Page 70 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
I shed clothes with efficient movements, no performance, no delay. Just the need to be skin to skin. To eliminate any barrier between us. To give her everything she's asking for—and everything she isn't.
When I settle beside her, over her, her legs part in welcome. In invitation. In acceptance I haven't earned but desperatelyneed. Her hands trace my shoulders, my chest, my abdomen—relearning contours that have hardened in our time apart.
"I've missed you," she whispers, the admission surprising us both. "Not just this. You."
The distinction matters. The specificity—a gift I don't deserve. I lower my head, mouth finding the pulse at her throat, tasting salt and soap and Chanel.
"I've missed you every day. Every hour. Every minute since I let you go."
Her body arches beneath mine, seeking contact, seeking friction, seeking connection beyond words. I trace her collarbone with my tongue, follow the curve of her breast, take a hardened nipple into my mouth with reverence that borders on worship.
She gasps, fingers threading into my hair, holding me to her—not that I'd ever leave. Not that I could stop tasting her, touching her, cataloging every response, every sigh, every shudder as if this might be the last time. As if she might evaporate beneath my hands like the dream she's been for four long years.
I map her body methodically, thoroughly, leaving no inch of skin untouched, unkissed, unclaimed. The dip of her waist. The flare of her hip. The soft skin of her inner thigh. The slick heat at her center, where I linger, tongue tracing patterns that make her writhe, that pull sounds from her throat I've replayed in memory on countless solitary nights.
"Jakob, please." Her voice breaks around my name, hips lifting in silent demand. "I need?—"
"I know what you need." I circle her clit with my tongue, fingers pressing inside her, curling to find the spot that makes her back arch, that makes her hands fist in sheets. "I've always known."
She comes against my mouth, body tightening around my fingers, my name a broken cry torn from somewhere primal, unguarded. I work her through it, gentling but not stopping, prolonging the pleasure until she's trembling. Until her hand pushes weakly at my shoulder.
"Too much," she gasps—over-sensitive, overwhelmed. "Come here."
I move up her body, bracing myself above her. Cock hard against her thigh but not pressing, not demanding. Just waiting.
Her hands frame my face, eyes meeting mine with startling clarity despite the haze of pleasure still evident in her flushed cheeks, her parted lips.
"I want you inside me. Now."
I enter her slowly, savoring the exquisite tight heat of her body accepting mine, the perfect fit that no amount of time or distance has diminished. Her legs wrap around my waist, heels pressing into the small of my back, urging me deeper, eliminating any space between us.
We move together with the synchronicity of bodies that remember each other, that know the rhythm, the pressure, the angle that brings maximum pleasure. But this isn't just physical. Isn't just release or comfort or familiar territory.
This is reclamation. Reconnection. Return.
I watch her face as I move within her, cataloging every flicker of expression, every catch of breath, every moment her eyes close in pleasure then open to find mine. Memorizing this version of her: open, unguarded, surrendered in a way she never allowed before our separation.
"You're everything," I confess against her mouth, filter dissolving with each thrust, each tightening of her body around mine. "Everything I've ever wanted. Everything I was too afraid to keep."
She doesn't respond with words, but her hands tighten on my shoulders, nails digging into skin, marking me as hers in the most primal way. Her hips rise to meet each thrust, taking me deeper, demanding more, silently communicating what her pride won't let her say aloud.
I slide a hand between us, finding where we're joined, circling her clit with my thumb as I increase the pace, the depth, the intensity of our connection. Her second orgasm builds visibly—in the flush spreading across her chest, in the tension gathering in her thighs, in the slight furrow between her brows as pleasure coils tighter.
"Come, my love," I murmur against her ear, voice strained with the effort of holding back my own release.
She shatters around me, inner muscles clenching in rhythmic pulses that nearly end me. Her eyes fly open, locking on mine in the moment of greatest vulnerability, greatest connection.
Greatest truth.
I follow her over the edge, emptying myself inside her with a groan that carries her name.
For several heartbeats, neither of us moves. Just breathe against each other, bodies joined, sweat cooling on skin. Reality suspended in this moment of perfect union.
Then she shifts slightly, adjusting to accommodate my weight, hands moving from my shoulders to my back in a caress that feels like forgiveness I haven't earned. Haven't even asked for.
I start to pull away—to give her space, to retreat to the careful distance we've maintained. To offer her the option to return to the guest room, to maintain the boundaries we've established.
"Stay," I whisper, the word emerging before I can consider its implications. "Stay here. With me."
