28. Haunted #2
He looks at it as if I’ve just handed him a live grenade. Carefully, he picks it up, unties the drawstring, and peeks inside.
His eyes widen.
Inside is a bottle of lubricant, a larger butt plug, and condoms.
“You made me an ass pack?”
I giggle. “I’ve been working on it since the last time, and I think I can take you.”
He laughs—almost in disbelief.
“What have I done?” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve created a monster.”
“So…” I drag a finger down the line of his stomach, feather-light. “You want to play...again?”
“You’re insatiable.”
“Only for you,” I whisper against his ear.
He shifts beneath me, rolling me onto my back. His mouth meets mine—soft. Butterflies stir in my belly, anticipation coiling tight at the thought of trying something new with him.
“You’re exquisite, El,” he murmurs, pressing kisses down my body. He takes a nipple into his mouth, licking and teasing until both are stiff peaks, my skin alive with electric heat. Then he leans back on his knees, opens the bottle of lube, and readies the plug.
“You okay, baby?”
“Green.”
“That’s my girl.”
Before I can react, he parts my legs and the cold lube hits my skin like ice against fire. The plug presses against me—unyielding metal demanding entry. He kisses the inside of my thigh, his breath hot and steady, urging me to relax, to let go.
“That’s it—you’re taking it so good.” He pushes it in with such gentleness, coaching me through every stretch. It’s enough to send me over the edge.
He’s brutal when he wants to be, savage in his desire, yet his fingers steady me like I’m made of glass.
When I’m full, he devours me, his tongue merciless as he claims every inch of me with hungry, possessive strokes.
Broderick’s words come hot against my swollen clit, his voice guttural between hungry kisses. “I love watching my cum drip from your cunt,” he murmurs as his finger replaces his mouth. “My perfect little—”
“Fuck!” The word tears from my throat as I clench violently around the plug, my entire body convulsing.
White-hot pleasure explodes outward from my core, vision blurring at the edges.
His hand pins me down mercilessly—his lips licking and swirling again as I writhe, keeping me spread open and exposed while wave after devastating wave crashes through me, reducing me to nothing but raw, animal need.
Broderick leans up, face slick with our combined arousal—it’s so hot.
He positions himself at my entrance, cock at the ready. “I’ll start slow—stretch you out first, then we’ll have some real fun. You good?”
“Yes. Green.”
He smiles, dimples deepening. Then he pushes in a few inches before sliding out again. He does this a few times and…
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
I’m so full—so fucking full. My eyes roll back, a rush of pure ecstasy flooding through me. Nothing has ever felt this good.
Him and the plug at the same time.
The sounds that tear out of me are raw, primal. A small part of me is grateful Riley isn’t home to hear the performance.
He pulls himself and plug out completely, and I lean up on my shoulders, the feeling of emptiness is jarring. The grin on his face is wicked, his eyes dark. This must be his ultimate fantasy—claiming my ass. Giving him this—is satisfying.
I watch him tear open the condom and roll it down his length. My breath comes ragged, my need climbing to a fever pitch.
“Ready?”
“Hurry up,” I grit out.
He chuckles, squirting more lube onto his cock and rubbing it in. Then he shifts down and yanks my hips up.
“You’re an impatient little minx, aren’t you?”
I yelp then—he pushes inside of me slowly, feeling the slight sting from the sheer size of him.
Oh my God.
Broderick stills for a moment, letting me get used to the feeling as he moves slowly. Then he licks his thumb and presses it against my tender clit, rubbing and toying with it—every stroke, every circle—the look on his face is pure bliss—it strips away my last bit of control.
“Do you like that?”
“Yes, El—so tight, so perfect,” he groans, thrusts deepening, one hand gripping my hip. “You take me so well.”
My greedy hands knead my breasts, rolling each nipple between my fingers.
“No one else gets this ass, baby—say it.”
“It’s yours—I’m yours,” I gasp, voice trembling.
He shudders, thrusts frantic now, and then he comes with my name on his lips, collapsing over me.
We lie there, spent and tangled, drunk on happiness and lust.
And maybe something more.
The thing about being a last-minute entry into a high-stakes situation? It always teeters on the edge of a shitshow.
And tonight was no different.
The choreography is still muscle memory from touring with Ava—but barely. Everyone’s just a beat too slow—bloated from sugar, wine, and whatever the hell we’ve all been indulging in since Christmas.
Rehearsal drags on. Soundcheck is carnage.
Cues get missed. The LED screen glitches mid-verse, blowing out the entire second chorus. Someone’s mic pack cuts out. My in-ear keeps buzzing like a wasp stuck in my skull.
By the time I stumble offstage, my throat burns, my feet numb inside my boots, and my hair—damp from sweat and cold air—frizzes out from under the beanie Inga shoved on my head without asking.
I haven’t eaten since the sad protein bar I choked down this morning.
My jaw is clenched so tight I can feel a headache blooming behind my right eye.
I push into the dressing trailer and collapse into the chair in front of the mirror, breathing like I’ve just come off a battlefield.
The fluorescent lights buzz above me. My reflection looks back—flushed, liner smudged under my eyes.
I stare at her like maybe she’ll get up and handle it. Maybe she’ll figure out how to make this perfect.
Because it has to be.
This is the night. I’m not the opener—I’m closing the year out.
If I’m going down in flames, I’ll look damn good doing it.
After Inga and Rio finish, my exhaustion vanishes beneath makeup brushes and glitter. Red lips, Hollywood curls, and Rio’s sequined, tasseled bodysuit—it looks like I’ve been dipped in liquid gold.
Then—knock, knock.
“Not now,” I groan, desperate for some peace before the show.
But the door cracks open anyway.
“Too bad diva,” Riley says, poking her head in, cheeks flushed, curls bouncing as she shoves it open wider. “We brought champagne.”
“We?” I spin around.
And there they are.
Broderick. Philippa. Andrew. Luca. Ava, already holding up her phone like she’s filming a documentary.
Even my father, in a navy wool coat and scarf, standing just behind Carole, who already looks way too emotional.
“You came,” I say, stunned.
Carole smiles. “We wouldn’t miss it.”