Page 58 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

"A release." She smooths her hair, rebuilding her armor piece by careful piece. "Nothing more."

The words hit like a fist to the sternum. Not because they're cruel—they're not. But because they're a lie.

One she needs to tell herself. One, I should let her believe.

But the taste of her is still on my tongue. The feel of her still imprinted on my skin. The memory of her coming apart in my arms still fresh enough to make my chest ache with something that feels dangerously like hope.

"Look at me," I say softly.

She does, reluctantly, eyes guarded now. Something vulnerable retreats behind her gaze. She's bracing for the request she can't fulfill, the words that might shatter what just happened between us.

Instead, I reach out slowly, telegraphing the movement, giving her time to step away. When she doesn't, my fingers brush her cheek, thumb stroking once over her lower lip, still swollen from my kiss.

"For now," I concede, giving her the space she needs. "Just a release."

Something flickers in her eyes—relief, perhaps. Or disappointment. I can't tell which, and that uncertainty cuts deeper than outright rejection would have.

Chanel nods once, then turns, gathering her portfolio from where it fell during our encounter. She moves toward the door with the steady grace that's become her armor since walking back into my life.

At the threshold, she pauses, looking back over her shoulder.

For one heartbeat, one breath, I think she might say something else. Might acknowledge that what just happened was more. Might give me some sign that we haven't just complicated everything beyond repair.

Instead, she walks out.

I don't follow. Don't call after her. Don't demand the conversation we both know we need to have.

I just stand in the aftermath of what we've done, body still buzzing with the memory of her touch, mind racing with possibilities and concerns.

I've just broken my cardinal rule: never let desire dictate strategy. Never let emotion compromise control. Never cross a line you can't uncross.

And now I’m unsure if I've won her back—or lost her forever.

ELEVEN

JUST THIS ONCE

CHANEL

"Jake…"

I snap awake, heart hammering against my ribs, sheets twisted around my legs. My hand is between my thighs, body trembling on the edge of release. I turn my face into the pillow just as the wave crashes through me, muffling the sound that tears from my throat.

My body pulses with aftershocks as reality filters back in. The digital clock reads 7:45 AM. —another morning where the line between past and present blurs.

I push myself up, legs still shaky, and walk to the bathroom. The cool tile against my feet helps ground me in the present, away from dreams where Jakob’s hands are on my skin again.

The conference room wasn't supposed to happen. I had rules, boundaries— clear lines drawn between professional and personal. But something broke open when he backed me against that table, when my fingers curled into his jacket instead of pushing him away.

I've tried to quantify it, categorize it, file it away where it can't reach me. Sleep deprivation. Proximity. The stress of the audit.Simple biology—bodies that once knew each other remembering old rhythms.

Nothing more.

But my subconscious isn't cooperating with this neat explanation. It keeps replaying his fingertips digging into my hips, the heat of his body pinning me against the table, the way he whispered my name against my neck, each syllable a sultry confession that ignited every nerve in me.

I splash cold water on my face and look up. Water drips down my cheeks as I stare at myself in the mirror.

I'm searching for some visible mark that would prove I'm not the same woman I was before that afternoon. Before I crossed a line, I promised myself I'd never approach again.