbles from his chest. He picks up the second scarf and repeats the ritual with my other wrist. My pulse pounds louder with every tug and knot, until I’m strung open beneath him, helpless, waiting.

He takes a small bottle from the nightstand and pours liquid into his hands. I hear the slick sound of his palms rubbing together, and curiosity claws through my haze.

“What is that?” My voice comes out hoarse.

“Oil.” His lips curve into the barest smirk before he lowers his hands to me.

The first touch steals a gasp from my throat. His large hands glide over my decolletage sliding down over my breasts, slick and warm, massaging with purposeful pressure. Broderick wraps his lips around each nipple, coaxing them until they’re stiff, his breath skittering over my skin as he works each one.

“These were made for me,” he breathes, jiggling them playfully before nibbling on each peak again—his stubble tickles my skin making every nerve ending come to life.

My back arches in pleasure. I desperately want to run my hands through his hair, kiss him, but I’m helpless as I writhe against the restraints. The oil coats my skin in a slippery sheen, carrying the soothing scent of sweet almond and vanilla. The heat of his hands softens every thought—blurring every line.

“Oh, God—Broderick…I,” I whimper.

“Relax,” he murmurs, voice husky, reverent. “I want to explore every inch of your body.”

“Green,” I groan, my eyes rolling back.

His hands travel lower, firm strokes mapping me, calming me, unraveling me. My body melts under him, every muscle pliant, boneless, even as the ache between my thighs sharpens into an unbearable need.

I glance down at him. He’s watching me closely, his expression a mix of hunger and patience, as though windingme up tighter is half the fun. His thumbs press into my thighs, kneading, dragging back and forth. Each pass makes me tremble harder, my body begging him to touch me where I’m burning for him.

He trails his oiled hands back up toward my breasts, kneading once before leaning over the side of the bed. From the drawer, he pulls another bottle and the gleam of silver.

My breath stalls. “What’s that?”

His grin is wicked, almost unrecognizable—darker, dangerous. “A butt plug.”