Page 182 of Rush

I want him to bury me under a pile of orgasms until all the noise is drowned out.

Broderick hoists me up, my legs on either side of his shoulders, his hands firm beneath my thighs, before standing.

I grasp his biceps, nails digging in, holding on for dear life.

“Holy shit, Brody…don’t you dare—oh…” His tongue never stops, working out every frustration from earlier. “Drop me.”

He takes a few steps to the sofa before tossing me down like a bag of potatoes, my back hitting the cushions with a soft thud.

A wicked grin spreads across his face, glistening with my arousal.

“I like when you get flustered.” He kneels between my legs, his mouth ghosting over the inside of my thigh. “Your cheeks get all pink.”

I barely have a second to get a word in before his lips find me again, indulging in every part of me like this is what he flew home for.

I reach for his hair, twist my fingers in it. My hips move on instinct, breath staggering.

Broderick slowly pushes two fingers inside.

I gasp—high and sharp—and he growls like it does something to him.

Sucking and playing with my clit in perfect rhythm with his hand, patient and precise.

“Your pussy is so greedy for me.”

My head tips back. Legs tighten around his head as I inch toward my pinnacle. A rush of stars flicker behind my eyes. Endless and consuming

I’m speechless, breath stolen, chest heaving. I squirm and he plants soft, delicate kisses on my pussy, holding me steady as he works me through the aftershocks of my orgasm

Until I’m so tender, I can’t think. Can’t speak.

It’s just him and me in this suspended, weightless bliss.

Thoughts of my father, Alex, the Grammys?—

Fall away.

For now.

Chapter 22

Look After You

My first Thanksgiving in over five years. I felt neutral about it at first—maybe even hopeful—after my father’s surprisingly polite phone call congratulating me on the Grammy nominations.

But I have a feeling I’m walking into a lion’s den.

Alex had been relentless since the announcement. Every morning, a new post: blurred, intimate photographs that danced just close enough to exposure. Some were cropped, obscured—enough to spark questions. Is it her? Was it ever not?

When it wasn’t photos, it was lyrics from songs we’d listened to. Or underlined stanzas from the poetry books we used to read side by side. Of course the media was having a field day over it.

He was sending a message.You’re on my mind.

He called, too. Over and over. Always late. Always, just as I was about to fall asleep. I never picked up.

But he’s getting harder to ignore.

What does he want? Surely Madison wouldn’t be happy with him doing this.