Page 126 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
"I'm sure."
The words emerge without hesitation. Without qualification. Absolute in their certainty.
"I want this. I want you. I never stopped."
Something breaks in his expression—the last wall, the final defense, the armor he's maintained even during our closest moments of reconnection. He lowers himself fully against me, chest to chest, skin to skin, nothing between us but the truth we've finally stopped fighting.
"I never stopped either," he confesses against my neck, lips brushing sensitive skin with each syllable. "Not for a single day."
The admission costs him—this man who calculates risk with mathematical precision, who anticipates threats before they materialize, who protects vulnerability by denying its existence. Yet here, now, he offers it freely. Without expectation. Without strategy. Just truth laid bare in darkness.
I answer with my body—hips lifting to meet his, hands mapping the terrain of shoulders and back and waist, legs wrapping around his to eliminate whatever space remains. Offering without words what voice might complicate with explanation or qualification.
His mouth blazes a path from my throat to my breast, teeth grazing sensitive skin before tongue soothes the sting. Not gentle. Not careful. Knowing exactly how I respond to the edge between pleasure and pain. To the precise calibrationof sensation that makes thought impossible and surrender inevitable.
I arch beneath him, body responding with honesty mind once denied. With recognition that transcends four years of careful forgetting. With need too fundamental to disguise behind professionalism or co-parenting civility.
When his hand slides between my thighs, finds evidence of desire impossible to fake, I don't hide my response.
Don't pretend indifference or restraint.
Let him see exactly what he does to me. What he has always done, even when I tried to deny it.
His fingers move with practiced skill—circling, pressing, entering with precise knowledge of what makes my breath catch, what makes my back arch, what makes coherent thought dissolve into pure sensation. Not exploration but confirmation. Not discovery but reclamation.
"Look at me," he demands, voice rough with need barely contained. With control fracturing at the edges. "I want to see you."
I open eyes I didn't realize I'd closed, find his gaze fixed on my face. Watching. Witnessing. Memorizing every micro-expression as pleasure builds beyond my capacity to contain it. As orgasm approaches with unstoppable momentum, as inevitable as the tide returning to shore after temporary retreat.
"That's it," he murmurs, fingers curling inside me, thumb circling the exact point where sensation concentrates into almost unbearable intensity. "Let go. Let me see you."
The command combined with physical stimulation pushes me over the edge—pleasure crashing through barriers too long maintained, defenses too carefully constructed, control too rigidly enforced. I come apart beneath his hands, his name torn from my throat, body arching against his with abandon I'vepermitted with no one else. With honesty I've acknowledged to no one but him.
Before the aftershocks subside, I'm reaching for him. Hand wrapping around hard length, feeling his whole body tense at the contact. At the precision of fingers that remember exactly how he likes to be touched. At pressure that brings pleasure to the knife's edge of pain without crossing over.
"Now," I tell him, voice steadier than the pulse racing beneath my skin. Than the tremor in my hands. Than the certainty rapidly eroding any remaining restraint. "I need you now."
He doesn't make me ask twice.
Doesn't employ the teasing delay he once used to drive me to the edge of madness.
Positions himself at my entrance and pushes forward in one fluid movement that brings him fully inside me, that joins us completely after years of separation.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Just breathes through overwhelming sensation.
Through the perfection of bodies that recognize each other at cellular level.
That fit together as though designed for this precise connection.
That remember what minds tried to forget during years of careful distance.
Then he begins to move, and thought becomes impossible. There is only sensation—his body inside mine, his weight above me, his breath against my neck, his hands gripping my hips with precise pressure. There is only the building pleasure, the tightening coil, the crescendo approaching with unstoppable momentum.
"Chanel."
My name in his mouth sounds like prayer. Like salvation. Like the only word that matters in a vocabulary that commands global markets and moves millions with calculated precision.
