Page 84 of Rush

And we were still here. Still naked. Still wrapped around each other.

His arm heavy across my waist. His breath, slow and deep, tickles my neck. His chest rises and falls behind me. I could feel the exact place where we fit together, every inch that would make it hard to walk straight and even harder to think.

Shit.

My eyes fly open in a cold panic.

No bed sex.

No sleepovers.

The first rule. Gone. Obliterated. Swept right off the damn table and buried under a pile of orgasms and zero self-control.

“Brody,” I whisper, wriggling in his grip. “Wake up.”

He groans, thick and rough with sleep, tightening his hold like I’m a pillow he’s not ready to give up. “Mmmph. Don’t wanna.”

“Wake up,” I say again, firmer this time, elbowing his ribs lightly.

He groans louder.

“Jesus, woman.” Then he shifts behind me, his erection pressing lazily against my ass. “You’re insatiable.”

“That’s not why I’m waking you up.”

He kisses the back of my neck, lazy and smug. “Pity.”

“Broderick,” I say, turning to look at him. “We slept.”

One eye cracks open. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

“Itis,” I hiss. “We broke the no sleepover rule.”

He stares at me for a beat. Then grins, dimples dancing on his cheeks. “Technically,” he says, stretching like a cat, “it wasn’t a sleepover. Just…an extended break. With our eyes closed. A technicality.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you,” he smirks, trailing his hand slowly down my back, pulling me into him, “are overthinking.”

It didn’t mean anything. Just one night. Just a broken rule. That was all.

It didn’t count if we were too tired to move. It didn’t count if we were tangled up and half-asleep.

I tell myself that as I lay there, beside him.

It didn’t count.

Chapter 10

Consequences

The car’s engine purrs softly as we wind through the tree-lined driveway, golden leaves swirling past the windows like sparks from a flame. Early autumn in New York bites crisp—the kind of cold that makes you burrow into your coat. I sit poised, watching the blur of color outside, praying for the strength to survive the long weekend.

I hadn’t seen Broderick since Boston a few days ago, since we broke a rule from our arrangement. Broderick brushed it off like nothing, but I know better.

Philippa sits beside me, impeccable as always. Her coat dress is tailored to perfection, legs crossed at the knee, phone resting on her lap. But her eyes give her away. She sneaks glances when she thinks I’m not looking.

“Out with it,” I murmur, still staring at the window.