5. Rush #2
“It would mean a lot to me if you came to my show next Friday in New York.” My voice is a little shaky. “If you’re not busy. I mean, you’re probably busy, right? Sorry—no pressure. Come, don’t come, totally fine. But, um—here.”
I thrust the ticket toward him before I can embarrass myself any further.
Broderick watches me silently, lips curving slowly into that devastating crooked smile of his—soft around the edges, yet still wicked enough to unravel every sensible thought in my brain.
Without warning, he snatches the ticket and tugs me with it, pulling me straight into his lap and wrapping his thick arms around me in a crushing bear hug. My breath hitches sharply, my body stiffening in surprise before melting like butter into his firm, warm embrace.
“El…” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s something serious simmering beneath it. Something real.
My heart thunders in my chest, and I glance at him, wary.
“You want me there,” he murmurs softly, his eyes locked on mine. “I’ll be there.”
My pulse skyrockets. “You will?”
He nods slowly, as he reaches up, fingertips brushing my jaw with impossible gentleness. The caress stirs something wounded deep within me—something that aches desperately to heal.
“Only if you answer my question,” he says quietly, eyes searching mine.
“What’s that?”
“That kiss we had at your apartment—do you ever think about it?”
Yes.
His words land like a heavy stone dropped into my stomach. “Brody…”
“I don’t want you to kiss me because you think I’m someone else.”
Those words hit harder than I expect, squeezing my heart painfully. My throat tightens, protest rising, but his thumb brushes gently across my bottom lip, silencing me.
“I care about you, Elena. You know that right?” He pauses, leaning closer, his voice roughening into a low rasp that leaves me shivering.
He’s giving me something rare—honesty, vulnerability.
Heat floods my face, crawling slowly down my neck.
“I want you to kiss me because you want to.” His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then returns with a scorching intensity. “Because you’re desperate for it. Because you’ve been thinking about it. Thinking about me.”
A shaky breath escapes my lips. My heart is hammering, wild and reckless. Broderick’s thumb still lingers on my lip, his palm hot against my waist, branding me through my dress.
His smile deepens, dangerously playful, yet his eyes remain utterly serious, piercing through me with intention.
“And when you do, I’m not going to be able to stop.”
Oh my God.
I suck in a sharp breath, completely undone. Every nerve ending in my body is awake, trembling, pleading to feel his lips on mine. His satisfied smirk tells me he knows exactly the effect he has, and he’s thoroughly enjoying every second.
The silence stretches between us, electric, until I can’t bear it anymore.
“So…you liked when I kissed you?” The question slips out in a desperate plea. I need the confirmation. Need reassurance that all these charged moments aren’t just in my hopelessly horny imagination.
“Yes,” he whispers huskily. “You know I liked it. You know I like you, but Elena, I’m not going to kiss you again.”
Panic twists through me.
Though his eyes hold mine fiercely. “Not unless you want me to.”
A dizzying rush of warmth floods my core, and I lick my lips instinctively. My tongue brushing lightly against his thumb—fuck—it sends another jolt of liquid heat between my thighs.
The firmness of his erection presses up against me.
The quickest way to get over one guy is to get under another. Riley’s voice reminds me.
Kiss me.
Every nerve ending in my body screams for it.
I run my fingers through his stubble, cupping his jaw.
“Broderick—” My voice is barely audible, desperation leaking from every syllable as I unconsciously lean closer, aching to close the distance—
“Mr. Schwartz, the ambassador from Cambodia is on line one—oh my God, I’m so sorry!”
Stacey’s voice slices through the charged moment like a blade, instantly severing the tension. Reality crashes in, sobering and mortifying. I spring off Broderick’s lap, awkwardly smoothing my dress, my gaze helplessly landing on the undeniable bulge in his pants.
Oh fuck.
“Um,” I stammer, stumbling backward, cheeks blazing, humiliation mixing chaotically with lingering desire. “I should—I gotta go. Enjoy your dinner…or whatever. Um, see you Friday?”
“El—stay.” Broderick coughs awkwardly, adjusting himself quickly. Stacey stands frozen, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.
“See ya, Stacey,” I blurt, forcing a shaky smile. “Have a good night.”
And I bolt—out of the office, into the hallway, legs trembling beneath me. The elevator ride down feels endless, each second stretching as Broderick’s heat clings stubbornly to my skin.
