Page 147 of Rush

He hums, clearly enjoying the contact. “Well?”

“Like what?”

“Anal?”

“You want to fuck my ass?” I giggle, more intrigued than offended.

“Yes.”

“Will it hurt?”

“We’ll work up to it,” he says, smug. “Wouldn’t want you ending up incapacitated because of my—what did you call it—monster cock.”

His pride makes me roll my eyes, but the idea sends a little thrill curling through me. I squirm in his lap, feeling the stir of heat all over again.

“What else?” I ask, breathless.

“Can I tie you up? Cuffs? Blindfolds?”

I bite my lip and nod slowly.

“I’m going to have so much fun with you, baby,” he says darkly.

A grin spreads across his face, wicked and full of promise.

Chapter 18

Everytime

My life has become a blur of cities and stages—landing in one place just long enough to unpack, perform, and leave again. Every venue melts into the next. Every morning, I wake up wondering where the hell I am.

But I’ve never felt more inspired.

Life on the road gives me the chance to see more of the world, play my music, and connect with fans. For the first time, it feels like I’m not just existing—I’m actuallyliving. The way my mother always wanted me to.

Not hiding in my room, wishing and hoping for an adventure. But seizing the day. Living in the moment.

And now, with a few rare days back in New York, I finally get time to relax—and spend it where it counts: with Riley.

Food and drinks in hand, I knock on the steel door of her Bushwick studio. Music blares from inside—aggressive, chaotic. Yep, she’s deep in the zone.

The door rattles open and there she is, grinning, wild-eyed.

“Honey, I’m home!” I sing.

“Babe!” she squeals, bouncing like a caffeinated jackrabbit. She’s got paint brushes in both hands and a paint-speckled apron. Classic Riley.

Inside, canvases lean against the walls like dominoes, sculptures in progress clutter the floor. That maroon leather lounge chair sits dead center, surrounded by overlapping Persian rugs we’d thrifted and half-finished dreams. It smells like paint and potential—I love this place.

“How was Seattle and LA? When did you get back?”

“This morning. Broderick picked me up at the airport—we hung out for a bit.”

A flash of heat surges through me as I think of our morning ‘workout’. I bite my lip.

“So, things are going well in that department?” she teases, rinsing brushes in the basin.

I nod. “Yeah. I thought it would fizzle by now with how busy we are, but…he’s showing up. Really trying.”