Page 221 of Rush

I scream.

My hands grip the edge of the counter, my body bowing under the weight of him. He slams into me again—harder, deeper.

He fucks me like he owns me. Like I’m his to punish and please in equal measure. His thumb twitches inside my ass with every movement, and I lose track of everything but the feeling of being held open, filled, wrecked, by him.

“I’m going to ruin you for anyone else,” he growls as he pounds greedily into me, burying his thick cock into my pussy, filling and stretching me out.

“Broderick—it’s…oh—God,” I cry through every thrust.

God help the next man who tries—he’ll never get past the front door.

And I take all of it—every inch, every spank, every growl against my ear—moaning his name like a prayer.

Post orgasm, I’m draped over the kitchen island, gasping, his hands still gripping my hips. My legs shake as sweat cools on myback, his chest pressed to me, his heart hammering hard against my spine.

“You take me so well, baby,” he says, breathless. “Did you like that?”

I don’t answer—my voice gone from crying out his name.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours. Time no longer exists.

After we’ve recovered our senses, I shower first. By the time I’m dressed, he’s still in there, so I busy myself in the kitchen—my version of post-orgasm aftercare. I’m still floating a little, but the domesticity helps anchor me.

Broderick walks out of the hallway—shirtless, damp-haired, wearing nothing but khaki-green sweats that hang way too low on his hips. They’re thin enough that I can see the outline of his perfect cock.

My thighs clench, still tender, a slow pulse already returning between my legs.

I’m addicted.

He stops, cocking his head at the sight of me crouched on the floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, amused.

“Picking up the casualties.” I grin, holding up a button between two fingers. “Your shirt didn’t make it.”

He stares at me for a beat, then lets out a soft laugh. “Rest in peace to Giorgio Armani.”

“We hardly knew thee.”

In two steps, he’s beside me—scooping me up off the floor.

“Broderick!” I squeal, arms looping around his neck.

He just smirks, striding toward the couch with me. He drops onto the cushions with me still in his lap, one arm tucked around my waist.

I curl into him, still warm from the shower, hair damp, heart light.

We sit like that for a few seconds—breath syncing. That sweet, quiet beat between chaos and confession.

He breaks the silence first.

“So,” he says, voice casual but eyes sharp. “You never answered me.”

“About what?”

He leans in, noses against my temple. “Did you like it?”

I know what he means.