Page 43 of The Rules

And maybe it’s reckless. Maybe it’s stupid. But a part of her—deep, buried, undeniable—wants to see him lose that perfect control. Wants to see if he trembles the way she did.

She slides to her knees between his legs, her palms resting against his thighs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The carpet bites into her skin. She doesn’t care.

His breath catches—sharp, silent.

That sound, that reaction, ripples through her like heat.

And for a moment, she’s not Blondie. Not Katherine.

Just a woman, choosing this man. Choosing the tension.

The fire.

Her nails skim up his thighs, slow and teasing. Beneath her touch, he's all stone and restraint—coiled tight, waiting to break. Every muscle beneath her touch is hard, yet he remains perfectly still, his discipline absolute.

His eyes are locked on her with such intensity. His restraint isn’t a barrier—it’s an invitation.

"What about your rules?" His voice carves through her like a blade, the dark warning in his tone sending liquid fire coursing through her veins, settling molten and heavy between her thighs.

She lets her lips curve into a dangerous smile. "What about them?"

A muscle tics low in his cheek, sharp and involuntary.

His fingers grip the armrests harder, and Katherine feels a thrill of satisfaction. He's fighting not to touch her—she can see it in every rigid line of his body.

"No touching unless you allow it," he reminds her, his voice rougher now. The way he watches, makes her skin tingle with anticipation.

She hums softly, letting her nails scrape against the fabric of his suit pants. "And yet," she murmurs, enjoying how his breath catches, "I haven't stopped you."

His breathing deepens, growing heavier. His legendary control is starting to crack.

"No explicit requests," he manages, though his voice has gone dark with want.

Katherine shifts closer, her hands moving to his belt.

The metal is cool against her fingers as she unfastens it with deliberate slowness. He remains still, but she feels the tension radiating from him—he's letting her lead, for now.

"Then what the fuck is this?" His voice strains under the weight of it—low, clipped, barely holding together.

Kath feels a rush of satisfaction as his words falter.

Her fingers trace along his waistband, feeling the heatof his skin beneath the fabric. The power has shifted - now she's the one in control.

She hooks her fingers into his slacks, tugging with deliberate slowness. The fabric slides down his hips, revealing him inch by inch. Her breath catches at the sight of his cock, already hard and straining against his briefs. His raw need sets her core ablaze, molten desire flooding through her depths.

She works at his shirt next, the crisp fabric whispering as she untucks it from his waistband. Each new inch of skin revealed makes her pulse quicken - the defined muscles of his stomach, the sharp cut of his hipbones, the rigid tension in every line of his body.

She takes it all in.

Commits it to memory like she’s afraid she’ll never get this close again. Every contour, every flicker of restraint in his body—shewantsto remember it.

His breathing grows ragged as her hands explore higher, skimming over his ribs. She could order him to strip, but there's something intoxicating about unwrapping him herself.

Her breath skates over his skin, teasing heat into muscle.

Her lips hover at his waistband, a whisper away. “You didn’t ask for this, Mr. S.”