Page 250 of Rush

He chuckles, squirting more lube onto his cock and rubbing it in. Then he shifts down and yanks my hips up.

“You’re an impatient little minx, aren’t you?”

I yelp then—he pushes inside of me slowly, feeling the slight sting from the sheer size of him.

Oh my God.

Broderick stills for a moment, letting me get used to the feeling as he moves slowly. Then he licks his thumb and presses it against my tender clit, rubbing and toying with it—every stroke, every circle—the look on his face is pure bliss—it strips away my last bit of control.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes, El—so tight, so perfect,” he groans, thrusts deepening, one hand gripping my hip. “You take me so well.”

My greedy hands knead my breasts, rolling each nipple between my fingers.

“No one else gets this ass, baby—say it.”

“It’s yours—I’m yours,” I gasp, voice trembling.

He shudders, thrusts frantic now, and then he comes with my name on his lips, collapsing over me.

We lie there, spent and tangled, drunk on happiness and lust.

And maybe somethingmore.

The thingabout being a last-minute entry into a high-stakes situation? It always teeters on the edge of a shitshow.

And tonight was no different.

The choreography is still muscle memory from touring with Ava—but barely. Everyone’s just a beat too slow—bloated from sugar, wine, and whatever the hell we’ve all been indulging in since Christmas.

Rehearsal drags on. Soundcheck is carnage.

Cues get missed. The LED screen glitches mid-verse, blowing out the entire second chorus. Someone’s mic pack cuts out. My in-ear keeps buzzing like a wasp stuck in my skull.

By the time I stumble offstage, my throat burns, my feet numb inside my boots, and my hair—damp from sweat and cold air—frizzes out from under the beanie Inga shoved on my head without asking.

I haven’t eaten since the sad protein bar I choked down this morning.

My jaw is clenched so tight I can feel a headache blooming behind my right eye.

I push into the dressing trailer and collapse into the chair in front of the mirror, breathing like I’ve just come off a battlefield.

The fluorescent lights buzz above me. My reflection looks back—flushed, liner smudged under my eyes.

I stare at her like maybe she’ll get up and handle it. Maybe she’ll figure out how to make this perfect.

Because it has to be.

This is the night. I’m not the opener—I’m closing the year out.

If I’m going down in flames, I’ll look damn good doing it.

After Inga and Rio finish, my exhaustion vanishes beneath makeup brushes and glitter. Red lips, Hollywood curls, and Rio’s sequined, tasseled bodysuit—it looks like I’ve been dipped in liquid gold.

Then—knock, knock.

“Not now,” I groan, desperate for some peace before the show.