Page 219 of Rush

I pull him in, desperate to feel his lips on mine again. The way his stubble tickles my skin, his tongue caressing me gently.

The stove ticks softly behind us. Dinner’s still hot.

But his mouth is already moving down my neck, and I’m not sure either of us will make it to the table.

“Let’s eat,” he growls, then turns me around and spanks me. Hard.

I yelp.

For a second, I don’t know if he means me or the food.

He demolishes his meal like he hasn’t eaten in days, moaning low at the garlic greens, licking the mashed potatoes clean off his plate. I can’t help the grin tugging at my lips as I watch him savor every bite.

“Damn, sweetheart,” he says, leaning back, rubbing his stomach. “I could get used to this.”

“Good, I like taking care of you.” I stand starting to clear the table.

“What did I do to deserve this?”

I shrug, a little shy. “Because you’re kind of special to me.” Resting my hands over his shoulders.

He moans softly at my touch, moving down over his chest before he pulls me into his lap.

“Am I?”

His eyes travel from my face down my neck, locking on the lace barely visible under my shirt. I shift on his lap, rubbing against his growing bulge.

“Yes, my very special sex friend,” I tease.

He groans, face pressing into my chest, growling low against my skin. The warmth of it ripples through me, the sound vibrating straight down my spine. I shift, roll my hips just enough to feel him—hard and ready, thick against the lace.

“I think my pussy wants you,” I whisper into his ear. “But…” I drag the word out, slipping off his lap slowly, grinding all the way down as I stand. “I should get this cleaned up.”

I turn toward the kitchen, hips swaying, giving him a full view.

He lets out a satisfied hum, stretching his arms behind his head like he’s trying to behave.

I take a step.

Then another.

He lunges to grab me.

I dodge him, laughing, heels clicking as I dart around the kitchen island.

“You fucking tease,” he growls, voice darker now, deeper.

“If you want me,” I spin to face him, lick my lips, and back up slowly, “you’re gonna have to get me.”

He smirks—feral, full of heat. And then, he’s after me.

I squeal, try to circle around again, but he’s faster. He catches me around the waist, lifts me like I weigh nothing, and slams me—gently but firmly—against the kitchen island.

Before I can catch my breath, he yanks open the shirt I’m wearing—buttons popping, fabric hitting the floor.

He grabs my wrists and pins them to the cool marble, running his hand down my body before flipping me over so my ass is on full display.

“You’ve been a very, very naughty girl,” he mutters, dragging the lace of my panties down in one slow pull.