Page 26 of The Rules

And she'd done that to him.

Kath lifted herself from his lap with excruciating slowness, letting every inch of contact drag against him as she rose.

Her thighs tremble, muscles taut from the strain of not taking what she so desperately wants. But this wasn't about satisfaction—this was about power.

Heremained frozen in the couch, his knuckles white against the leather armrests. She watched his throat work as he swallowed, noticed the way his chest rose and fell in measured counts—the kind of breathing meant to maintain control when everything else threatened to snap.

And now? Now he sat there, face drawn tight with want, pupils blown wide, his expensive suit doing nothing to hide how badly he wanted her.

The knowledge settled deep in her core, heavy and satisfying. Tonight, when he lay in his bed, staring at his ceiling, he wouldn't be thinking about case files or legal precedents. He'd be thinking about her weight in his lap, about the way she'd moved against him, about how close he'd come to breaking rules.

He'd remember every detail—the heat of her skin, the sound she'd made, the way his cock had throbbed when she ground down against him. And he wouldn't be able to do a damn thing about it.

That thought alone made her lips curve into a dangerous smile. Because for once, she wasn't the only one left wanting. For once, Benjamin Sinclair would know exactly how it felt to be denied what he desperately needed.

The music faded to silence, leaving only their ragged breathing and the distant thrum of bass from the main floor.

Tingling skin, phantom pressure, the memory of his body against hers—her thighs clench involuntarily. She forces each breath to stay even, though her heart pounds, desperate for escape.

He exhales—low, controlled, but edged with something raw. Something lost. His fingers twitch against the armrests before releasing, leaving creases in the leather.

Kath tilts her head, a knowing smirk curving her lips—even as panic claws at her ribs. The gesture feels both effortless and impossible. Blondie’s confidence warring with Katherine’s terror.

"Enjoy your night, Mr. S." The words fell soft and deliberate from her lips, each syllable carefully measured to hide how they shook.

She turns away, keeping her steps measured, even as every instinct screams at her to run. Heels strike the floor in steady rhythm—sharp, deliberate—though her pulse thunders in her ears.

The door clicks shut behind her.

Her legs buckle.

She barely reaches the nearest wall before collapsing against it, one hand pressed to her chest, as if sheer will might contain the chaos hammering beneath her ribs.

This can never happen again.

Chapter 8

Katherine

The witching hour's hush enveloped Katherine like an old lover's embrace, disturbed only by the gentle hum of dormant electronics and the faint, rhythmic throb of urban life beyond the glass. Darkness pooled between abandoned desks, transforming the corporate battleground into her private cathedral.

But she is still here.

Her screen is flooded with case files, legal documents, court records—her father’s case buried in the mess of it all. She scrolls through the evidence, cross-referencing details, her teeth sinking into her lower lip in focus. The rest of the world is gone.

Then—a soft sound.

A door clicking shut.

Her pulse spikes. She jolts, heart hammering until she sees him.

Joshua leans against the doorway, arms crossed, his usual easygoing smirk in place.

Unbothered. Relaxed.

“Winters," he drawls, mock disbelief dripping from every word, “are you secretly running this place? Because I swear, every time I leave late, you’re still here."

Katherin exhales, pushing the tension from her shoulders.