Page 221 of The Rules

Ben looked at her. Not with hunger, but something deeper. Something reverent. His eyes moved slowly, as if memorizing her. As if she were something rare. Something fragile.

Water glided over his chest, catching the hard lines of him, and she stared—silent, still. Droplets clung to the defined muscles of his shoulders, traced paths down the ridges of his abdomen. In this moment, with the steam rising around them and the steady rhythm of water against tile, he looked almost vulnerable.

"You're beautiful," she whispered, the words escaping before she could catch them.

He exhaled through his nose, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. Not dismissal. Not mockery. Something deeper, something that made her heart stutter in her chest.

His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek.

The touch was gentle, almost tender—so unlike the man who had walked in covered in someone else's blood. His fingertips left trails of warmth against her skin, and she found herself leaning into the contact.

"We should get cleaned up," he said, voice roughened by something more than exhaustion.

She nodded.

He poured soap into his palm and reached for her back.

His hands moved slowly. No urgency. No pressure.

Just presence. His fingers worked in careful circles, spreading lather across her shoulders, down the curve of her spine.

Kath closed her eyes, surrendering to the sensation of being touched with such care.

The soap created a slick barrier between them, but somehow it felt more intimate than anything they'd shared before.

Ben washed her with deliberate care—not rushed, not distracted. Each movement was gentle. Like she was something breakable.

When his hands finally stilled, Katherine reached for the bottle and poured a small pool into her palm. "My turn," she murmured.

Her fingers slid over his shoulders, slow and steady, tracing the hard lines of muscle beneath damp, heated skin. She moved with purpose, working the soap across his arms, then his chest, down the tense plane of his abdomen. Her touch was light, almost clinical, a deliberate restraint. Because if she let herself feel too much, she'd fall apart.

Then she saw it—a streak of blood, dried and stubborn along the curve of his shoulder. Without thinking, she stepped closer, hand moving in slow, careful circles until the stain dissolved beneath her fingertips.

The motion brought her body flush to his.

Skin against skin.

Warm. Bare. Unavoidable.

Ben's breath hitched—just a fraction, but enough. Katherine's heart leapt in response, the shock of contact rippling through her. Every inch of where they touched lit up like a live wire.

Her breath caught halfway to her lungs and stayed there.

Water rushed over them, but the heat came from somewhere deeper.

Ben looked down at her, his gaze unreadable. Heavy.

He tracked her face like he was committing it to memory.

His eyes drifted to her mouth, then lower, tracing the line of her collarbone, the curve of her breast pressed faintly against his chest. When his hand lifted, it didn’t go to her waist or hip.

It drifted to her arm, brushing along the edges of fresh bruises.

Dark, blooming shadows. Purple. Ugly. Still tender.

His expression changed—a shadow cutting through it, the same cold, focused rage she'd seen in the alley. Except this time, it wasn’t distant. It wasn’t abstract. It waspersonal.

She felt the tension knotting through his shoulders.