Page 53 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

TWENTY-FOUR

THE QUIET AFTER

CHANEL

"Stay," he whispers against my mouth.

The word hangs between us—not a command but a question. A revelation of vulnerability from a man who's built empires without flinching. Who's dismantled enemies without remorse. Who's calculated risk across seven markets before most people finish their morning coffee.

Yet here, in the darkness of his bedroom—our bedroom once—the word emerges raw. Undefended. A single syllable that contains four years of absence, of careful distance, of choices we've both had to live with.

I answer without words.

My hands find his face, fingertips tracing the jawline sharper now than in memory. The slight silver at his temples that wasn't there before. The lines around his eyes that speak of sleepless nights I wasn't there to witness.

My body remembers his before my mind can intervene—the precise pressure of his hands at my waist, the heat of his skin beneath my palms, the way his breath catches when my fingers trace the hollow at the base of his throat. Muscle memory preserved despite years of careful forgetting.

His mouth finds mine again, and any remaining distance collapses.

No hesitation now.

No careful negotiation of boundaries.

Just hunger finally acknowledged after years of starvation. His tongue slides against mine, claiming territory never truly surrendered despite legal documents declaring otherwise.

I arch against him, the silk of my dress catching on the crisp cotton of his partially unbuttoned shirt. Layers of fabric between skin that demands direct contact. That remembers connection too long denied.

"Too many clothes," I murmur against his mouth, fingers already working at the buttons of his shirt. Not asking permission. Not waiting for invitation. Simply reclaiming what was temporarily lost but never truly forgotten.

He helps, shrugging the shirt from shoulders broader than I remember, more defined than when we shared daily life.

Evidence of hours spent in the gym, channeling energy that once found other outlets.

That now finds its way back to original purpose as his hands slide beneath the hem of my dress, palms hot against my thighs.

The dress disappears over my head, tossed carelessly aside.

His hands still as his eyes take inventory—cataloging differences, confirming similarities, mapping the topography of a body changed subtly by time but essentially unchanged in its response to him.

"You're even more beautiful," he says, voice rough with desire barely leashed. With control rapidly fraying at the edges.

The observation lacks the polished charm he deploys in boardrooms and galas. Contains nothing of performance and everything of stark honesty. Of a man seeing clearly what he once possessed, what he lost, what now stands before him again by choice rather than obligation.

I don't deflect with modesty or qualification.

Don't hide beneath false humility or strategic diminishment.

Instead, I reach behind myself, unhook black lace, let it fall away. Stand before him in nothing but heels and the necklace he gave me for our first anniversary—the one possession I couldn't bear to return when everything else was divided with legal precision.

His breath catches, eyes darkening with desire no longer disguised. No longer contained behind careful professionalism or co-parenting civility. Just naked want for what stands before him. For what has always been his despite temporary separation.

"Your turn," I say, hands moving to his belt. Not asking. Telling. The auditor who identifies objectives and executes with precision now focused on singular purpose—skin against skin without barriers. Without pretense. Without anything between us but truth.

He doesn't resist.

Doesn't attempt to reclaim control of pace or progression.

Simply allows my hands to finish what his started—removing layers, eliminating barriers, reducing complexity to its essential form.

When he stands naked before me, I take inventory with the same thorough assessment he offered moments earlier.

Note the changes time has carved into flesh—the new scar along his ribs I don't recognize, the definition more pronounced across abdomen and thighs, the evidence of a body maintained with disciplined precision despite emotional wounds left untended.

My fingertips trace the scar, question unspoken but clear in the contact.

"Skiing accident," he says, watching my face rather than my hands. "Six months ago."

The simple statement contains volumes—a life continued without me there to witness. Adventures undertaken, risks taken, pain experienced without me there to tend wounds or prevent injury. A parallel existence carried forward while mine evolved on separate trajectory.

I lean forward, press my lips to the raised line of tissue. A blessing after the fact. An acknowledgment of time lost that can't be reclaimed but can be bridged through new connection.

