Page 268 of The Rules

And then—he kisses her.

Fierce. Certain. Like he’s answering every question she never asked out loud.

He doesn’t break the kiss as he moves.

In one fluid motion, he rises—lifting her into his arms, her legs locking around his waist, her hands already buried in his hair.

He carries her through the dim hallway, her body pressed tight against him, every step a silent vow—

And when they reach the bedroom?

The door slams shut behind them.

Ben moved like a man unraveling—like something inside him had already broken, and only her body, wrapped around him, could keep the pieces from scattering.

Every thrust was deeper, rougher, more consuming than the last. Not rushed—but urgent. Desperate.

His mouth was everywhere—on her throat, her collarbone, her breast—kissing, biting, gasping like he needed her in his lungs, like oxygen wasn’t enough without her taste.

“You still don’t get it, do you,” he growled, breath hot against her skin, his voice cracked wide open.

She gasped, her fingers digging into his back, clutching, needing—because it wasn’t just what he said. It was the way he said it. Like the words had been buried inside him for too long and now they were clawing out, jagged and raw.

“This isn’t about wanting you,” he gritted, his hand sliding under her thigh, dragging her higher, tilting her hips so he could sink even deeper—so deep she cried out.

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. Her body was shaking—his name breaking against her lips in breathless gasps—because he was still moving, still taking.

“I need your voice in the morning,” he rasped, dragging his mouth along her chin. “I need your temper, your goddamn laugh when you think I’m being an asshole."

She sobbed—quiet and sharp—because it was too much.

It was everything.

“I need every inch of you you think no one could ever want,” he said, quieter now—low and rough, like it scraped its way out of him from somewhere buried too deep to reach.

And something inside her shattered.

Not from the rhythm. Not from the friction.

From him.

From the way he said it like an oath, like he’d burn the world down just to mean it harder.

His hand framed her face now, thumb stroking her cheek like she was something holy. And his eyes—Christ, his eyes—held no mercy. Only fire. Possession. Need.

“You think I’d let you go?” he whispered, his voice splintering at the edges. “You think I’d survive a single fucking second without this? Without you?”

Kath couldn’t speak. Could barely hold herself together.

So she kissed him.

Hard. Desperate. Shaking.

And then it ripped out of him—violent, unrestrained. “I love you.”

The words weren’t spoken. They detonated. Guttural. Wrecked. Laid bare like a nerve.

“I fucking love you,” he snarled again, louder, fiercer—like saying it with force might cage the feeling that had already consumed him.