Page 54 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

Before the aftershocks subside, I'm reaching for him. Hand wrapping around hard length, feeling his whole body tense at the contact. At the precision of fingers that remember exactly how he likes to be touched. At pressure that brings pleasure to the knife's edge of pain without crossing over.

"Now," I tell him, voice steadier than the pulse racing beneath my skin. Than the tremor in my hands. Than the certainty rapidly eroding any remaining restraint. "I need you now."

He doesn't make me ask twice.

Doesn't employ the teasing delay he once used to drive me to the edge of madness.

Positions himself at my entrance and pushes forward in one fluid movement that brings him fully inside me, that joins us completely after years of separation.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Just breathes through overwhelming sensation.

Through the perfection of bodies that recognize each other at cellular level.

That fit together as though designed for this precise connection.

That remember what minds tried to forget during years of careful distance.

Then he begins to move, and thought becomes impossible.

There is only sensation—his body inside mine, his weight above me, his breath against my neck, his hands gripping my hips with precise pressure.

There is only the building pleasure, the tightening coil, the crescendo approaching with unstoppable momentum.

"Chanel."

My name in his mouth sounds like prayer. Like salvation. Like the only word that matters in a vocabulary that commands global markets and moves millions with calculated precision.

I answer with my body—arching to meet each thrust, nails digging into his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist. Demanding more. Demanding everything. Demanding truth without restraint or calculation.

He gives it without hesitation.

Drives deeper.

Moves faster.

Surrenders the last vestiges of control to raw, honest need. To the connection that terrifies and completes us both.

When he shifts angle slightly, hitting the spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids, I cry out without restraint. Without performance. Without concern for anything but the pleasure building beyond capacity to contain it.

"Yes." His voice rough against my ear, encouraging. Demanding. "Let go. Come for me again."

The command combined with physical sensation pushes me over the edge—orgasm crashing through with tidal force. With overwhelming intensity that blanks thought and leaves only feeling. Only truth too raw to disguise or diminish.

"I love you."

The words tear from my throat without permission. Without planning. Just honest declaration in a moment too intense for anything but absolute truth.

Something breaks in his expression—the last wall, the final defense, the armor he's maintained even in our most intimate moments. He drives into me once more, twice, then stills completely as his own release overtakes him—as he empties himself inside me with a groan that carries my name within it.

For long moments afterward, we don't move.

Don't speak.

Just breathe together in the darkness, bodies still joined, sweat cooling on overheated skin. His weight above me feels like anchor rather than burden. Like security rather than restraint.

When he finally shifts, it's only to roll to his side, taking me with him. Keeping us connected. His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against his chest. His lips press against my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.

"Thank God for you," he whispers, voice hoarse in the darkness. Raw with emotion normally kept tightly controlled. "I'll never deserve you. But I will never let you go."

I turn in his arms, face him fully in the city light filtering through windows. Study the planes and angles of his face—familiar and yet changed by time, by struggle, by growth neither of us planned but both needed.

"You don't have to deserve me." I trace his jawline, the stubble rough against my fingertips. "You just have to love me. All of me. Even the parts that scare you."

"I do." The words emerge without hesitation. Without calculation. "Every brilliant, stubborn, terrifying inch of you."

"And I love you." My hand flattens against his chest, feels his heart beating steady and strong beneath my palm. "All of you. Even the parts that should terrify me but don't anymore."

"What parts are those?" he asks, something vulnerable flickering behind his usual guardedness.

"The ruthlessness."

I don't soften the truth with euphemism. With pretense.

"The capacity for destruction when protecting what you love. The darkness you try to hide but can't completely."

He stills, muscles tensing beneath my touch. Waiting for judgment. For rejection. For the conditional acceptance he's grown accustomed to from a world that values his results but fears his methods.

"I used to think that part of you was separate," I continue, holding his gaze despite the vulnerability of the moment. "That I could love the man but fear the monster. I was wrong."

"How so?" The question emerges carefully. Neutrally. Hiding the fear beneath.

"They're not separate. They're you. Integrated.

Whole." My fingers trace patterns on his skin, maintaining connection as truth flows between us.

"Your capacity for ruthlessness is the same capacity that loves without limit.

That protects without hesitation. That would burn the world to keep us safe. "

His breath catches, recognition flaring in his eyes. Understanding that I see him completely—the tenderness and the violence, the protection and the possession, the man who memorizes how I take my coffee and the man who dismantled enemies who threatened what was his.

He cups my face between his palms, thumbs brushing my cheekbones with exquisite tenderness.

