Page 202 of Rush

His mouth finds me through silk—hot breath, velvet tongue, the steady build of pressure that unravels me all over again. Fingers slide where I need them. His mouth doesn’t let up. My thighs shake around his head. I lose the rhythm of my breath.

I don’t want to stop. I don’twantto come down.

By the time we reach my apartment, I’m raw and boneless. He carries me inside, both of us laughing under our breath like we’re drunk on each other.

I push him onto the couch and straddle him, already yanking at his shirt.

He’s too dressed.

Since he’s ruined enough of my pants, I return the favor—ripping his shirt open, sending buttons flying.

He chuckles, surprised, and nestles deeper into the sofa before going still. His hand brushes something beside him.

A book.

Letters to a Young Poet.

His brows furrow as he lifts it, turning it over in his hand.

“Where’d this come from?” he asks, voice low.

I stiffen—not because of the book, but because of what’s inside. The photo’s still there. Black and white. Me, exposed, framed perfectly between the pages.

He opens it and whistles, low and appreciative. “Well, damn.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t start.”

“Who’s your secret admirer?” He smirks, flashing the photo like it’s a fucking postcard.

“It’s not like that.”

His thumb grazes the edge of the page, eyes scanning the line underlined in thick bleeding ink.

His brow lifts.

“He’s a real fucking Romeo.”

I snort, reaching for the book. He holds it just out of reach, grinning.

“What?” he says. “That Swede still bothering you?”

“Are you jealous?”

“Why would I be?” He slides the book onto the coffee table. “When I’ve got you straddling my lap—and you had my cock in you for the better part of the night?”

My breath stutters. He drags his hands up my thighs, settling them around my hips like he owns me.

“And if you’re really good,” he murmurs, voice dripping in sin, “maybe ‘til the early morning.”

I lean in, breath grazing his jaw. “I have a flight to catch, so I’m cutting you off at midnight, Cinderella.”

He laughs, and I swallow the sound with a kiss—slow and wet, the kind that makes time slide sideways. His tongue rolls against mine, unhurried, like he’s got nowhere to be but under me.

Then he pulls back, just enough.

“Roses are red. Clowns arefunny…”

I raise a brow.