7. Distraction #3
He raises both palms in surrender, dimples dancing on his cheeks as a smile tugs at his mouth. “Alright. Top secret. What else?”
“No sex in beds. Or at least…not in each other’s,” I say, folding my arms. “Beds are complicated. They lead to sleeping.”
Sharing each other’s beds, being in each other’s spaces, feels loaded.
“What?” he says incredulously.
“Actually—add that too. No sleepovers.” I glance up at him, relieved his expression is still playful.
“So let me get this straight—rule two: no beds and no sleepovers? You’re banning the best surface known to man.”
“There are alternatives,” I reply coolly. “Couches. Counters.” I eye the weight bench in the corner of his gym.
His gaze follows mine—and lets out a low chuckle. “You want me to fuck you next to my dumbbells?”
“If I want to,” I challenge, lifting my chin. His eyes spark with something dark and delicious, and the heat it sends through me is immediate, curling low in my belly. The image alone—his body pinning mine to that bench, muscles flexing—is enough to make me come right now.
“Alright…anything else?”
I hesitate, then clear my throat. “Three: no kissing. Unless we’re fucking.”
That wipes the humor off his face.
“Seriously?”
“Kissing is…intimate,” I murmur, unsure. “Too intimate.”
Broderick lifts a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Elena, need I remind you that we’ve already kissed?” He leans in slightly, eyes flicking down to my lips.
“Yes, but that was circumstantial.”
“Point taken.” He tilts his head, curious. “But…isn’t sex intimate?”
“Not the way we’ll be doing it.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, warm and teasing. “What, clinically?”
“No.” My confidence clicks back into place as I straighten. “For my gratification.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Way to make a guy feel special.”
I can’t help the way that tugs at something in me. Broderick is special. Special enough that I trust no one else with this.
“You’re really banning kissing?” he asks in disbelief.
“It complicates things.”
Broderick’s eyes drop to my mouth—and linger. He doesn’t lean in, not exactly, but his body shifts forward, just enough for heat to radiate off him. I catch the way sweat clings to the edge of his collarbone, drying slow and golden.
“No kissing outside of sex?” His voice is low, a velvet threat. “Shame. I was looking forward to taking my time with your sweet mouth.”
My breath stutters. He still hasn’t touched me and I’m already unraveling.
“But this time…” he adds, eyes glittering with mischief, “you’d know it was me.”
I swallow hard. My knees feel like jelly. My breath comes ragged and shallow.
“Alright, Sweetheart. No kissing.” He smiles, all lazy and flirty. “But I bet you break that rule first.”
Then—slowly—he drags his tongue across his bottom lip, just to torture me.
And now all I can think about is tasting him. Devouring him.
He winks, cocky and unbothered, as if he’s already won.
Bastard.
“We’ll see about that,” I say, my voice barely steady.
He laughs, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe this conversation is happening. Honestly? Same.
I’d half-expected him to shut it down entirely. To throw me out for even suggesting something so indecent, so...us.
But I’m done pretending. Done denying the want I’ve carried in the quietest, most forbidden parts of my mind since that moment in the Hamptons.
“Alright, what else?” he prompts, eyes gleaming with interest.
“No hanging out alone—unless it leads to sex,” I say, forcing firmness into my tone.
He scoffs. “What does that even mean?”
“No dates, no dinners, no movies, no walks in the park. And definitely no laser tag.”
His lips twitch. “Laser tag?”
“Yup.” I fold my arms. “Because dates lead to feelings. And this—” I gesture between us “—is strictly about sex.”
“For now,” he challenges.
My breath hitches and then—just to rub it in—he flashes another grin so cheeky, so infuriatingly dimpled, I want to smack it off his face. Or kiss it. Probably both.
I roll my eyes and forge ahead. “And lastly—just you and me. If either of us sleep with someone else, the agreement’s off.”
His expression shifts as he stands there—letting the words sink in.
He might still throw me out. And honestly? I wouldn’t blame him. But God, I hope he doesn’t. The teasing alone would be unbearable. I’d never live it down.
“So…you don’t want to share me?” he says finally, leaning back against the weight bench, his arm slung casually over the barbell.
“It works both ways,” I say with a shrug, trying to sound breezy. “You’re free to see other people.”
The lie tastes bitter, but I force it down.
His hand curls around the barbell, grip tightening until his knuckles go white. He lets out a low whistle.
“Let me get this straight. I’m signing up for secret sex, uncomfortable furniture, not even the promise of dinner, zero cuddling, and a non-compete clause?”
“Yes.” I pause. “And me. If you’ll have me—this way.”
He doesn’t speak right away. And the silence might kill me.
He runs a hand through his hair, trying to make sense of everything we’ve just laid out, then glances back at me and shakes his head.
“You know you want to, Brody…just say yes,” I sing-song, my words wrapped in sugar and heat. Flirtation, weaponized—one sultry note at a time.
“Elena.”
His jaw tightens. The veins in his arms pulse as he breathes in slow, deep exhales. His eyes search mine for any hint of doubt—but he won’t find it.
“Fuck it,” he mutters, his resolve slipping through his fingers.
“So…are you in?” I ask, unable to keep the smile from my lips.
“Yes, I’ll be your dick-on-demand.”
That’s all I need.
Adrenaline spikes, a thrill running through me so sharp it makes me bold. Reckless. Brave.
I step toward him, fingers aching to touch, to trace the lines of his body and feel the heat of his skin.
But before I can reach him, he watches me—something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. “Though,” he murmurs, voice low and wicked, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, “I should probably warn you…”
I freeze, breath caught midair, my gaze locked on his.
He raises a hand, wrapping it gently but firmly around my jaw and neck, tilting my face up to meet his. His grip tightens enough to send a jolt of heat down my spine.
His eyes drop to my lips, lingering there just long enough to make my pulse stutter, before dragging slowly back up to meet mine.
“I like it rough.”
A shiver ripples through me. Not from fear. From anticipation.
God help me, I think.
But I’m not praying for rescue. I’m praying he doesn’t stop.