Page 49 of Rush

Oh fuck.

“Um,” I stammer, stumbling backward, cheeks blazing, humiliation mixing chaotically with lingering desire. “I should—I gotta go. Enjoy your dinner…or whatever. Um, see you Friday?”

“El—stay.” Broderick coughs awkwardly, adjusting himself quickly. Stacey stands frozen, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“See ya, Stacey,” I blurt, forcing a shaky smile. “Have a good night.”

And I bolt—out of the office, into the hallway, legs trembling beneath me. The elevator ride down feels endless, each second stretching as Broderick’s heat clings stubbornly to my skin.

By the time Tony drops me home, I’m wound tighter than a guitar string, aching desperately for release. Taking a hot shower, hoping to soothe both my tired muscles and racing mind—but the memory of Broderick’s voice and his touch refuse to wash away.

Padding barefoot across my bedroom, I reach the dresser that holds my dirty little secret. I slide open the drawer, fingers curling around the worn shirt hidden at the back.

Gray. Soft.His.

Alex.

I bring it to my face, inhaling deeply. It still smells like him—like the ocean breeze after a storm, hints of bright citrus, and something uniquely intoxicating that belongs only to Alex Westerberg.

My chest constricts painfully around the familiar ache.

God, I miss him. I miss the warmth of his arms, the velvet depth of his voice sinking into my bones, the electrifying way he made me feel alive.

Pulling the shirt over my head, it slips over my skin like a tender memory, oversized and comforting, swallowing me whole as I crawl into bed. The cool sheets greet my bare legs, heightening my sensitivity.

With Alex’s scent surrounding me and Broderick’s lingering caress imprinted vividly on my skin, I reach over to the bedside drawer, retrieving ol’ faithful—my trusty vibrator. I slip it between my thighs, positioning it gently against my clit, and flick it to life, gasping as vibrations surge against my skin.

My thoughts spiral between Broderick’s devastating smile, the tight pull of his shirt across those sculpted muscles, and the ghostly brush of Alex’s shirt enveloping me now. I writhe under the pulsing sensation, wetness pooling rapidly as my pleasure begins its climb.

Soft, desperate moans slip from my lips, hips rocking urgently. Almost there. Legs trembling, toes curling?—

It sputters. Dies.

No. No. Noooooooo!

I could cry. Frustration crashes over me like cold water, extinguishing the flames licking at my core. With an angry huff, I roll over in search of the charger—misjudging completely, slipping off the edge of the bed, and landing with an ungraceful thud on the floor.

“Fuck,” I groan aloud, plugging the traitorous vibrator into its charger with more force than necessary. I storm into the kitchen, pouring myself a generous glass of wine, hoping it takes the edge off my disappointment.

Back in bed, I sip impatiently, my hand automatically reaching for my phone. Scrolling through my socials offers only a mild distraction before my thumb betrays me, inevitably wandering to his profile.

Nothing new from Alex himself, but he’s everywhere—tagged relentlessly in photos fromThe Kingmakerpremiere. The premiere he once asked me to attend with him.

That must’ve been tonight.

My heart clenches sharply. And there she is—Madison, radiant and glowing beside him in a curve-hugging designer gown, her hand proudly resting on the slight but undeniably present bump. She’s practically crafted for the headlines, and the sight of her makes my stomach churn.

My eyes search Alex’s face desperately, scanning each image for something—anything—to hold onto. But he never smiles. His expression is taut, guarded. Distant.

Does he miss me?

The thought claws at me, raw and insistent. My thumb hovers recklessly over the screen, and before my brain can intervene, it happens.

Double tap.

Oh fuck. Shit. Fuck!

My heart slams violently into my ribcage. Panic seizes me, and I quickly unlike the photo, tossing the phone away as if it scorched me.