Then his mouth claims mine with sudden, overwhelming intensity—a kiss that contains gratitude and wonder and relief too profound for words.

Not gentle. Not careful. But honest in its desperation, in its acknowledgment that being truly seen is the rarest form of intimacy.

"And that doesn't scare you anymore?" The question contains genuine wonder.

Genuine confusion. But beneath the words, I hear the careful calibration of his voice—the slight restraint, the measured breath, the almost imperceptible bracing for rejection.

A man accustomed to hiding his darkest parts now offering them for judgment, muscles tense beneath my fingertips as though preparing for a blow.

"It scares me," I admit, honesty for honesty. Truth for truth. "But not in the way you think. Not because I fear you'll hurt me."

"Then how?"

"Because I understand it now."

The confession emerges from somewhere I've kept carefully guarded.

"Because I felt it myself when Latanya took Jaden. Because I know exactly what I would do—what I would become—to protect him. To protect you."

His arms tighten around me, pulling me closer against his chest. His heart beats against mine, rhythms synchronized as they always have been. As they always will be.

"We're the same," he whispers against my hair. Not accusation. Recognition.

"Yes." I lift my face, find his mouth with mine. Kiss him with gentle certainty. With absolute truth. "Just reflected through different prisms."

* * *

The soft buzz of Jakob's phone pulls me from near-sleep—a gentle vibration against the nightstand in the otherwise silent room.

Instinct has me tensing, listening for the follow-up calls that signal emergency.

For the pattern of alerts that means something requires immediate attention.

For any sign that our careful peace is about to be disrupted.

Instead, just a single text. Jakob doesn't move to check it, his breathing steady and deep against my hair.

"Aren't you going to look?" I whisper, old habits making me wary of interruptions, of business that can't wait until morning, of priorities that shift without warning.

"No," he murmurs, voice thick with approaching sleep. "Nothing's more important than this."

The simple statement contains multitudes—evidence of choices reordered, of values recalibrated, of a man who once moved markets with midnight phone calls now choosing presence over power. Who understands what truly can't wait and what can.

"We shouldn't wait to get married again," I say, the words emerging without rehearsal. Without planning. Just honest declaration in a moment too intimate for anything but truth. "I don't want to waste another day."

He pulls back slightly, eyes finding mine in the half-light. Something like wonder crosses his face—surprise at my eagerness where he might have expected caution. At my certainty where he prepared for hesitation.

"Let's go to Vegas," he says, the words landing like lightning between us. Not a question. A declaration from a man who moves billions with single decisions. Who executes strategies others would deliberate for months.

I stare at him, searching for signs of humor. Finding none. Just absolute certainty in eyes that have calculated risk across global markets, that have measured threat with mathematical precision, that now look at me with a recklessness I've never seen there before.

"Vegas?" I repeat, the word foreign in my mouth. So unlike the carefully orchestrated society wedding we had the first time—photographers from three publications, four hundred guests, a dress that took six months to design. "You're serious."

"Completely."

His thumb traces my lower lip, eyes never leaving mine.

"No press. No performances. No strategic guest lists or publicity calculations. Just us. Making a choice that belongs only to us."

The suggestion should feel absurd. Impulsive. Beneath the dignity of two people who've built careers on careful analysis and strategic planning. Instead, it feels like freedom—like casting off the final weights that have kept us tethered to shore when we were made for deeper waters.

"Vegas it is," I tell him, decision crystallizing into certainty with each heartbeat. "This weekend. Before either of us has time to turn it into something calculated."

"Just us," he confirms, thumb tracing the curve of my cheek. "Jaden can join us after. For whatever celebration comes next."

"Yes."

The simplicity of it settles into my bones—this choice made without strategic advantage or career calculation or public consideration. Just truth between two people who've finally stopped running from what they've always known.

He pulls me closer, arm tightening around my waist as his breathing deepens toward sleep. His heart beats steady beneath my palm, the rhythm I've tried and failed to forget during four years of deliberate distance.

Outside, the city continues its relentless pulse. Inside, we find peace in honesty too complete for misunderstanding. For misinterpretation. For the half-truths that once fractured what we built together.

Tomorrow will bring plans and calls and arrangements made with characteristic efficiency. But tonight requires no strategy. No performance. No armor against vulnerability.

Just two people who've survived fire and emerged not just intact, but forged into something stronger. Something unbreakable.

I close my eyes, surrender to approaching sleep with the certainty of a woman who's finally stopped fighting what was always inevitable. In less than a week, I'll reclaim the name I never truly surrendered—Chanel Giannetti.

His.

As he is mine.

And God help anyone who tries to come between us again.