Page 20 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

Skin against skin, the contact sending lightning through my veins. I arch into him, seeking more, memories colliding with present need until I can't separate what was from what is.

He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down my neck, and I gasp, head falling back against the wall.

His teeth graze my pulse point, the slight pain sending pleasure spiraling through me. I pull at his shirt, needing to touch him, to feel him, to reclaim what I've denied wanting for too long.

"Jakob." His name falls from my lips like surrender.

The sound seems to break something in him. He stills against me, breath ragged against my throat.

For a long moment, neither of us moves, just stands panting in the dim hallway, bodies pressed together, hearts pounding in mismatched rhythm.

Slowly, reluctantly, he pulls back. His hands slide from my skin, coming to rest on the wall on either side of my head. His forehead touches mine, eyes closed as if he can't bear to look at me.

"Not tonight. Not with champagne and your job clouding what this means." His voice drops lower, almost dangerous. "When I take you to bed again, Chanel, you'll know exactly why you're there. And it won't be to appease the partners at RSV.”

The words land crystal clear.

Not a rejection—a promise. Not refusal—restraint.

His eyes open, meeting mine with an intensity that steals my breath. This isn't the careful, controlled Jakob that accompanies me tonight. This is the man beneath the mask—the one who would burn cities to the ground for what he wants.

The one who still wants me.

I step away, needing distance to think clearly. My hands shake as I smooth my dress, as if I can erase the imprint of his touch with the gesture.

"You're right," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "This isn't—we're not?—"

"I know."

Jakob straightens, rebuilding his control piece by careful piece. Becoming again the man who hides his emotions and desires well. Not the one who just kissed me like his life depended on it.

"Goodnight, Jakob."

I turn toward the door, needing to escape before I do something even more foolish. Like ask him to stay. Like admit that tonight felt more real than anything has in four years.

"Goodnight, Chanel." His voice follows me into the room, wrapping around me like a promise I can't afford to believe.

But I want to.

I close the door, leaning against it for a moment. Eyes closed, breathing through the storm in my chest. Then I cross to the bathroom, turning the shower as hot as I can stand. As if water can wash away the memory of his mouth on mine.

His hands on my skin. His body pressed against mine.

The dress slips to the floor in a puddle of black silk, and I step into the steam, letting it envelop me. But even as water pounds against my skin, I can still feel him.

Still taste him. Still want him with an intensity that terrifies me.

"Don't be stupid," I whisper to myself, the words harsh in the quiet room. "This isn't real."

But my body disagrees. My skin still tingles where he touched me. My lips still burn from his kiss. My heart still recognizes the man it once beat for, despite all the reasons it shouldn't.

The damage is already done.

The hot water cascades down my skin, but it can't wash away the heat he's ignited within me. My body betrays me, remembering his touch with perfect clarity.

I close my eyes and surrender to the memories of tonight. His hands on my waist. His mouth on my neck. The way he looked at me across the crowded room like I was the only woman who existed.

My fingers trace the path his once traveled—along my collarbone, down the curve of my breast. I cup myself, feeling my nipple harden against my palm. A soft gasp escapes my lips as I imagine it's his touch, not mine.

The soap slides down my body in rivulets, creating slick pathways for my hands to follow. I trace the curve of my waist, the flare of my hip, remembering how he used to grip me there, how his fingers would dig into my flesh when passion overtook him.

"This is madness," I whisper, but I don't stop.

My hand drifts lower, following the suds as they trail between my thighs. I part my folds, finding the heat there—the slickness that has nothing to do with the shower. My fingers circle, tentative at first, then with growing urgency.

I lean against the cool tile wall, legs trembling as I stroke myself. Behind closed eyes, it's Jakob's fingers, Jakob's mouth. The pressure builds, coiling tight in my core.

My breath comes faster, matching the rhythm of my fingers. The water pounds against my body, but all I feel is him—the ghost of his touch, the memory of his body against mine.

When release comes, it crashes over me in waves. His name slips from my lips like a truth I've been avoiding.

"Jakob."

I slide down to sit on the shower floor, water still streaming over me, aftershocks pulsing through my body. Tears mix with shower water on my face—for what was lost, for what might have been, for what I still want despite everything.

Because I never stopped loving him.

I just got better at pretending it didn't matter.