28. Haunted
Haunted
Overnight, the city vanishes beneath a white hush—streets coated, cars buried, trees sagging under the weight. Even the usual Park Avenue hum is silent. No taxis. No horns. No pedestrians. Just slush and sky and stillness.
I like it. No pressure. No eyes on me. No movement except the slow shifting of time.
Riley’s camped out at her latest squeeze’s place. The details are vague; Broderick and I have been taking bets on whether it’s Luca—or someone new.
We barely move all morning. Wrapped in two throw blankets, limbs tangled in lazy drapes, our breathing falls into sync. It isn’t safe for Broderick to venture home, so we stay in—slept over—and all but throw caution, and the rules of our arrangement, to the wind.
He sits against the headboard, skin warm against my shoulder, reading quietly in nothing but briefs. His hand rests on my thigh, thumb brushing back and forth without thought.
I’m sprawled sideways, journal propped on my knees, a pen wedged in my bun. The pages are littered with half-finished lyrics and strange little thoughts that never make it into a melody. I don’t know what any of it is for, or if I’ll ever use it—but I like the scratch of pen on paper.
Neither of us speaks. We don’t have to.
I watch the way his eyes move across the page—slow, steady—his mouth parted just slightly, like he’s chewing on the words. His chest rises and falls in time with mine.
No performance. No distractions. Just us in bed, post-breakfast. No sex, no rush—just existing in the same space.
I wonder if this is enough for him. If I am.
I hope it is.
Then something strikes—sudden, electric.
A lyric spills into my head, cool and sharp like the first drops of rain.
I reach for the pen and start scribbling fast. Lines about him.
About this. About us. I don’t realize I’m humming until I look up—and find him already watching me, his book forgotten on his lap.
“What’re you writing about?” he asks, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Nunya,” I say.
“Nunya?”
“Yeah.” I grin. “Nunya business.”
Before I can blink, he snatches the journal from my hands.
“Brody!” I shriek, lunging for it, arms flailing against his chest.
“Let’s see here…”
“Give it back!”
He holds it high, out of reach, and tsks under his breath.
Eyes scanning the page, he starts to read aloud.
“‘Didn’t mean to stay the night, but your hands talk sweet. Said I’d keep it casual, now I barely sleep. You’re in my head, a melody I can’t shake. One more kiss and I’m yours to take.’”
My heart hammers. I can’t breathe right. Hearing it out loud makes it real.
He looks at me—soft, startled, as if seeing me for the first time.
“Is…is this about us?” His voice cracks, no trace of smugness now.
“Maybe.” My chest rises too fast, heat crawling up my neck.
He studies me. Then his hand slides from my thigh to the back of my neck, fingers splayed, warm and sure. His mouth finds mine in one slow, certain motion, claiming what he’s always wanted.
I melt into him.
Blood surges through every nerve. My pen hits the floor. My journal slips away. All that exists is his mouth, his breath, the pressure of his chest against mine, the rough drag of his fingers in my hair anchoring me in place.
It isn’t hungry. It isn’t gentle. It’s something in between—steady and consuming.
When he finally pulls back, my lips tingle and my breath hides somewhere between his ribs and mine.
He rests his forehead against me, grinning. “Damn. I’m gonna have to get my lawyer to draft some paperwork. You’re racking up fees for creative services.”
I snort. “Muses don’t get paid.”
“Okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tracing the line of my jaw with his knuckles. “I’m happy to be your moose. Every day of the week. Twice on Sundays.”
“Did you just say moose?”
“Yup.” He leans back, shameless. “Big, dependable, majestic. Don’t mind being stared at.”
“You’re such an idiot.” I roll into his side, burying my face in his bare chest, still flushed and buzzing.
“Yeah, but I’m your idiot,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
Mine? I kind of like the sound of that.
Then my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Ugh. Cockblock.
I frown, shifting from over to reach for it. Mark.
I answer, “Hey?”
Broderick sighs, picking up his book.
“Elena, it’s happening. One of the headliners for the New Year’s Eve Ball Drop pulled out. Laryngitis. But they’re reworking the setlist, and they want you.”
My heart stutters. “Me? What—where?”
“Times Square. Midnight slot. The main stage. You’ll be the final performance of the year.”
I sit up straighter, eyes wide. “You’re serious?”
“They need confirmation now. You in?”
“Of course I’m in,” I say without hesitation.
Mark laughs. “I’ll send everything through in the next hour. This is big, Elena! Bigger, better things for you next year.”
When I hang up, I stare at the screen in disbelief.
Broderick slides his bookmark into place and looks over. “Everything alright?”
I turn to him, lips parting. “I’m headlining the New Year’s Eve Ball Drop.”
His jaw drops. “Wait, like—”
“Main stage. Times Square. Midnight.”
