Page 270 of Rush

Click. Click. Click.

My heart hammers—not from fear, but from trying to hold the line between what’s safe and what I know I’m falling into.

I reach for his hand.

He glances at me. “What are you doing?”

I pull his hand to the bare strip of skin between my skirt and thigh-high socks.

“Making sure you’ve got something to hold on to,” I say, biting my lip.

“Elena,” he warns.

The second his fingers graze my thigh, his eyes darken.

“You want this? Here?” he asks. Like part of him is hoping I’ll say no.

“Yes. Please.”

And that’s it.

His resolve shatters—because this man lives to please me.

His grip tightens on my thighs, spreading them. His touch slides beneath the hem of my skirt—lazy, like he’s got all night.

Click. Click. Click.

We climb higher.

At the top, his fingers slip beneath my underwear.

And the world drops out.

The wind steals my breath—but not like his hands do. He moves slow at first, then more certain, stroking with the kind of precision that makes my vision blur. My back arches, my grip digging into his arm, but he just laughs—low, wicked, amused.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Enjoy the ride.”

The next hill comes.Click. Click. Click.

I gasp as his fingers curl, coaxing every nerve to attention. I clench around him, thighs shaking, and still he doesn’t stop.

We crest the next peak.

Then plunge.

He moves faster, deeper. My pussy drenches his fingers, the rush of the ride blurring with the friction, with the unbearable pressure building at my core. I’m nothing but sensation—his touch, the wind, the noise, the speed.

The whole world narrows to the place where he touches me.

By the time we screech to a stop, I’m trembling. Shaken. Breath ragged, thighs still parted.

Broderick leans back in his seat, smug as hell.

“Guess you were just in it for the screaming.”

I barely resist the urge to punch him.

Or kiss him again.