Page 77 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
He breaks the kiss long enough to pull the shirt over his head, revealing the body I've relearned with hands and mouth and memory these past days. The body that once moved within mine with devastating precision. That still remembers what I need even when my mind denies wanting it.
I trace the definition of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his waistband—marking territory that still affects me in ways logic can't explain and time hasn't diminished.
"Your turn," he murmurs, hands finding the hem of my sweater. Waiting for permission that comes in the form of lifted arms, silent consent to this mutual disrobing.
The sweater drops to the floor, followed by my bra, leaving me half-naked before his gaze. I resist the urge to cover myself. To shield against the intensity of his attention.
"God, look at you," he breathes, hands hovering near my skin without touching, eyes tracking the curves he once knew by heart, rediscovering what time has altered and what remains unchanged. "Perfect. Always so fucking perfect."
The reverence in his voice unlocks a dangerous bloom of emotion I've kept carefully contained. The feeling that transcends physical want. That complicates what should be simple.
I step closer, eliminating the space he's maintained. Pressing my bare chest against his with a sigh that carries years of restraint, of denial, of pretending his touch wasn't the standard against which all others fell short.
His arms encircle me, pulling me impossibly closer—skin to skin with nothing between us but history and heartbeat and the twin hammering of pulses syncing to shared rhythm. Then he kisses me, deeper, hungrier. Edged with an urgency that matches the heat building low in my belly, between my thighs, in places only he has ever fully satisfied.
We move toward the bed in stumbling tandem, unwilling to break contact, to create distance, to acknowledge the world beyond this moment. The back of my knees hit the mattress, and I sink onto it, pulling him with me. Unwilling to surrender the heat of his body against mine even for the moments it would take to arrange ourselves with more grace.
He follows me down, weight braced on forearms positioned on either side of my head. Body covering mine without crushing. Without claiming. Without the entitled possession I once resented, and now crave with embarrassing intensity.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs against my throat, lips tracing the pulse that jumps beneath his attention. "Tell me what you need."
The request disarms me—not the words, which are familiar, but the sincerity behind them. The genuine desire to please me. To connect rather than conquer. To give rather than take.
"You," I whisper, the admission torn from somewhere raw and unguarded. "Just you."
He groans against my skin, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine. His mouth traces a path from my throat to my breast, tongue circling a nipple with deliberate slowness that pulls a gasp from my lips, back arching to demand more.
He understands, taking the hardened peak between his lips, alternating between gentle suction and the edge of teeth that sends electricity straight to my core. My hands fist in his hair, holding him to me. Directing without words. Communicating through touch and sound and the ancient language of bodies that remember each other even when minds insist on forgetting.
His hand slides down my stomach, finding the button of my jeans, flicking it open. Fingers slipping beneath denim and lace to discover the evidence of want I can't hide, can't deny, can't pretend doesn't exist exclusively for him.
"Christ, Chanel," he breathes against my breast, fingers tracing slick heat with reverent exploration. "Already so wet."
I should be embarrassed by the transparency of my desire. By how quickly my body responds to his touch, his voice, his mere presence. By the ways I still want him, still need him, still crave what only he has ever fully provided.
Instead, I feel powerful. Desired. Seen in ways that transcend the physical while celebrating it simultaneously.
I reach between us, finding the hardness pressing against my thigh, stroking him through the fabric of his pants with a boldness that feels like reclamation. Like ownership. Like acknowledging what we've been circling since the moment I walked back into his life.
He’s mine.
Jakob groans again, hips pressing into my touch, seeking more friction, more contact, more of the pleasure only I have ever fully unlocked in him. The thought sends satisfaction coursing through me—not just sexual, but emotional. The recognition that what exists between us remains unique,undiminished, unmatched by whatever came before or after our separation.
He pulls back slightly, eyes dark with intent. "Off," he commands, voice rough with need. "Everything off. Now."
The demand sends heat flooding through me. I comply immediately, lifting my hips to push my jeans down legs that tremble slightly with anticipation. He sheds his own clothes with efficient movements that speak to urgency rather than performance, never taking his eyes off me as I reveal myself to him.
When he returns to the bed, we're both naked. Both vulnerable. Both exposed in ways that go beyond physical nudity. For a moment, he simply looks at me—eyes tracking the length of my body with an intensity that feels like physical touch. Like reclamation. Like worship.
"Turn over," he says, voice rough with restraint that vibrates at the edges. "On your knees."
His words ignite a pulse between my thighs, recognition immediate and visceral. This position—one he always preferred, one that allows deepest penetration, complete surrender, total vulnerability. One I've never allowed any other man to claim me in.
I comply without hesitation, turning onto my stomach, rising onto hands and knees, exposing myself completely to his gaze, his touch, his possession. The vulnerability of the position both terrifying and thrilling. Surrender and power intertwined in the paradox of submission freely given.
The bed dips as he positions himself behind me, hands tracing the curve of my spine, the flare of my hips, the roundness of my ass with reverent appreciation that makes me arch into his touch, seeking more, demanding more, silently communicating need too urgent for patience.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, leaning forward to press a kiss between my shoulder blades. The tenderness of the gesture at odds with the carnal position—the dual nature of what exists between us exposed in this simple contrast. "So perfect."