He stares for a beat, then breaks into a slow, wide grin.
“You’re kidding.”
I shake my head, still grinning. “I’m not.”
He leans over and kisses me—slow, deep, reverent.
“Baby, I’m so proud of you.” He breaks the kiss, his thumb caressing my bottom lip.
My chest feels too full. The kind of full that spills over.
I kiss him back again—this time climbing into his lap, straddling him. “I want to celebrate.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, grinding against him. I lean in to kiss him, soft, letting my hair fall around us like a curtain. Then I reach over to my bedside table and pull out two red silk ties.
“I want to try something.”
“And what’s that, baby?” His brow arches, amusement flickering behind heat.
I bite my lip—he’s so fucking hot.
I hold up the ties.
Broderick’s eyes widen and his dick pulses beneath me.
“You or me?” he asks, breath already uneven.
“You.”
He chuckles, dark and low. “Fuck.” He kicks off some of the blankets, settling deeper into the pillows—all while I stay on top.
Then I tie him up, just like I’ve seen in those videos. His arms pull tight, muscles stretched, veins alive under skin.
His face—full of excitement, lust, and need.
“Damn, El,” he breathes. “Didn’t have this on my bingo card.”
“I may have been diving down the rabbit hole of your kinky…preferences.” I hesitate, heat rushing to my face.
Broderick groans.
The sound rips through me like a lightning bolt straight to my core.
I stand over him—still balanced on the bed—peeling off his shirt, then slipping out of my panties.
I toss both into the air not caring where they land.
His eyes drag over me, wide and dark, pupils blown.
I lower myself back onto him slowly.
“Now,” I murmur, voice catching in my throat, “I’m going to kiss you from here…”
I trace a finger down his lips, letting it linger, “…to here.”
I roll my hips once, right over the thick line of his briefs. Broderick twitches underneath me.
He chuckles—strained, guttural.
“If you buck or squirm,” I say, voice dipping wicked, “I’ll have to start again.”
Broderick’s eyes lock on mine, blazing. “Oh, you vixen.”
“Want to play?” I whisper.
He nods. Barely.
I trace my finger across the curve of his bicep. “Words, Bro-deeee.”
He raises a brow. “You’re topping from the bottom, baby.”
I giggle. “Well?”
A slow, cheeky grin spreads across his face. “Green.”
“And if you behave…” I lean in, letting my breath warm his ear, “I’ll reward you.”
I start with his lips. Tortured kisses—soft, delicate, slow enough to make him curse under his breath. I lick the corner of his mouth, nip his bottom lip, then drag my tongue down the column of his throat.
Then lower.
I kiss along Broderick’s chest, slow trails that make his muscles twitch under me. When I reach his nipples, I lick one, then gently nibble.
He bucks.
I sit up with a pout. “Tsk. No squirming.”
He groans, fists clenched against the silk binding, his veins rising in his arms. “You’re killing me.”
“Good.”
I start again. Torturously slow. Lingering licks. Little nips. My hands splay over his abs, feeling the tension coiling beneath every breath. He squirms again.
I pull back.
His jaw locks. He’s trying.
The longer I tease, the more his body fights the restraint—his thighs tense, his biceps flex under the ties, veins bouncing like guitar strings.
When I hear it—just one raw, broken moan—something inside me clenches.
“Fuck, Elena,” he gasps. “You’re driving me crazy.”
I smile against his skin.
By the time I reach his briefs, he’s painfully hard, already damp with need. I peel them down slowly, and he hisses as the air hits him.
I lick him once—flat and slow from base to tip.
He swears under his breath.
I take him into my mouth, letting him fill me inch by inch. I suck, long wet strokes, until he throbs on my tongue, until he’s slick and hard and shaking. I climb on top of him.
Broderick’s eyes lock on mine, pure desperation.
I lower myself down—agonizingly slow stretching around him, feeling every part of him drag against every part of me.
He grits his teeth. His whole body trembles under the weight of control.
I roll my hips once. Slow. Deep.
“Jesus Christ,” he bites out, sweat forming at his temples.
Then I see it—the moment the restraint snaps.
He rips the silk ties apart like they’re paper. Broderick’s hands shoot to my thighs, gripping, squeezing hard. And then he fucks me—like he’s waited his whole life.
Broderick’s mouth is on mine, devouring. His hands are everywhere. I brace against his chest, grinding down, matching him thrust for thrust until he buries himself deep with a strangled groan and comes.
We’re still catching our breath when he turns his head, eyes lazy, lips parted.
“So…” he murmurs. “What’s the surprise?”
I smirk, stretching over him, skin brushing skin. “So impatient.”
Reaching for the nightstand drawer, I pull out a small velvet pouch.
“Here,” I say, tossing it onto his chest.