Page 59 of The Rules

His lips trace a path down her stomach, each kiss a deliberate torment. He worships her skin with his mouth, marking every sensitive spot, learning what makes her shiver. His hands slide up her thighs, fingers finding the delicate lace between them. The fabric is drenched—evidence of how badly she wants this.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging just enough to make her hips lift slightly in anticipation. Then, with a smirk, he lets the lace snap back into place.

The sound she makes—God. It's desperate and frustrated and wanting, wrapped into one broken whimper that shoots straight through him.

"You're—" she starts, voice wrecked.

"Cruel?" He finishes for her, satisfaction dripping from every word. "You love it."

She doesn't deny it. Can't deny it. Her silence speaks volumes, and Ben drinks in every second of her surrender.

He lowers his mouth to her center, pressing a kiss against the soaked lace. He starts gentle, letting her feel the warmth of his breath through the thin barrier. Her thighs quiver under his hands as he increases the pressure, dragging his tongue along her covered flesh with deliberate precision.

The moment his tongue makes firm contact, she jerks violently, her head falling back against the couch as a raw gasp tears from her throat. The sound sends heat coursing through him, his own desire building with every reaction he draws from her.

He hums against her, pleased by how responsive she is to his touch. His fingers drift lower, teasing at the edges of the lace but never quite giving her what she needs.

"So sensitive," he murmurs against her, satisfaction dripping from his words.

Blondies hips buck forward, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of anything he'll give her. The desperate movement makes his blood run hot, but he maintains his torturous pace.

He traces patterns through the fabric, each stroke of his fingers calculated to drive her mad without pushing her over the edge. Every touch pulls another moan from her lips, the sounds growing more desperate with each passing second.

A growl builds in his chest as her wetness seeps through the lace. The taste of her, even through the fabric, is intoxicating. He's no longer just teasing - he's fully invested in taking her apart piece by piece.

Fuck. I could get addicted to this.

His teeth graze her through the lace—sharp enough to make her feel it, but not enough to hurt.The jolt of sensation against her most sensitive spot draws a soft, startled cry from her lips—pleasure, high and breathless, torn straight from her core.

Benslips his fingers beneath the lace, claiming her with a touch that leaves no room for denial. She’s soaked—hot and aching for him—and the feel of it robs him of breath. His lungs seize, every nerve lit with the realization that there’s nothing hesitant about her want. It hits him like instinct—raw, undeniable, already pulsing through his bloodstream.

"Fuck, you're soaked for me," he snarls, his voice stripped to gravel. The words emerge shattered, exposing the cracks in his control that her response has created.

He plunges his fingers deeper, each movement calculated with a precision that wars against the thundering demand in his blood. He hooks them inside her, finding that secret place that makes her body convulse. Every stroke deliberate—a tactile promise of what's to come.

His mouth joins the invasion, tongue flattening against her clit with deliberate pressure, dragging slow, maddening strokes that make her hips jerk. He alternates the rhythm—flicking, then pausing to suck softly, lips sealing around her like a promise.

His fingers never falter, thrusting with relentless control as he forces discipline into every movement, refusing to let the savage need clawing at his insides dictate the cadence of her pleasure.

Blondie fractures above him. Her head slams back, spine bowing as a sound—half-scream, half-surrender—tears from somewhere deep within her. Her thighs clamp around his shoulders, muscles seizing as her body hovers in that exquisite space between torture and release.

Benjamin drowns in her essence, consumed by the violent tremors coursing through her frame at his ministrations, when the harsh rap against wood fractures their cocoon.

He tears himself away, every sinew in his body seizing with primal, undiluted fury.

"Alright, guys, fun's over. Fire alarm's gone off. Probably nothing, but we're evacuating the club. Wrap it up." Ian's voice filters through the door, irritatingly amused.

Blondie's head falls back against the couch, a devastated sound escaping her throat. She was right there, right on the edge, and now—

Ben's voice drops to something lethal. "You better be fucking joking."

"Do I sound like I'm joking? Move your asses." Ian's response drips with dry sarcasm, clearly enjoying this interruption far too much.

Ben stays exactly where he is, crouched between her thighs that still tremble around him. He closes his eyes for a beat, letting out a slow breath through his nose. The interruption grates—but he reins it in. He’s not some impulsive teenager.

He knows how to wait. Doesn’t mean he likes it.

Blondie shifts beneath him, her voice light, teasing.