Page 32 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)
I should be embarrassed by the transparency of my desire. By how quickly my body responds to his touch, his voice, his mere presence. By the ways I still want him, still need him, still crave what only he has ever fully provided.
Instead, I feel powerful. Desired. Seen in ways that transcend the physical while celebrating it simultaneously.
I reach between us, finding the hardness pressing against my thigh, stroking him through the fabric of his pants with a boldness that feels like reclamation. Like ownership. Like acknowledging what we've been circling since the moment I walked back into his life.
He’s mine .
Jakob groans again, hips pressing into my touch, seeking more friction, more contact, more of the pleasure only I have ever fully unlocked in him.
The thought sends satisfaction coursing through me—not just sexual, but emotional.
The recognition that what exists between us remains unique, undiminished, unmatched by whatever came before or after our separation.
He pulls back slightly, eyes dark with intent. "Off," he commands, voice rough with need. "Everything off. Now."
The demand sends heat flooding through me.
I comply immediately, lifting my hips to push my jeans down legs that tremble slightly with anticipation.
He sheds his own clothes with efficient movements that speak to urgency rather than performance, never taking his eyes off me as I reveal myself to him.
When he returns to the bed, we're both naked. Both vulnerable. Both exposed in ways that go beyond physical nudity. For a moment, he simply looks at me—eyes tracking the length of my body with an intensity that feels like physical touch. Like reclamation. Like worship.
"Turn over," he says, voice rough with restraint that vibrates at the edges. "On your knees."
His words ignite a pulse between my thighs, recognition immediate and visceral. This position—one he always preferred, one that allows deepest penetration, complete surrender, total vulnerability. One I've never allowed any other man to claim me in.
I comply without hesitation, turning onto my stomach, rising onto hands and knees, exposing myself completely to his gaze, his touch, his possession. The vulnerability of the position both terrifying and thrilling. Surrender and power intertwined in the paradox of submission freely given.
The bed dips as he positions himself behind me, hands tracing the curve of my spine, the flare of my hips, the roundness of my ass with reverent appreciation that makes me arch into his touch, seeking more, demanding more, silently communicating need too urgent for patience.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, leaning forward to press a kiss between my shoulder blades. The tenderness of the gesture at odds with the carnal position—the dual nature of what exists between us exposed in this simple contrast. "So perfect."
His hand slides between my thighs from behind, fingers finding slick heat, circling my entrance without penetrating. Teasing with deliberate skill that pulls a sound from my throat—part plea, part demand, part surrender.
"Jakob," his name emerging breathless, urgent. "Please."
"Please what?" The question edged with playful dominance that sends another flood of heat to my core. "Tell me what you need, Chanel."
"You," I repeat, the word carrying everything I can't articulate more specifically. Everything I've denied wanting. Everything I've pretended not to miss. "Inside me. Now."
He makes a sound—half groan, half growl—that vibrates against my back as he positions himself, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance, stretching me slowly, carefully, giving my body time to adjust to the intrusion it craves and fears in equal measure.
I push back against him, taking more, demanding more, silently communicating that I don't want careful.
Don't want measured. Don't want controlled.
I want him as he truly is—powerful, demanding, completely present in this act of joining that feels like coming home and stepping off a cliff simultaneously.
He understands without words, hands gripping my hips with bruising force as he thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion that knocks the air from my lungs. That fills me so completely I can't tell where I end and he begins.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Just breathes through the overwhelming sensation of reconnection, of bodies joining after separation. Of puzzle pieces clicking into place with the precision of design and intention and perfect fit.
Then he begins to move, setting a rhythm that starts slow but quickly builds as my body responds.
As I push back to meet each thrust. As the headboard hits the wall with each drive of his hips against mine.
The sound should embarrass me—this audible evidence of abandon, of need, of complete surrender to what he offers.
Instead, it fuels something primal in my chest, something that recognizes this act as claiming.
As marking. As mutual possession that transcends legal documents and careful distances and the fiction that what we are to each other can be contained in words like ex or co-parent or temporary.
His hand slides from my hip to between my thighs, fingers finding the bundle of nerves that sends electricity up my spine. Circling with the precise pressure he remembers, he knows, he's mastered through years of learning my body's language.
The dual sensation—his cock filling me from behind, his fingers working magic from the front—pushes me rapidly toward the edge of control, of coherence, of the careful compartmentalization I've maintained even during our recent reconnections.
"Fuck…Chanel…"
The use of my name, the knowledge that we’re falling apart together, converges in a perfect storm.
The pulsing of his cock as he empties himself inside me, shatters my control, sends me tumbling into orgasm with a cry that would embarrass me if I had any capacity for self-consciousness remaining.
My body clenches around him, inner muscles gripping with rhythmic pulses that milks his release from him. He drives into me one final time, deeper than before, a groan torn from his chest as my name is a broken syllable on his lips.
For several heartbeats, neither of us moves. Just breathes through aftershocks.
He withdraws carefully, before gathering me against his chest, my back to his front, bodies still connected.
His arm drapes over my waist, hand splayed possessively across my stomach. His breath warm against my neck, gradually slowing from rapid pants to the steady rhythm of satiation.
His body curls around mine in the protective embrace that once made me feel safest, most seen, most completely accepted.
"I love you."
The words murmured against my shoulder—quiet but distinct. Impossible to pretend I haven't heard.
I don't tense. Don't pull away. Don't retreat.
Because this time, the words don't surprise me.
Don't conflict with actions. Don't contradict the evidence of the man he's showing himself to be—in our bed, with our son, in the mundane moments that define a life shared rather than merely intersecting.
His arm tightens around my waist. I settle deeper into his embrace and close my eyes.
"I love you too."