Page 99 of The Rules

Ben stilled beneath her.

His chest no longer rose in rhythm with hers. His hands tightened around her waist, then loosened. Something shifted in the atmosphere between them—something locked down.

He gently lifted her off his lap, setting her aside with careful hands that suddenly felt impersonal. He didn't look at her.

Didn't speak. Just moved with controlled, mechanical precision, reaching for his clothes.

Katherine watched, bewildered, as he began buttoning his shirt like she wasn't even there—like they hadn't just shattered each other completely moments ago.

"...Ben?" she asked softly, confusion evident in her voice.

No answer came immediately. Not the reassurance she needed. Not any acknowledgment of what had just transpired between them.

He finally glanced at her, but something had changed in his eyes—something shuttered and distant that hadn't been there before.

"Get some rest, Blondie," he said, his voice low and unreadable.

And then—he was gone.

He walked out. Quiet. Clean. Like none of it had meant anything.

Katherine sat there, blinking at the door, unable to process what had just happened. Her skin still tingled from his touch. Her heart still thudded in her chest. But everything felt cold now, the warmth of their connection evaporating like it had never existed. A quiet thought slipped in—maybe he regretted it.

Chapter 25

Benjamin

The door slammed behind him with a force that rattled the frame. Loud. Violent. Final. Rage crackled beneath his skin, hot and directionless. His pulse pounded like it was trying to break free from his body, and every breath felt like it scraped against bone. She was still everywhere—on his skin, in his mouth, burned into his memory. The walk to his car had been a blur—he couldn't remember if he'd spoken to anyone, if he'd even bothered to say goodbye to Ian. All he knew was that he needed to get away.

He stripped as he paced through his penthouse—shirt off, belt undone—movements rough, frantic. He couldn't stand the feel of fabric against his skin, not when she was still on him.

Her scent. Her sweat. Her fucking moans.

Ben stopped cold. Midstep. Chest rising. Eyes wide.

No. No, no, no. Not her. Not Winters.

"Fuck!"

Ben’s fists tightened involuntarily, his nails biting into the palm of his hand. Every detail fell into place with excruciating precision—the way she’d spoken, her body language, the flicker of fear in her eyes that she couldn’t fully hide. The bruise on her elbow. The reactions. And then, that damn phrase.

Sinfully good.

"You're fucking kidding me," he muttered under his breath, a low growl of disbelief and anger that vibrated through the still air.

He stalked toward the kitchen, each step precise and controlled despite the rage coursing through him. The marble counter was cool beneath his palms as he grabbed a glass, filled it with whiskey, and downed it in one burning swallow. He didn't taste it. Couldn't taste anything but her.

The bruise. The line. The fuckingtiming.

She played me. The whole time.

He braced his hands on the counter, chest heaving, teeth gritted so hard he swore something might crack. A muscle jumped violently in his jaw, pain lancing up the side of his face. His reflection stared back at him from the polished surface—eyes dark, wild, a man on the edge of fracturing.

"She let me fuck her—and still smiled like nothing was real."

The worst part?

She didn't even flinch. Shesmiled.