Page 24 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

The sensation of being observed lingers long after we turn the corner.

The penthouse is quiet when I return. Jaden safely delivered to karate, with Latanya picking him up after. Two hours of unexpected solitude stretch before me.

Two hours to work.

Instead, I kick off my heels, pour a glass of wine I don't need, and move to the window.

This is what I miss about living in the penthouse: people watching.

Manhattan sprawls before me, hustling with ambition and light. Somewhere in that maze is Jakob.

I press my palm against the cool glass. The wine sits untouched beside me, unnecessary courage for a decision I've already made.

My phone buzzes. A text from Jakob: Heading home. Need anything?

Two words that mean nothing. Two words that mean everything. The difference between ‘ coming back to the penthouse’ and ‘heading home.’ The acknowledgment that I might need something he could provide.

I type back: No. Pause. Delete. Try again : I'm already here.

Send before I can reconsider. Before I can armor up. Before I can lie to myself again.

The response comes almost immediately: Good. On my way.

Heat pools low in my stomach.

I don't reply. Don't need to. Just wait, pulse thrumming beneath my skin, the decision crystallizing with each passing minute.

When the elevator doors open twenty minutes later, I'm still at the window.

I don't turn around. Don't need to . I feel him enter the space—the subtle shift in air pressure, the weight of his presence, the sound of keys dropping into the bowl by the door. The quiet certainty of his approach.

He stops behind me, close enough that I feel his heat but not his touch. The restraint more devastating than any advance.

"Chanel." My name in his mouth sounds like hunger and caution intertwined.

I turn, finally, to face him. His tie is loosened, hair slightly mussed as if he's been running his hand through it. The careful mask of control he shows the world has slipped, revealing something raw and unguarded beneath.

"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.

He sees me notice, body tensing beneath my hands. For one suspended moment, neither of us breathes. The ring sits against his skin like a confession neither of us is ready to voice.

Then I pull him to me.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot beneath my ear. "Tell me this isn't what you want."

"I can't." The truth again, torn from somewhere raw and unguarded. "I won't."

Something breaks in him—the last thread of restraint, the final barrier between control and surrender. His mouth reclaims mine, harder now, hungrier. His hands push my skirt up, fingers finding the edge of silk stockings, the bare skin above.

"I've thought about this," he confesses against my throat, voice rough with want. "Every night since the conference room. Wanting you… Needing you."

I should stop him. Should maintain some semblance of control. Should remember all the reasons this can't happen again.

Instead, I reach between us, unfastening his belt with trembling fingers. "Show me."

His eyes meet mine, something vulnerable surfacing beneath desire. For one heartbeat, I see the man beneath the mask. The one who held me through nightmares, who promised to always love me, who whispered his dreams against my skin in the dark.

Then he's kissing me again, and thought dissolves into sensation. His hands, his mouth, his body against mine—familiar and new simultaneously.

We tear at each other's clothes with growing urgency, need overwhelming finesse. My blouse open, his shirt unbuttoned, hands seeking, claiming, relearning.

When his fingers find me—already wet, already aching—a sound tears from my throat. Part surrender, part demand. He watches my face as he touches me, as if memorizing every flicker of expression, every catch in my breath.

This isn't just sex. This is reclamation. Recognition.

Return.

"Inside," I demand, arching against his hand. "Now."

He doesn't make me wait. Doesn't tease. Doesn't draw it out the way he used to, making me beg before giving me what I needed. Just positions himself and pushes into me in one smooth thrust that knocks the air from my lungs.

We both freeze, adjusting to the sensation—the perfect fit, the fullness, the overwhelming rightness of it. His forehead presses against mine, breath ragged against my lips.

"You've always been mine," he whispers, the words so quiet I might have imagined them. "Always."

I don't answer. Don't confirm. Don't deny. Just pull him closer, urging him deeper, setting a rhythm that builds quickly toward something we both need too badly to delay.

This isn't the frantic coupling of the conference room. Not performance or revenge or momentary weakness. This is deliberate choice. This is eyes open. Fully present. Completely aware of who we are and what we're doing.

This is surrender.

He moves within me—steady and deep—hitting places that make stars explode behind my eyes. My nails dig into his shoulders, marking him, claiming him in the only way I'll allow myself.

His hand slides between us, finding where we're joined, circling in the way he remembers—the way only he has ever known how to touch me.

"Let go," he murmurs against my ear, voice strained with the effort of holding back. "I've got you."

The orgasm hits like a wave breaking, sensation radiating outward from where we're connected. I cry out, back arching, body clenching around him as pleasure crests and breaks.

He follows immediately, hips jerking against mine, my name a harsh exhale against my neck as he empties himself inside me.

For several heartbeats, neither of us moves. Just breathe against each other, bodies joined, sweat cooling on our skin. Reality returns in slow degrees—the penthouse, the couch, the clothes half-removed, the life we've built apart crumbling with each touch.

He lifts his head finally, looking down at me with something that goes beyond desire. Beyond possession. Something that makes my chest ache with possibility and fear intertwined.

"Chanel…"

"Don't." I place my fingers against his lips, stopping whatever he's about to say. "Please."

He studies me for a long moment, then nods once, accepting the boundary. Understanding what I need. What I can handle.