By the time Tony drops me home, I’m wound tighter than a guitar string, aching desperately for release. Taking a hot shower, hoping to soothe both my tired muscles and racing mind—but the memory of Broderick’s voice and his touch refuse to wash away.
Padding barefoot across my bedroom, I reach the dresser that holds my dirty little secret. I slide open the drawer, fingers curling around the worn shirt hidden at the back.
Gray. Soft. His.
Alex.
I bring it to my face, inhaling deeply. It still smells like him—like the ocean breeze after a storm, hints of bright citrus, and something uniquely intoxicating that belongs only to Alex Westerberg.
My chest constricts painfully around the familiar ache.
God, I miss him. I miss the warmth of his arms, the velvet depth of his voice sinking into my bones, the electrifying way he made me feel alive.
Pulling the shirt over my head, it slips over my skin like a tender memory, oversized and comforting, swallowing me whole as I crawl into bed. The cool sheets greet my bare legs, heightening my sensitivity.
With Alex’s scent surrounding me and Broderick’s lingering caress imprinted vividly on my skin, I reach over to the bedside drawer, retrieving ol’ faithful—my trusty vibrator.
I slip it between my thighs, positioning it gently against my clit, and flick it to life, gasping as vibrations surge against my skin.
My thoughts spiral between Broderick’s devastating smile, the tight pull of his shirt across those sculpted muscles, and the ghostly brush of Alex’s shirt enveloping me now. I writhe under the pulsing sensation, wetness pooling rapidly as my pleasure begins its climb.
Soft, desperate moans slip from my lips, hips rocking urgently. Almost there. Legs trembling, toes curling—
It sputters. Dies.
No. No. Noooooooo!
I could cry. Frustration crashes over me like cold water, extinguishing the flames licking at my core. With an angry huff, I roll over in search of the charger—misjudging completely, slipping off the edge of the bed, and landing with an ungraceful thud on the floor.
“Fuck,” I groan aloud, plugging the traitorous vibrator into its charger with more force than necessary. I storm into the kitchen, pouring myself a generous glass of wine, hoping it takes the edge off my disappointment.
Back in bed, I sip impatiently, my hand automatically reaching for my phone. Scrolling through my socials offers only a mild distraction before my thumb betrays me, inevitably wandering to his profile.
Nothing new from Alex himself, but he’s everywhere—tagged relentlessly in photos from The Kingmaker premiere. The premiere he once asked me to attend with him.
That must’ve been tonight.
My heart clenches sharply. And there she is—Madison, radiant and glowing beside him in a curve-hugging designer gown, her hand proudly resting on the slight but undeniably present bump. She’s practically crafted for the headlines, and the sight of her makes my stomach churn.
My eyes search Alex’s face desperately, scanning each image for something—anything—to hold onto. But he never smiles. His expression is taut, guarded. Distant.
Does he miss me?
The thought claws at me, raw and insistent. My thumb hovers recklessly over the screen, and before my brain can intervene, it happens.
Double tap.
Oh fuck. Shit. Fuck!
My heart slams violently into my ribcage. Panic seizes me, and I quickly unlike the photo, tossing the phone away as if it scorched me.
I gulp down the remaining wine, desperate to erase the anxious dread burning in my throat.
Please, don’t let him have seen that.
Tears blur my vision before I even realize they’re falling, hot trails sliding silently down my cheeks. My gaze fixes helplessly on the dark ceiling. My vibrator’s blinking light mockingly reminds me it’s still charging, but now frustration has overtaken every other feeling.
I am so fucking stupid.
My phone dings, lighting up the darkness like a tiny explosion. Heart lodged painfully in my throat, I reach for it.
Alexander Westerberg liked your post.
Oh my God.
He saw, and he liked my photo back.
My pulse races as I open the notification, hands trembling. The image he chose to like—the photo I’d shared of the serene lake near his family’s cabin in Sweden. Our lake. Our bubble. The one place where, for a brief moment in time, it was just us—two people suspended in untouchable bliss.
Before everything blew up.
I clutch the phone tightly to my chest, eyes drifting closed, breathing ragged. Maybe this means nothing. Or maybe…it means everything.
Fresh tears spill freely down my face, soaking quietly into my pillow.
I don’t know what hurts more: missing Alex, or knowing there’s a chance he misses me too.