Page 62 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

"We should talk," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "About what happened."

"If that's what you want." He doesn't move closer. Doesn't crowd me. Just waits—patient and still—like approaching something that might bolt if startled.

"I don't know what I want." The truth, finally. The first honest thing I've said in days.

His eyes darken, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of blue remains. "Don't you?"

The question hangs between us, blade-sharp and heavy. I could cut myself on the truth of it. On the answer we both already know.

I set the wine glass down on the windowsill with deliberate care. Take one step toward him, then another.

"It was a mistake," I say, stopping just within his reach. "What happened in the conference room."

"Was it?" His voice drops lower, a register that vibrates in my chest.

"Yes." I hold his gaze, refusing to look away. "It was unprofessional. Reckless. Complicated."

"I see." His expression gives nothing away, but something flickers in his eyes.

"And I want to do it again."

His breath catches, a slight hitch that wouldn't be noticeable if I weren't watching for it. Waiting for it. Needing it.

"Chanel—" He starts, voice rough at the edges.

"Not talking." I step closer, close enough to feel his exhale against my skin. "That's not what I need from you right now."

His control fractures visibly—jaw tightening, eyes darkening, hands flexing at his sides. "What do you need?"

I don't answer with words. Instead, I close the final distance between us, hands sliding up his chest to lock behind his neck. His body goes rigid for one heartbeat, two, before his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me against him with careful restraint.

"Just this once," I whisper against his mouth. A lie we both recognize. A permission slip for what we both need.

"Just this once," he echoes, voice strained with the effort of holding back.

Then his mouth is on mine, and there's no more restraint. No more careful distance. No more pretending this isn't exactly where I've been heading since I found myself back in his orbit.

His kiss is different than it was in the conference room—less desperate, more deliberate. A man savoring what he thought he'd lost forever.

His tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entrance I readily grant. My body melts against his, muscle memory overriding years of forgetting.

His hands slide down to my hips, lifting me effortlessly. I wrap my legs around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back as he carries me from the window.

Not toward the guest room where I've been sleeping. Not toward his bedroom—still forbidden territory.

To the couch. Neutral ground. A decision made in the moment, respecting boundaries neither of us has voiced.

He lowers me onto the cushions, following me down, body covering mine with a weight that feels like anchoring. Like coming home after years adrift.

His mouth never leaves mine, one hand braced beside my head, the other tracing a path from my waist to my breast, thumb brushing across the peak through silk.

I arch into his touch, a sound escaping my throat that I don't recognize—need and surrender wrapped into a single syllable.

My hands pull at his shirt, untucking it from his waistband, seeking skin I haven't touched in years. Haven't allowed myself to miss. Haven't allowed myself to need.

As I push his shirt open, something catches the light—a flash of gold against his chest. My fingers freeze, breath catching as I recognize what it is.

His wedding ring, hanging from a simple chain around his neck. The band I placed on his finger ten years ago. The one he should have discarded along with our vows.