His hand finds my hair, fingers threading through strands longer now than during our marriage. The grip tightens, not painful, but present. Solid. Real. Anchoring us both to this moment rather than memories that came before or possibilities that lie ahead.

When he guides me upright, mouth finding mine again, the kiss contains nothing of tentative exploration. Nothing of careful reintroduction. Only certainty born from knowledge too bone-deep to forget—of what makes me gasp, what makes my knees weaken, what makes coherent thought impossible.

We move toward the bed without discussion, without negotiation. Following the inevitable gravity that has always existed between us—the pull that years of careful distance only intensified rather than diminished.

The sheets are cool against my back as he lowers me to the mattress, his body following with practiced grace that speaks of muscle memory preserved despite absence. Of physical knowledge that transcends time and emotional complication.

His weight above me feels like homecoming—familiar pressure, welcome heat, the security of being exactly where I belong after too long adrift. My legs part instinctively, making space for him between my thighs. My arms encircle his shoulders, eliminating whatever distance remains.

He pauses, forearms braced on either side of my head, eyes finding mine in the half-light filtering through windows. Searching for hesitation. For doubt. For any sign that this reunion is impulse rather than choice.

"I need to hear you say it," he says, voice rough with desire held in check through sheer force of will. "That you're sure. That this isn't?—"

"I'm sure."

The words emerge without hesitation. Without qualification. Absolute in their certainty.

"I want this. I want you. I never stopped."

Something breaks in his expression—the last wall, the final defense, the armor he's maintained even during our closest moments of reconnection. He lowers himself fully against me, chest to chest, skin to skin, nothing between us but the truth we've finally stopped fighting.

"I never stopped either," he confesses against my neck, lips brushing sensitive skin with each syllable. "Not for a single day."

The admission costs him—this man who calculates risk with mathematical precision, who anticipates threats before they materialize, who protects vulnerability by denying its existence. Yet here, now, he offers it freely. Without expectation. Without strategy. Just truth laid bare in darkness.

I answer with my body—hips lifting to meet his, hands mapping the terrain of shoulders and back and waist, legs wrapping around his to eliminate whatever space remains. Offering without words what voice might complicate with explanation or qualification.

His mouth blazes a path from my throat to my breast, teeth grazing sensitive skin before tongue soothes the sting.

Not gentle. Not careful. Knowing exactly how I respond to the edge between pleasure and pain.

To the precise calibration of sensation that makes thought impossible and surrender inevitable.

I arch beneath him, body responding with honesty mind once denied. With recognition that transcends four years of careful forgetting. With need too fundamental to disguise behind professionalism or co-parenting civility.

When his hand slides between my thighs, finds evidence of desire impossible to fake, I don't hide my response.

Don't pretend indifference or restraint.

Let him see exactly what he does to me. What he has always done, even when I tried to deny it.

His fingers move with practiced skill—circling, pressing, entering with precise knowledge of what makes my breath catch, what makes my back arch, what makes coherent thought dissolve into pure sensation. Not exploration but confirmation. Not discovery but reclamation.

"Look at me," he demands, voice rough with need barely contained. With control fracturing at the edges. "I want to see you."

I open eyes I didn't realize I'd closed, find his gaze fixed on my face. Watching. Witnessing. Memorizing every micro-expression as pleasure builds beyond my capacity to contain it. As orgasm approaches with unstoppable momentum, as inevitable as the tide returning to shore after temporary retreat.

"That's it," he murmurs, fingers curling inside me, thumb circling the exact point where sensation concentrates into almost unbearable intensity. "Let go. Let me see you."

The command combined with physical stimulation pushes me over the edge—pleasure crashing through barriers too long maintained, defenses too carefully constructed, control too rigidly enforced.

I come apart beneath his hands, his name torn from my throat, body arching against his with abandon I've permitted with no one else.

With honesty I've acknowledged to no one but him.