Page 101 of The Rules

Not Blondie. Not a stranger in stilettos.Her.

It was her gasping under his hands, arms twisted behind her back, wrists bound tight as she writhed and begged for more.Her back arched like she couldn’t get enough of him, her throat bared like a fucking offering.

Her.Climbing onto his lap like she owned him. Grinding down on his cock, slick and shameless, chasing her own orgasm like it was war. Her tits bouncing, her head thrown back, moaning his name like it was the only goddamn word she knew.

Katherine.

The woman who argued with a scalpel tongue. Who looked him dead in the eye and called himMr. Sinclairwith all the venom of a woman holding a dagger behind her back.

She was the one who rode him like she wanted to break him. That tight little cunt gripping him as she worked herself down on his cock—shameless, determined, soaking them both—and he’dlet her. Let her tear through every wall he'd built.

Every gasp, everyfuck me harder, every cracked whimper—thatwas her voice. The same voice that whispered she needed him when she was scared. The same voice that had held her own across the table in strategic meetings—matched him argument for argument, pressure for pressure. Not the only one, but the first in a long time.

She’d knelt between his legs, eyes locked with his, mouth stretched around his cock like she wanted to devour him.

He could still hear the wet, obscene sounds of her sucking him off like it was her goddamn mission.

And the whole time?

She knew.

She let him come inside her, knew exactly who he was—whathe was to her—and never said a fucking word.

The truth hit like a sledgehammer to the gut.

For a second—a brief, fleeting second—Ben considered the possibility that maybe she didn't know. That maybe this was just as much of a shock to her as it was to him.

But the memory crashed into him with merciless clarity.

The second dance. The one where he’d waited without the mask. The moment she saw his face—reallysaw him.

She’d gone still. Not startled. Not confused. Just… still. Like a wire pulled tight.

And then—she’d shifted. Recovered. Slipped the mask back on like it had never cracked. But something had changed.

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Her touch wasn’t curious anymore—it was calculated.

And after that night?

She doesn't want came back to him.

The realization twisted inside him like a knife. She had known exactly who he was.

"You fucking knew," he whispered, the words barely audible, dark and gutted.

The betrayal was complete, absolute. He had let her in.

He had believed her. He had trusted her with his body, his secrets, his fucking name.

And she didn't even flinch when she lied to me.

She had walked into his office with that cool, professional mask. Arguing cases. Taking his criticism. Acting like she hadn't been naked in his arms just hours before. Like she hadn't tasted him on her tongue. Like she hadn't whispered his name while he was buried inside her.

The depth of her deception was staggering. Every meeting. Every argument. Every time she'd looked him in the eye and pretended she was nothing more than his subordinate.

All while knowing exactly who he was. All while letting him chase after a ghost that wore her face.

Ben sat on the edge of the bed, water dripping from his hair, a towel slung low around his hips. He’d scrubbed every inch of his skin raw in the shower, trying to erase the scent of her from his body, the memory of her from his mind.