Page 50 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

Dangerous Woman

S trobe lights carve the club into shards of color and smoke. Alex bonds with some of Andrew’s friends over a few sloppy lines of cocaine, clapping him on the shoulder, shouting something I can’t hear over the bass hammering through the floor. Who knew men were so simple?

We move like a current, tangled and messy—lips, hips, my knees buckling between the shots Philippa, Riley, and I slam back. It’s wild to see my sister like this, loose and laughing in a way I’ve never seen before, head tipped back, hair clinging to the sweat on her neck.

Somewhere in the haze, I feel him. Broderick.

Leaning in the shadows with a drink, jaw set tight, watching. Brooding.

I want to go to him. My body leans that way without thinking. But the pull of Alex is too magnetic, too intoxicating, dragging me back under the crush of bodies and bass.

The night unravels fast, slipping through my fingers in a blur of heat and sound, until someone yells for the limo and we spill into the street—a mess of limbs, laughter, lipstick smudged and shoes forgotten—bringing a whirlwind of chaos back to the pristine, proper gates of Montgomery Estate.

The debauchery of the rich and uninhibited.

We clamor through the front doors, the sound of cackling echoing off marble floors, kicking off heels, jackets dropping like breadcrumbs behind us.

Alex tugs my hand, pulling me up the stairs two at a time, his mouth finding the crook of my shoulder, careless and breathless. We tumble into my room, the door slamming shut behind us.

I lock it. Learning from past mistakes.

He presses me back against the wall, hands skating under the hem of my dress, mouth teasing mine with that crooked smile he knows makes me stupid.

“Do you want to fuck?” he murmurs, voice low and rough against my jaw.

It’s the first time he’s asked for it.

I let my head fall back, eyes fluttering shut. For a second, the word yes burns the tip of my tongue. Not like this, not while Broderick still lingers in the quiet place of my mind, not while we’re both sloppy drunk and him high on cocaine.

“Not tonight,” I whisper, threading my fingers into his hair, tugging gently. “But…maybe we can do other things.”

His grin is slow, wolfish. “Other things,” he repeats, savoring it.

I nudge him back with a laugh, stumbling toward the bathroom, my dress sticking to my skin. “But first, I need to get cleaned up.”

Alex leans in the doorway, lazy and seductive. “Maybe we get cleaned up together,” he suggests.

The bathroom is all marble, lit by the soft spill of gold from the bedroom. I twist the taps, watching steam swell thick in the air, clinging to the mirrors, curling around the edges of the room.

Behind me, I hear Alex, the soft tug of his shirt slipping free. When I glance back, he’s standing bare, unapologetic.

My throat tightens.

I’d seen pieces of him before—him shirtless, his cock in my mouth earlier—but this…Seeing him completely is something else entirely.

He’s a marvel.

Alex steps closer, voice low and careful. “Can I undress you?”

I nod, my body already trembling before he even touches me.

“Elena,” he murmurs, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, “you’re stunning. Don’t hide from me.”

He turns me by the hips until I’m facing the mirror. I catch sight of myself, a wild mess. My hair is no longer sleek, my ponytail looser. Eyes burning. Lips swollen from too many stolen kisses. I should feel embarrassed. Instead, I feel alive .

Slowly, agonizingly, he drags the zipper of my dress down, the sound of it splitting the air, thread by trembling thread.

His fingers brush the straps, grazing my skin, sending a violent shudder through me as he peels the tight fabric away from my shoulders. The dress puddles at my waist, the bra unclasped with a flick of his hand, falling away.

Cool air kisses my flushed skin, the contrast biting, making me arch back into him without thinking. He pulls the dress down further until I’m left standing there in nothing but a scrap of lace, breathing hard, every inch of me bare to him.

Alex presses his mouth to the curve of my shoulder, his breath warm, the scrape of his stubble rough and electric. “You know what you do to me?” he says, voice wrecked, barely a thread of control left.

He cups my breasts in both hands, molding me against the hard line of his body, his erection pressing hot and insistent against the small of my back.

I whimper, helpless, boneless in his arms.

“Imagine how this would feel inside you,” he murmurs against my skin, hips rolling in the barest suggestion, enough to make my thighs clench tight.

My breath stutters. Apprehension and desire weaving together, low in my belly, sharp enough to ache.

Alex feels it—me tensing—and slows immediately, brushing a kiss over my shoulder like a promise.

“But not tonight ,” he whispers, echoing my words. He’s toying with me.

He steps back just enough to guide me toward the bath, fingers sliding down my hips, hooking into the lace of my panties.

