Page 201 of Rush

Then his hand is gone.

I almost whimper.

He leans in, lips brushing the edge of my ear. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m still…horny,” I hiss.

“Good,” he whispers, his knuckles grazing the inside of my arm next.

We dance. Somewhere between polite and not. His hands at my waist, my back. I barely hear the music.

I barely hear anything. Just the blood rushing in my ears and the burn where his fingertips trace exposed skin.

“We need to find somewhere quiet,” I say, the words tight like a bowstring pulled too far.

His eyes drop to my mouth. Then lift. “Yeah?”

I nod once. “Now.”

We slip out through a side hallway, past tall pines wrapped in fairy lights and half-drunk glasses left sweating on white-clothed tables. I don’t wait for him to catch up. My hand closes around his and I drag him behind me leading us straight into ruin.

The coat closet door gives with a shove. Dim light filters through a vent above, just enough to catch the flicker of his eyes.

I push him inside.

My back hits the wall first. Then his mouth is on me, followed by his hands.

I claw at his shirt, rip it loose, drag my nails down the warm skin underneath. His belt clinks open. His pants fall low on his hips. My dress bunches around my thighs. No buildup. No ceremony. No time.

I don’t want slow.

He grips my thigh, lifts, the thick press of his cock already right there. My breath stutters. I brace one hand against the wall, the other gripping his shoulder as he thrusts into me.

I gasp—bite down hard on my lip to stay quiet. Not that I care if anyone hears.

He stretches me open, driving in with sharp, relentless precision, his hands locked around my hips like he’s the only thing holding me together. I’m not together. I’m unraveling. Splintering in the best possible way. Every move scrapes something raw—doubt, fury, lust—every frustration pouring out in ragged exhales.

My hands are everywhere. In his hair. On his back. Around his neck. I can’t hold him close enough.

His mouth moves over my jaw, my throat—biting, breathing, groaning into my skin.

“You’re fucking soaked,” he mutters, voice breaking. “Jesus, El?—”

“All for you,” I gasp, grabbing his face and kissing him until we forget where we are.

The limo ride back barely cools us.

We climb in flushed and reckless, the hem of my dress crumpled from earlier. He looks at me like he’s starving. I don’t wait for the partition. My hand slides over his thigh. I lean in, bite his neck, just to feel him groan through my lips.

His hand presses between my legs again, stroking through soaked lace.

I nod.

That’s all it takes.

He drops to the floor like he’s been waiting all night to kneel.

My legs part. My head tipping back.