Page 63 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
He sees me notice, body tensing beneath my hands. For one suspended moment, neither of us breathes. The ring sits against his skin like a confession neither of us is ready to voice.
Then I pull him to me.
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot beneath my ear. "Tell me this isn't what you want."
"I can't." The truth again, torn from somewhere raw and unguarded. "I won't."
Something breaks in him—the last thread of restraint, the final barrier between control and surrender. His mouth reclaims mine, harder now, hungrier. His hands push my skirt up, fingers finding the edge of silk stockings, the bare skin above.
"I've thought about this," he confesses against my throat, voice rough with want. "Every night since the conference room. Wanting you… Needing you."
I should stop him. Should maintain some semblance of control. Should remember all the reasons this can't happen again.
Instead, I reach between us, unfastening his belt with trembling fingers. "Show me."
His eyes meet mine, something vulnerable surfacing beneath desire. For one heartbeat, I see the man beneath the mask. The one who held me through nightmares, who promised to always love me, who whispered his dreams against my skin in the dark.
Then he's kissing me again, and thought dissolves into sensation. His hands, his mouth, his body against mine—familiar and new simultaneously.
We tear at each other's clothes with growing urgency, need overwhelming finesse. My blouse open, his shirt unbuttoned, hands seeking, claiming, relearning.
When his fingers find me—already wet, already aching—a sound tears from my throat. Part surrender, part demand. Hewatches my face as he touches me, as if memorizing every flicker of expression, every catch in my breath.
This isn't just sex. This is reclamation. Recognition.
Return.
"Inside," I demand, arching against his hand. "Now."
He doesn't make me wait. Doesn't tease. Doesn't draw it out the way he used to, making me beg before giving me what I needed. Just positions himself and pushes into me in one smooth thrust that knocks the air from my lungs.
We both freeze, adjusting to the sensation—the perfect fit, the fullness, the overwhelming rightness of it. His forehead presses against mine, breath ragged against my lips.
"You've always been mine," he whispers, the words so quiet I might have imagined them. "Always."
I don't answer. Don't confirm. Don't deny. Just pull him closer, urging him deeper, setting a rhythm that builds quickly toward something we both need too badly to delay.
This isn't the frantic coupling of the conference room. Not performance or revenge or momentary weakness. This is deliberate choice. This is eyes open. Fully present. Completely aware of who we are and what we're doing.
This is surrender.
He moves within me—steady and deep—hitting places that make stars explode behind my eyes. My nails dig into his shoulders, marking him, claiming him in the only way I'll allow myself.
His hand slides between us, finding where we're joined, circling in the way he remembers—the way only he has ever known how to touch me.
"Let go," he murmurs against my ear, voice strained with the effort of holding back. "I've got you."
The orgasm hits like a wave breaking, sensation radiating outward from where we're connected. I cry out, back arching, body clenching around him as pleasure crests and breaks.
He follows immediately, hips jerking against mine, my name a harsh exhale against my neck as he empties himself inside me.
For several heartbeats, neither of us moves. Just breathe against each other, bodies joined, sweat cooling on our skin. Reality returns in slow degrees—the penthouse, the couch, the clothes half-removed, the life we've built apart crumbling with each touch.
He lifts his head finally, looking down at me with something that goes beyond desire. Beyond possession. Something that makes my chest ache with possibility and fear intertwined.
"Chanel…"
"Don't." I place my fingers against his lips, stopping whatever he's about to say. "Please."
