Page 158 of Rush

I think about it for a moment, but the truth settles quietly in my chest.

I already have what I need.

Right here. With him.

“I like this,” I whisper. “Maybe a shower later. But we can spoon for a little while longer.”

“You got it,” he chuckles softly. “So, you’re okay with aftercare?”

“You said it’s a necessity,” I murmur. “I wouldn’t want to deprive my star employee of hisneeds.”

So long as he continues giving me what I need—him.

After my shower, I stand in Broderick’s luxurious ensuite, wrapped in nothing but a towel, and realize—I have no clean clothes.

Fuck.

A soft knock at the door startles me. My cheeks heat, absurdly shy even though he had me bound and fucked within an inch of my sanity not long ago.

“Hey, I figured you might need these,” Broderick says, cracking the door open.

“Come in,” I call, tightening the towel at my chest.

He steps in, holding a sleek Nordstrom bag, along with two bottles of water.

“What’s this?”

“You need to hydrate and I figured I owed you reparations.” He shrugs, offering it to me with a half-grin. “For destruction of property.”

He places the water bottles on the counter.

I peek inside. Nestled neatly are a pair of dark green sweatpants, a matching jumper, other items of clothing and several pairs of new underwear.

“You went shopping?”

“I did. After this morning.” His smile grows cocky, dimples deepening. “I was going to drop them by tomorrow, but since you delivered yourself to me…”

I roll my eyes, fighting a smile.

“Okay, I’ll leave you to get dressed. Hungry?” he asks, lingering in the doorway.

“I could eat.”

He nods once before disappearing down the hall.

I crack open the water bottle and chug half before putting on the soft sweatpants and jumper, the fabric still crisp and smells faintly of new cotton and cologne. Using Broderick’s brush, I work through my damp hair. I rummage through his drawers, searching for a blow dryer, and come up empty. It’s strange—almost sterile. As if no one reallyliveshere. Then again, with him constantly traveling, maybe he doesn’t bother. Maybe he’s learned to live out of a suitcase.

Throwing the towel over my shoulders, I leave his bedroom and call out, “Brody?”

“In the kitchen, sweetheart,” he answers, voice warm, steady—though when I join him, I notice he’s dressed in matching dark green sweats and jumper too.

“You look nice—what is this, our newfuck-buddy uniform?” I tease, arching a brow.

Broderick lets out a short laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His jaw tightens.

“Everything okay?” I ask, watching the way he rummages through the cabinets.

He exhales, almost sheepish. “Well, looks like we’re ordering in. I don’t really have anything—unless you want a protein shake?”