21. Slow Hands #3
“Who sent those?”
The air thickens—static, heavy, charged.
“They were delivered the day the nominations were announced,” I say quietly.
“Elena.”
“They’re from Alex.” The words sting as they leave my mouth.
He exhales, slow. Nods once. “I don’t get that guy.”
“What do you mean?”
“He dumps you, gets back with his ex, then sends this?” He gestures toward the roses, like they’re somehow to blame. “What’s he playing at?”
I shrug. He’s not wrong.
I always thought breakups came with distance. A line drawn between before and after.
But this? This is a mess.
This hurts.
I miss him.
The thought lands fast. Shameful. But true. Even though he was never really mine.
“I wouldn’t know,” I murmur.
“What do you mean?” he asks, leaning against the island, watching me too closely.
Heat rises up my neck. I turn to the fridge, needing something to touch, to hold, to distract me.
“El?”
I grab a water bottle, twist the cap and hand it to him.
“Because he was my first,” I say. “And only relationship.”
It takes a second for it to sink in. Then realization flashes across his face.
Silence stretches.
But my chest is already cracked open.
Alex was the first man I ever let in. Everything with him felt like lightning. All consuming. Immediate. When it ended, it didn’t just burn out. It burned through me.
Broderick takes a slow sip from the bottle, never looking away.
“Ah,” he says, the realization hitting as he put two and two together.
“I’m sorry he did that to you,” he adds softly. “He should’ve known better.”
“Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” I say, too dry, too fast.
He sets the bottle down and steps closer, fingertips grazing the side of my neck. His thumb brushes my jaw, tilts my face up.
Those green eyes.
Broderick looks at me like I hung the stars. Like I’m rare. Like I matter.
Not the girl who got left. Not the girl who is holding on to a bouquet of flowers searching for answers.
“He should’ve cherished someone as precious as you.”
My throat tightens.
No. Not that. Don’t say things like that.
It’s too much. Too sincere. The heat in my chest morphs into panic. As the air around us shifts.
“Is this foreplay for all the worshipping you’re gonna do?” I tease, voice light, trying to steer us into safer ground, but it feels forced.
He blinks, caught off guard. His mouth curves.
“Who wants who now?”
“Well?” I back toward the counter, heart thudding. “I’m waiting.”
His gaze drops. Then he sinks to his knees.
No hesitation. No smirk.
Just hands on my hips, tugging at the waistband of my pants and panties with a patience that makes my breath catch.
He looks up—a silent question.
I nod.
He slides them down and kisses the inside of my thigh like he’s been dreaming of this from a time zone away.
Then his mouth is on me.
I grip the edge of the counter, knees nearly buckling. My head tips back with a gasp I can’t swallow.
He’s relentless.
Hot, slow drags of his tongue that make my thighs shake. He groans when I buck against him, like he loves how messy I get for him. Like my body is the prize.
He’s so good at this it’s intoxicating.
“Grammy-nominated goddesses,” he murmurs against me, “taste so fucking sweet. Who knew?”
This is good. This is safe.
But the more we talk, the more we connect, the harder it gets to pretend it’s just sex. Just fun. Just a distraction.
Right now, I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to be precious.
I want him to bury me under a pile of orgasms until all the noise is drowned out.
Broderick hoists me up, my legs on either side of his shoulders, his hands firm beneath my thighs, before standing.
I grasp his biceps, nails digging in, holding on for dear life.
“Holy shit, Brody…don’t you dare—oh…” His tongue never stops, working out every frustration from earlier. “Drop me.”
He takes a few steps to the sofa before tossing me down like a bag of potatoes, my back hitting the cushions with a soft thud.
A wicked grin spreads across his face, glistening with my arousal.
“I like when you get flustered.” He kneels between my legs, his mouth ghosting over the inside of my thigh. “Your cheeks get all pink.”
I barely have a second to get a word in before his lips find me again, indulging in every part of me like this is what he flew home for.
I reach for his hair, twist my fingers in it. My hips move on instinct, breath staggering.
Broderick slowly pushes two fingers inside.
I gasp—high and sharp—and he growls like it does something to him.
Sucking and playing with my clit in perfect rhythm with his hand, patient and precise.
“Your pussy is so greedy for me.”
My head tips back. Legs tighten around his head as I inch toward my pinnacle. A rush of stars flicker behind my eyes. Endless and consuming
I’m speechless, breath stolen, chest heaving. I squirm and he plants soft, delicate kisses on my pussy, holding me steady as he works me through the aftershocks of my orgasm
Until I’m so tender, I can’t think. Can’t speak.
It’s just him and me in this suspended, weightless bliss.
Thoughts of my father, Alex, the Grammys—
Fall away.
For now.