23. Hungry Eyes #2
His laugh vibrates through me—low, warm, familiar. I turn my ear toward his chest again, listening to his heartbeat. It’s become one of my favorite sounds.
He rests his chin against the top of my head. “El,” he says softly. “You’re special to me too.”
We stay like that for a beat, bodies molded together, the world falling quiet around us.
It feels tender…loaded.
I pull back, only slightly. “I’m going to have to write you up for breaking the rules of our arrangement.”
He barks a laugh. I tilt my head up, catching the gleam in his eye.
“I’m serious,” I say. “We spent all day together on Thanksgiving and you left me wanting.”
Broderick lifts my chin, fingers gentle. “Can’t leave you wanting now, can we?”
His mouth brushes mine before the kiss deepens, and there’s no space between us.
I sink into it, him—breathing him in like he’s the only oxygen I’ve got.
Yes. I’ve missed this. Needed this. But before we can make good on it, one of the event coordinators interrupts us. I forget, for a moment, that I have a job to do.
“I’ll catch up with you later.” I wink back at him as I’m ushered away.
The start of the gala drags on in a blur of polite conversation, bad wine, and too many thank-you speeches. I smiled through it all, nerves still dancing from the set I’d just performed. As I rejoin the table—his fingers, slowly graze the inside of my thigh under the white-linen-draped table.
I shift in my seat. Leaning into his touch, his hand stills, before moving—higher this time.
My pulse kicks.
We’re seated between a board member and some actress, everyone laughing, sipping champagne, pretending to care about the silent auction. Broderick doesn’t even look at me—just drags his fingers along the fabric of my dress like he has all the time in the world.
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.
His mouth finds me through silk—hot breath, velvet tongue, the steady build of pressure that unravels me all over again. Fingers slide where I need them. His mouth doesn’t let up. My thighs shake around his head. I lose the rhythm of my breath.
I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to come down.
By the time we reach my apartment, I’m raw and boneless. He carries me inside, both of us laughing under our breath like we’re drunk on each other.
I push him onto the couch and straddle him, already yanking at his shirt.
He’s too dressed.
Since he’s ruined enough of my pants, I return the favor—ripping his shirt open, sending buttons flying.
He chuckles, surprised, and nestles deeper into the sofa before going still. His hand brushes something beside him.
A book.
Letters to a Young Poet.
His brows furrow as he lifts it, turning it over in his hand.
“Where’d this come from?” he asks, voice low.
I stiffen—not because of the book, but because of what’s inside. The photo’s still there. Black and white. Me, exposed, framed perfectly between the pages.
He opens it and whistles, low and appreciative. “Well, damn.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t start.”
“Who’s your secret admirer?” He smirks, flashing the photo like it’s a fucking postcard.
“It’s not like that.”
His thumb grazes the edge of the page, eyes scanning the line underlined in thick bleeding ink.
His brow lifts.
“He’s a real fucking Romeo.”
I snort, reaching for the book. He holds it just out of reach, grinning.
“What?” he says. “That Swede still bothering you?”
“Are you jealous?”
“Why would I be?” He slides the book onto the coffee table. “When I’ve got you straddling my lap—and you had my cock in you for the better part of the night?”
My breath stutters. He drags his hands up my thighs, settling them around my hips like he owns me.
“And if you’re really good,” he murmurs, voice dripping in sin, “maybe ‘til the early morning.”
I lean in, breath grazing his jaw. “I have a flight to catch, so I’m cutting you off at midnight, Cinderella.”
He laughs, and I swallow the sound with a kiss—slow and wet, the kind that makes time slide sideways. His tongue rolls against mine, unhurried, like he’s got nowhere to be but under me.
Then he pulls back, just enough.
“Roses are red. Clowns are funny…”
I raise a brow.
His lips graze my neck. “…Elena’s pussy tastes like honey.”
Before I can even laugh, he shifts—fast—flipping me onto my back like I weigh nothing.
I yelp.
Then his mouth is on me again, and I forget how to breathe.
Afterward, we’re sprawled on my living room floor, boneless and breathless. Cushions, clothes, and belongings scattered all over my living room like breadcrumbs.
“You can’t stay,” I murmur, half-asleep.
“Wow. Use me and kick me out,” he chuckles.
Broderick sits up, reaching for his shirt.
“I need sleep for tomorrow,” I groan, rolling over to search for my panties.
“How long will you be away?”
My fingers brush across lace under the coffee table, and I fish them out. “Three days. What time is it?” I ask, slipping them on.
We both stand—my legs wobbly, him still butt naked.
“2 a.m.,” he murmurs, searching for his briefs. He finds them draped over the ottoman.
Shit.
His pants are barely zipped before I push him toward the door—he doesn’t budge.
“Oh, it’s way past your curfew, Cinderella. Out,” I tease, nudging him again.
He just looks at me, amused, completely unbothered.