“One more thing.” He’s almost laughing under his breath as he drags the last scrap of fabric down my legs. I step out, shivering.

Alex’s hands frame my hips for a beat, then trail lower, giving my ass a playful squeeze that makes me yelp softly, giggling and aching.

He guides me carefully up the steps, into the bath. The water is hotter than I expect, a searing kiss against my skin, and I gasp, sinking under anyway, letting it scald the night off my body.

Alex climbs in behind me, arms bracketing mine, pulling me back against his chest. His hands are everywhere—easy, slow, unrushed—tracing the slick line of my thigh, the curve of my hip, like he has all the time in the world.

I tip my head back onto his shoulder, feeling the wet slide of his mouth along my neck, my body melting against his in the heat and the quiet.

Alex pulls a cloth from the rack next to the bath, dipping it into the water, soaking it, before he drags it lazily over my shoulder, my collarbone, and the slope of my breasts. He lets the cloth float before reaching over to pump some soap from the dispenser and lathering it in his hands.

He rubs my shoulders, slick and wet, then my collarbone.

“You have no idea”—his voice is rough around the edges, almost to himself—“how fucking perfect you are.”

He glides his soapy hands over the swell of my breasts, circling lazily around my nipples until they tighten into stiff peaks.

“Everything is so new to you,” he says, and I hear him smiling, my body twitching and gasping under his touch.

“Alex,” I moan. My cheeks flame.

Then he’s gone, dispensing more soap into his hands.

Fucking tease.

He works it into a thick, silky foam and trails it down my torso, teasing along the hollow of my navel.

Then lower.

He pauses at the apex of my thighs, my back pressed into his twitching cock.

“May I?” he asks.

“Please,” I plead, teetering on the edge.

He slides his hands between my legs, the lightest, slickest touch. Nowhere near enough pressure to satisfy the ache blooming there.

He hums low in his chest, the sound vibrating against the tile. “Fuck,” he says softly “Your body is perfect.” He continues to soap every inch of me. Thighs, hips, stomach, breasts. Methodically, almost cruel in how careful he is not to give me what I’m hungry for.

“I could make you come just from touching you like this.” He drags the soapy cloth up the inside of my thigh, stopping just shy of where I’m throbbing for him.

“But not tonight ,” he murmurs, the words curling against my ear like a secret he’s savoring. He says it with a smile in his voice, not anger, not disappointment, just pure, wicked patience. He presses a kiss to the side of my neck, slow and wet, teeth grazing lightly at the end, making me shiver.

A tease. A promise. A game he’s far too good at playing.

Alex’s breath is the only sound in the dark.

After our bath, we bundled ourselves into bed, clean and still flushed.

I was wrecked from the dancing, drinking, and teasing, and Alex was out within minutes, cock still hard, pressed thick and insistent against my thigh, a silent reminder of what I hadn’t let happen tonight.

And yet, here I am, wide awake, staring at the ceiling that I can’t even see.

Alex wants me. Makes me feel beautiful. Chosen.

So why am I thinking about Broderick?

His face tonight at the club.

Even now, curled against Alex, I see Broderick’s fingers on my lip. The what-ifs that continue to haunt me.

I press my face into the pillow and try to block it out. My head starts to throb as sleep evades me and an inevitable hangover creeps in. I need comfort food. The thought alone makes my stomach protest loud enough to echo off the walls.

Carefully, I untangle myself from Alex’s heavy arm and grab my purse from the chair. I pad out of the room barefoot, each step muffled by the thick carpet, and make my way downstairs to the kitchen.

The house is quiet, the echoes of tonight’s shenanigans nothing more than a ghost now, secrets held by marble halls and too many closed doors. I’m not even sure what time it is—some ungodly hour where everything feels still.

As I round the corner toward the kitchen, the low hum of voices pulls me up short.

It’s Broderick. Talking to someone.

“Do you think it’s serious?”

His voice is low, tired.

“I don’t know,” the other man answers. It’s Andrew, I think.

“What do you think she sees in him?” Broderick asks.

The realization hits me hard. They’re talking about me.

A pause. Then, “Bro, do you like her?”

“No, no,” Broderick says quickly. “I’m just looking out for her. She’s Phil’s little sister.”

The words slam into me, cold and sharp.

But…he said he liked me.

Was that a lie? Or is he lying now, to Andrew?

Is he looking out for me?

Doubt creeps in, bitter in my mouth. I shouldn’t even feel this way. I’m with Alex.

“Right,” Andrew replies, the disbelief unmistakable in his voice. “It’s been almost a year since Lauren.”

Who’s Lauren?