11. American Money #2
“You feel so fucking good,” he growls against my neck, teeth grazing my skin.
His hands roam—up my ribs, across my stomach, one palming my breast as he pounds into me. I’m coming apart, loud and unrestrained, the sound of our bodies echoing in the vast, humid room.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he grunts, fucking me harder now, both of us lost to the rhythm—wet, messy, frantic.
My nails scrape against his back as I try to brace, try to breathe, try to keep up—but the pleasure is blinding, thick, dragging me under again.
Broderick’s warm lips close around my aching nipples, teasing and sucking them with gentle pressure that sends electric currents down my spine. I shatter completely, my head dipping back as his name tears from my throat.
He grips my hips, thrusting with such fervor as my whole body trembles, the orgasm sweeping through me like a rising symphony.
He curses against my mouth, slamming into me once, twice, before spilling inside with a guttural groan that echoes through the room like thunder.
We’re still moving, hips rolling through the aftershocks, lips pressed to wet skin, breath ragged—
“Oh my fucking God.”
We freeze.
I turn, heart climbing straight into my throat.
Riley.
Frozen in the doorway. Bowl of strawberries in one hand. Expression somewhere between horror and delight.
She blinks. Slowly.
I blink back at her, water dripping down my face, clinging on to Broderick.
“Well,” she says, clearing her throat. “Guess I’ll just leave these here, then.” She places the bowl on a nearby table then turns—so casually—and disappears.
Then I burst out laughing, forehead dropping to his shoulder.
“Brody,” I gasp between breaths, “we’re so fucking busted.”
“Worth it.”
I’m still breathless, collapsing against him, laughter bubbling in my throat even as my legs tremble and Broderick trails soft kisses along my shoulder.
Fuck.
The thought slices through the haze like a knife.
Another rule. Broken.
No bed sex. No sleepovers. No quiet emotional moments alone. And now?
Unhinged, reckless sex in a pool after midnight in a house full of family—where Luca and now Riley, for the love of God, Riley—just caught us mid-orgasm like it was a scene out of a porno.
I bite my lip hard, trying to smother the half-laugh, half-cry that escapes me.
“What’s so funny, sweetheart?” he asks, as he pushes off the edge floating deeper into the water.
“Cat’s out of the bag,” I sigh.
He pulls me into a kiss—slower this time, gentle. Like he’s trying to reassure me everything’s going to be okay.
I kiss him back, still buzzing from what we’ve just done, but Riley’s horrified face sears into my brain.
“She’s never letting me live that down,” I murmur, my forehead pressed to his.
“As if she wouldn’t high five you for it,” he says, grinning, trailing his fingers down my spine.
He’s not wrong—this was her idea.
We drift apart, both paddling lazily through the water. The pool glows beneath us, soft blue light casting ripples across the walls.
Broderick dives under, disappears for a second—then grabs my ankle beneath the surface, pulling me under.
I shriek, “Asshole!” as I come up spluttering.
He surfaces laughing, slick hair clinging to his forehead, water running down the sharp cut of his jaw.
I splash him, but he just circles me like a smug-eyed shark, grinning wide.
“El—what makes you happy?”
The question catches me off guard.
No one’s ever asked me that before. Not like this. Not while I’m half-floating, naked.
“I’m easy,” I say, floating backward lazily. “Food. Books. Poetry. Writing music. Singing. The beach.” I glance at him. “Sex with you.”
He barks a laugh and splashes water straight at my face. “Definitely easy.”
I wipe water from my eyes and smile. “What about you? What makes you happy?”
He pauses for a moment before he answering, “Sex with…you.” He chuckles, then adds, “Being with my family. Friends. Food, for sure. Helping people. Whenever we set up new communities in underdeveloped places, and I see the change—that’s a good feeling.”
The work he does for people, the lives he touches. It stirs something low in my stomach.
“So you’re actually a superhero.” I raise a brow. “Meanwhile, I’m over here thrilled at the idea of a burger and a cold beer by the beach.”
He grins, boyish and golden. “Well, that doesn’t sound half bad either.”
“If you weren’t saving the world, what would you do?”
“I think I’d get my pilot’s license. Flying’s always fascinated me. The mechanics, the freedom, how planes work…”
Before I can ask more, he reaches for me, pulling me into him. My legs wrap around his waist, water sloshing between us.
He’s soaked and warm and solid beneath my thighs.
“What about you, Songbird? If you weren’t singing, what do you think you’d be doing?”
“Travel,” I say, my breath catching. “I’ve never really been anywhere outside Australia and the States.”
I don’t bring up Sweden. The memories hurt too much to let them intrude on this little bubble.
“I want to camp under the stars in the Valley of the Moon in Jordan. Wander through the lavender fields of Provence. See the glaciers in Iceland.”
I pause, the last one settling a little deeper in my chest.
“And then…sit on a beach in the Philippines with a few beers.”
His eyes soften. “I love the Philippines.”
“You’ve been?”
“Yeah. We worked on resettlement programs in Manila a few years ago. But I’d love to see more of it.
“Maybe one day,” he says, voice low. “We could go together.”
And the thought of Manila, not just in my head but beneath my feet, of being there—maybe with him.
The weight of his suggestion terrifies me. When my mom got sick, we lived day by day, waiting for the other shoe to inevitably drop. To even let myself imagine a future beyond our arrangement—I refuse to indulge it.
“Maybe, but you have to catch me first.” I push off him and duck beneath the surface, my heartbeat echoing in my ears. I swim to the edge and come up laughing, flipping my hair back.
He chases me.
I kick at him, half-hearted. He grabs my waist again and spins me.
We play like that—dumb, giddy, blissed out—until I’m breathless, clinging to the edge, hair slicked back, cheeks flushed, skin humming with heat.
I turn to him, trying to catch my breath.
“You know that’s another rule broken, right?”
He raises a brow. “Which one?”
“No post-orgasm frolicking.”
He smirks. “That wasn’t in the contract.”
“It’s implied,” I deadpan.
He swims closer, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “Then I guess I’m a repeat offender.”
I narrow my eyes. “Brody—I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“I mean it. This can’t happen again. Not this weekend. Not with all these people around.”
His hand brushes over my stomach, light and slow. “Alright.”
“We can’t risk anyone else finding out.”
He nods—still too close, too warm—like a promise he has no intention of keeping.
I meet his gaze, trying to sound stern. “Swear to me.”
He gives me that crooked, infuriating smile. “Scout’s honor.”
“Were you ever a Scout?”
“Nope.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the grin tugging at my lips.
And deep down, I know—we’re wading into dangerous waters.