Page 166 of Rush

“Now we’re talking,” I purr, rubbing my arms and thighs across the cool, high-thread-count sheets. They feel like silk against my overheated skin, soothing and sinful all at once.

Broderick walks over to the bedside table and grabs a bottle of water. He cracks it open, the cap clicking, the faint hiss of pressure releasing. He kneels beside the bed and pulls me upright with one strong arm.

“Drink,” he says, voice low.

I shake my head slowly, a wicked grin curving my lips. “Kiss me first.”

His brows lift. “Water first.”

“Kiss,” I whisper, leaning in.

“Water,” he repeats, tilting the bottle just out of reach.

“Kiss.”

He smirks, holding my stare. Then he takes a long sip from the bottle himself. I don’t even have time to protest before he pushes me gently back onto the bed, his body sliding over mine, settling lazily between my thighs. His weight presses me into the mattress—firm, solid, grounding—but his eyes are all spark and fire.

He leans down, mouth hovering just over mine.

I open for him, expecting his tongue—aching for it—but instead, a trickle of cool water pours from his mouth into mine, mingling with the faint taste of him. It’s shocking, refreshing, and impossibly hot. I swallow, gasping slightly.

“More.”

He takes another gulp and does it again—this time slower. The water spills past the corners of my lips, running down my chin, my neck. His hand slides to my throat, thumb gently smearing the moisture as he kisses the line of my jaw.

My hips lift involuntarily against his.

“You like that?” he asks, his voice a gravel scrape.

I nod, lips parted. “I like everything you do.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating against my chest. “Dangerous thing to say, baby.”

Then he kisses me—deeply—and I drink him in like he’s the only thing that could possibly quench my thirst.

“Fuck me now,” I demand, voice breathless and ragged.

Broderick presses his forehead to mine, his palm cradling the back of my neck.

“Not here, El,” he murmurs. “Not until you sober up a little.”

“Fucking tease,” I whimper, shoving him off. Frustration coils tight in my core. I grab the water bottle from the nightstand and down it in long gulps, the liquid sloshing uncomfortably in my stomach.

“Good girl,” he says softly as he stands.

He reaches for me, but I twist away, annoyance prickling under my skin.

“Let’s go,” I snap, shoving the half-empty bottle into his hand and sauntering out of the room, hips swaying with purpose.

When we return to the suite, Ava doesn’t miss a beat.

“Phew, that was quick,” she says, raising a knowing brow.

“Just friends,” Broderick replies coolly.

I can’t help the way it stings a little when he says it.

Ava throws back a shot of tequila and nods—barely—like she’s humoring him.