Page 11 of Rules

Shutting off the water, I methodically dry myself, following the same routine I've maintained for decades. Towel-dried hair first, then face, torso, legs, feet. Predictable. Sensible. Safe.

Sliding between cool sheets, I will sleep to come, but my mind churns with thoughts. The usual suspects: my deputies, then, where is that bastard Michael, on to the fight. And finally like most nights, Ruth. I close my eyes and allow the tropical scent of her hair, like an ocean breeze carrying exotic flowers, to flow over me. The silken feel of those copper strands flowing through my fingers. The softness of her body against mine, contradicted by the hardened peaks of her nipples pressing through her blouse.

Damn it.

My body responds instantly to the memory, blood rushing south until I'm achingly hard. I'd been in the same state at her shop, grateful for my utility belt creating distance between us. If she'd pressed against me fully, felt the evidence of how much I wanted her, I'm not sure I could have stopped myself.

I stare at the ceiling, debating my options. I can lie here uncomfortably awake, torturing myself with memories of Ruth's lips, her curves, her challenging gaze. Or I can take care of the problem and hopefully get some sleep.

With a resigned sigh, like all those other nights, I reach for my nightstand drawer, extracting a bottle of water-based lubricant. I'd been using lotion until a woman I briefly dated after Joan died extolled the virtues of proper lube. The relationship was over before it started. Two incredibly awkward dinners and several one-sided phone conversations where she talked and I half-listened. She was full of all sorts of advice. The one about lubricants stuck with me. An Amazon order later, I discovered she'd been right about that, at least.

I squeeze a small amount into my palm, the cool gel a welcome shock against my heated skin. Settling back against the pillows, I close my eyes and wrap my hand around myself. The first slow stroke sends a shiver up my spine. The coolness of the lube makes everything more intense, more alive.

I've developed a routine over the years. Long, firm strokes from base to tip, then special attention to the head, which has always been particularly sensitive. I cup my palm over the crown, fingers extending down the sides, moving in a pattern that would probably look ridiculous to an observer. Like some kind of strange jellyfish undulating around my cock.

With my eyes closed, Ruth materializes unbidden. Those light brown eyes holding mine, full of challenge and desire. At the park that day, I'd watched her lick her lips, a quick dart of pink tongue that had haunted me for days afterward. In my mind, that tongue is exploring me, tracing patterns across sensitive flesh. Those full lips wrapping around just the tip, her mouth warm and wet as she takes me in.

My grip tightens involuntarily. I imagine her straddling me, her weight settling on my thighs as she positions herself. The mental image of her sinking down onto me, taking me inch by inch into her tight warmth, has me gasping. I can almost feel her surrounding me, her internal muscles gripping as she begins to move.

My free hand moves to cup my balls, rolling them gently as my breathing quickens. The fantasy is so vivid I can hear her soft moans, feel the weight of her breasts in my hands.

The pressure builds rapidly, my hips lifting from the mattress of their own accord. My legs straighten, toes curling as the tension coils tighter and tighter. When release finally comes, it's with Ruth's name caught behind my clenched teeth, my body shuddering through waves of pleasure that leave me boneless and gasping.

After catching my breath, I clean up with the paper towels I keep beside the bed—another benefit of living alone, arranging things exactly as I need them. Tossing the evidence in the trash can, I settle back, Ruth's face still floating in my mind.

"Shit," I mutter to the empty room. I need to put some serious work into not thinking about her like this. Because like it or not, I can't be with her. She's too young for me, thirteen years is a big difference. Five, I could live with. Ten, even. But thirteen, people will talk and think I'm not respectable. Not to mention what it will do to her reputation.

I have to keep her at arm's length, not allow her business to suffer just because I want her. Fuck, No don't think that. I don't want her. I can't want her. I won't want her. No. No. No.

Turning onto my side, I punch my pillow into shape with more force than necessary. Sleep will be elusive tonight, with Ruth's hurt expression fresh in my mind and the ghost of Joan's disappointment lingering in the shadows.

I get out of bed, heading to the living room, maybe some television will help.

Chapter 6

Ruth

Surprisingly, I didn't spend the entire night reliving what happened with Tobias. After getting home, I mechanically went through my bedtime routine, crawled under the covers, and after mindlessly scrolling through a few TikTok videos, fell into a dreamless sleep. I didn't even use any of my toys.

Waking up, however, is an entirely different story.

Before my eyes even open, my mind replays the scene in vivid detail. Tobias pressing me against the wall, the heat of his mouth on mine, the confusing contradiction between his actions and words. I lay in bed for over an hour, analyzing every moment, every expression that crossed his face. The more I think about it, the less sense it makes. The only thing I've figured out is that man's complicated.

I like him. More than I should. Maybe even more than I realized until he kissed me and then kissed me again. But he "can't" date me. Not "won't" or "doesn't want to," but can't,what does that even mean? Like some invisible force field stands between us?

When confusion of this magnitude hits, I have one go-to person. Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I dial her number.

"It's eight-thirty on Saturday. Either you did something to someone or someone did something to you. I'm hoping it's the latter one. Which is it?" My aunt answers, her voice carrying that familiar mix of concern and sass.

"Well, hello to you too." I can't help but smile despite my emotional turmoil. "I need two things. Breakfast and to talk. What do you want to eat while we talk?"

"Uh-oh, the food while we talk, talk? That sounds serious. How about That One Place? I'll text you my order. Oh, let's meet at the shop, your Uncle's getting a cold."

"Perfect, see you soon."

After hanging up, I drag myself out of bed, letting Joey into the backyard while I try to make myself presentable. This is definitely a yoga pants and baggy shirt kind of day—no energy for anything else. My phone chimes with Auntie's order. I called it in and was told it'll be ready in twenty minutes. Just enough time to drive across town.

I pull my hair into a messy ponytail, brush my teeth, and head out to retrieve Joey. He's standing at the fence line, ferociously barking at the squirrel perched smugly on a power line. This is a daily occurrence.

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