Page 56 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

"Jakob," she gasps as my mouth leaves hers to trail down her neck, teeth grazing the pulse point that still jumps at my touch.

The sound of my name on her lips after so long sends liquid heat pooling in my gut, making my cock rock hard.

I don't respond with words—they've never served us well. Instead, I reclaim her mouth, pouring four years of silence and want and regret into the contact.

Her legs part, allowing me between them, skirt riding up as she wraps around me like she's drowning and I'm air.

My hand slides up her silky thighs until my fingers brush the damp space, showing me I'm not alone in my hunger. Her wetness coats my fingertips like an invitation, a primal confession that reason has abandoned us both.

She's soaked through delicate fabric, her body surrendering what her words still fight to hide—that we've fallen together into this madness, this need that burns through logic and leaves nothing but desire.

I trace her entrance, feeling the way she trembles, the catch in her breath.

"Yes," she breathes, hips arching into my touch.

"Yes, what?"

"Touch me."

The naked need in her voice nearly undoes me. I capture her mouth again as my fingers push aside the barrier, finding her slick and ready.

When I slide one finger inside, then another, her entire body goes taut, a broken sound escaping her throat that vibrates against my chest, as her eyes roll shut.

"Look at me," I murmur against her mouth. "Open your eyes."

She does, dark gaze finding mine, pupils blown wide with desire and something more vulnerable.

I drag my fingers in and out of her, thumb circling where she's most sensitive, watching pleasure ripple across her face.

"I could live to please you," I confess, watching the slight parting of her lips, the flush spreading across her cheekbones, the moment her control starts to slip.

Her breath hitches, something shifting in her expression—recognition, maybe. Or remembrance. She reaches between us, hand finding the hard length of me through pants, squeezing with a pressure that makes my vision darken at the edges.

"Prove it," she demands, voice hoarse with hunger and defiance.

Her hands move to my belt, yanking it open with an urgency. She tears at my zipper, pushing fabric out of the way, wrapping her fingers around me with a grip that's not gentle, not hesitant.

I withdraw my fingers from her heat, using both hands to push her skirt higher, hooking my fingers in the waistband of her underwear. She lifts her hips impatiently as I drag the silk down her legs, shoving the panties into my pocket.

Then there's nothing between us but breath and history, and the decision point we've been circling since she walked back into my life.

I position myself at her entrance, forcing myself to pause, to give her one last chance to walk away.

"Yes," she says again, reading the question in my eyes. Her legs lock around my waist, heels digging into my back, pulling me toward her. "Now."

I push into her in one smooth thrust, burying myself to the hilt in tight, slick heat.

"Fuck…" We moan in unison.

Her body yields and grips, squeezing my cock in a way that makes stars explode behind my eyes. Her breath catches—a sharp inhale as she adjusts to the intrusion, to the fullness.

"Jakob…," she breathes, the phrase caught between desire and desperation.

I begin to move, setting a rhythm that builds as her body responds, rising to meet each thrust.

Papers scatter to the floor as I drive into her, the conference table creaking beneath our weight. Her moans grow louder, desperate, and I pull her panties from my pocket, pressing the damp silk against her mouth.

"Bite," I command, my voice rough with need.