Page 275 of Rush

“What time is it?” I rasp, voice barely working.

“Four.”

A beat passes.

“In the morning?” I groan, burying my face into the pillows.

I feel his breath on the back of my neck before he presses a kiss there—soft and unhurried.

“We’ve got a long drive.”

“I just fell asleep,” I mutter.

“You passed out after your fourth orgasm,” he says, amused. “That was hours ago.”

“Stop keeping score.”

He chuckles against my shoulder, fingers slipping beneath the blanket to rub slow circles into my hip.

“I let you sleep, didn’t I?”

“Barely.”

“You drooled.”

“I, what?”

“Just a little. It was cute.”

I finally turn toward him, squinting through the dark. The glow of the city below bleeds faint, silver through the windows, just enough to outline the sharp curve of his jaw, the bedhead, the way he’s smiling at me makes my chest flutter.

He kisses my forehead.

“You can sleep in the car,” he says. “Come on, baby. Let’s go chase the sunrise.”

And damn it, the way he says it—I almost don’t care what comes next.

Within the hour we’re dressed, I’ve popped his gift in my bag to give to him later if the opportunity presents itself.

In the car, the heater blasts against my shins, and I’m curled into the passenger seat with Broderick’s hoodie wrapped around me like a blanket. Even though I’ve got a sweater and coat on, it’s his hoodie that makes me feel safe. The CD from last night plays“Beyond”by Leon Bridges.

The streets are a mixture of people starting their day and ending their night. As we leave the city limits the traffic things with only the occasional truck passes in the opposite direction, headlights slicing through the dark.

“You okay?” he asks, hand steady on the wheel, eyes on the road.

“Cold,” I murmur. “And hungry.”

“We’ll fix that.”

Fifteen minutes later, we pull into a tiny roadside diner glowing like a beacon in the dark. It smells like burnt coffee and hashbrowns.

Inside, has cracked vinyl booths and condensation on the windows. A sleepy woman behind the counter pours us coffeewithout asking, like she used to the kind of people showed up in the early hours of the morning.

Broderick orders for us—pancakes, eggs, bacon, the works. I tug my sleeves down over my hands and lean across the table, chin in my palm.

“Okay, where are we going?”

He lifts a brow. “You’re so impatient.”