Page 203 of Rush

His lips graze my neck. “…Elena’s pussy tastes likehoney.”

Before I can even laugh, he shifts—fast—flipping me onto my back like I weigh nothing.

I yelp.

Then his mouth is on me again, and I forget how to breathe.

Afterward, we’re sprawled on my living room floor, boneless and breathless. Cushions, clothes, and belongings scattered all over my living room like breadcrumbs.

“You can’t stay,” I murmur, half-asleep.

“Wow. Use me and kick me out,” he chuckles.

Broderick sits up, reaching for his shirt.

“I need sleep for tomorrow,” I groan, rolling over to search for my panties.

“How long will you be away?”

My fingers brush across lace under the coffee table, and I fish them out. “Three days. What time is it?” I ask, slipping them on.

We both stand—my legs wobbly, him still butt naked.

“2 a.m.,” he murmurs, searching for his briefs. He finds them draped over the ottoman.

Shit.

His pants are barely zipped before I push him toward the door—he doesn’t budge.

“Oh, it’s way past your curfew, Cinderella. Out,” I tease, nudging him again.

He just looks at me, amused, completely unbothered.

Then he turns, cupping my face gently. “Are you going to turn into a pumpkin?” he asks, that dimpled grin making it impossible to take him seriously.

“I might turn into a gremlin if you keep disturbing my sleep.”

“Good,” he says, softer now, like he means something else entirely. He leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to my forehead.

“Didyou pack your headphones this time?” Riley calls from the kitchen, already banging through cabinets.

“Top of the case,” I say, zipping my suitcase shut. “I’m not repeating that whole crying-on-the-plane situation again.”

She appears with two mugs, bun askew, face still pink from sleep. “Good. Now, would you like your coffee with a splash of scalding hot gossip?”

I narrow my eyes. “What are the vultures saying now?”

She flops onto the couch, tapping her phone like she’s cueing up a monologue. “It’s juicy. Brace yourself.”

“Oh God.”

“StarScene Weekly,” she announces. “Published at 5:47 a.m., which means someone got paid to write this while you were—what’s the word—fornicating.”

I roll my eyes at her taking a sip of the hot coffee.

She clears her throat, dramatic. “‘Elena Montgomery may have been the musical highlight at last night’s star-studded Children’s Hospital Holiday Gala, but it wasn’t her vocals that had everyone buzzing—it was the man on her arm…’”

I grab a mug and sink into the chair across from her, bracing.