Page 130 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
"Show me how much."
Challenge in her voice, in the arch of her eyebrow, in the deliberate rock of her hips against mine.
I do.
With hands that map her body like territory worth dying for. With mouth that draws sounds from her throat no one else will ever hear. With body that moves with the singular focus of a man reclaiming the only heaven he's ever believed in.
Later, when we've marked each other with teeth and touch, she lies draped across my chest. Her heartbeat echoes against mine, sweat cooling on skin I can't stop touching. Can't stop tracing with fingertips that know every scar, every sensitive spot, every place that makes her breath catch.
"I have something for you," she says, shifting to reach for her discarded jacket.
"I thought you just gave me something."
I can't help the smile, the satisfaction of watching her roll her eyes even as color stains her cheeks. "Not that."
She places a small envelope in my palm. Plain white paper that somehow weighs as much as destiny.
"What's this?"
"Open it."
Inside, a grainy black and white image that takes a moment to understand. An ultrasound—shadowy proof of life forming in darkness. Creation from destruction. Renewal from what was once thought lost.
My hands go still. Heart suspended between beats. "Chanel?—"
Her name escapes like prayer, like curse, like every emotion I've ever buried beneath control.
"Twelve weeks," she says, voice steady but eyes watching mine with the wariness of someone offering their heart without guarantee of safe return. "Strong heartbeat. Due in February."
I press my palm against her still-flat stomach, feel nothing but warmth and possibility beneath skin that's memorized every touch of my hands. Yet knowing now what grows there—evidence of connection that transcends contract or convenience.That creates life from what was once thought irreparably broken.
"You're pregnant."
Not a question. A revelation whispered like confession, like the most sacred and terrifying truth I've ever acknowledged.
She covers my hand with hers, holding me against the place where our child grows. "I am."
Two words that rewrite everything. That shatter final walls between past and future. That make every sacrifice and wound and betrayal worth the blood paid.
I move down her body without conscious decision, press my forehead against the flat plane of her stomach. My hands grip her hips not in passion now but in prayer—in reverence for what can be created from wreckage. From two people who tore each other apart and found ways to rebuild from broken pieces.
"I've been thinking," she says, fingers threading through my hair. Anchoring me against her. Claiming me as completely as I've claimed her. "About the house in the Berkshires. The one we looked at last month."
I look up, find her watching me with eyes that still see through every defense I've ever constructed. That know me better than boardrooms or battlefields ever could.
"The one with the lake."
My voice sounds foreign to my own ears. Rough with emotion I once believed weakness. With vulnerability I once thought fatal.
"I want to build it," she says. "Not buy something already standing. Build something that's ours from foundation to roof. Something Jaden can grow up in when we're not here. Something this baby will know as home."
The significance isn't lost on me. The penthouse we share now was mine before it was ours—space she moved into with careful boundaries and negotiated territories. Even after Vegas,after reconciliation, after legal documents made us one on paper again, she never fully claimed it as her own.
The penthouses in Tokyo, in London, in Singapore—all existed before we reunited. All carry history we've had to navigate. To overcome. To rewrite with new memories laid over old scars.
"You want roots."
I say it not as accusation but realization. Understanding of what she's asking without demanding. Offering without requiring immediate response.
