Page 22 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

I don't give her time to decide. I deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against hers in a reunion that feels like coming home and stepping off a cliff simultaneously.

She makes a sound against my mouth that sounds like hunger. Her hands release my shirt to slide up my chest, around my neck, fingers threading into my hair with bruising force.

I back her against the conference table, lifting her onto its edge without breaking the kiss. My hands spanning her waist, thumbs pressing into hipbones through the fabric of her skirt.

"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.

She obeys, teeth sinking into the fabric, eyes wild above the makeshift gag.

The sight of her—powerful Chanel Warren silenced by her own pleasure, by the evidence of her desire for me—sends electricity racing through me.

I drive deeper, harder, the table sliding inches across the polished floor with each thrust.

"Fuck," I growl, watching her take everything I give her. "You have no idea what you do to me."

Our bodies move together in perfect synchronicity, as if the years apart never happened.

We've crossed a line we can't uncross, broken every rule—and I don't give a damn.

All that matters is this. Her body wrapped around mine, the wet heat of her gripping me in the way I still remember, still crave.

My hands find her hips, angling her higher, deeper, hitting the spot that used to make her come undone beneath me. Her head falls back, throat exposed, pulse visible beneath the skin I want to taste.

“You've always been mine,” I murmur, lowering my mouth, sucking on her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot beneath her ear.

She shudders, inner muscles clenching around me in a way that nearly ends everything too soon.

"Jake… Right there… I'm about to…"

I drive into her with a force that slides the heavy conference table across the floor, each thrust pushing us both closer to the edge. One of her hands drops to where we're joined, touching herself in a way that makes her inner walls tighten around me.

I remove the panties and stare into her beautiful eyes. "Nell…don't scream."

Her body arches, a saucy smirk playing on her lips. "I'll scream if I want to," she challenges breathlessly.

"Don't you dare," I growl, but it's too late.

Her cry of pleasure starts to break free, and I crush my mouth against hers, swallowing her moans as she convulses around me. The forbidden sensation of her climax triggers my own, and I explode inside her with devastating force.

This is heaven and hell wrapped into one intense moment. It's everything we shouldn't do—and everything we desperately want.

The worst decision. The best feeling.

Her body clenching around mine in the most beautiful sin I've ever committed.

For several heartbeats, neither of us moves. Just breathe against each other, foreheads touching, bodies still joined in the most intimate way possible. I can feel her pulse where we're connected, the slight tremors that continue to move through her, aftershocks of pleasure not yet faded.

Reality returns in slow degrees.

The conference room. The table beneath her. The fact that we just broke every professional boundary in existence. That we've taken a step there's no walking back from.

I lift my head to look at her, needing to see her eyes, to gauge what this means. To know if it's a beginning or just a momentary surrender to what's always existed between us.

Her gaze meets mine, and for one crystalline second, I see everything—the want, the fear, the confusion, the afterglow of pleasure not yet faded. Then her walls slam back into place, expression cooling, distance reasserting itself even while our bodies remain connected.

"Chanel—" I start, not sure what I'm going to say, just knowing I need to say something before she retreats completely.

"Don't." She places a finger against my lips, silencing whatever confession was forming. "Please don't ruin this with words."

She pushes gently at my chest, and I withdraw from her body, feeling the loss like a physical wound. She slides off the table, adjusting her skirt with hands that tremble slightly, not meeting my eyes.

I fix my own clothing mechanically, mind racing for something to say that won't drive her further away.

"This was..." She pauses, searching for the right word—the acceptable word. The word that won't crack the fragile moment we've created.

"A mistake?" I answer, throat scraped raw with need.

"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.