Page 53 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
"Don't be stupid," I whisper to myself, the words harsh in the quiet room. "This isn't real."
But my body disagrees. My skin still tingles where he touched me. My lips still burn from his kiss. My heart still recognizes the man it once beat for, despite all the reasons it shouldn't.
The damage is already done.
The hot water cascades down my skin, but it can't wash away the heat he's ignited within me. My body betrays me, remembering his touch with perfect clarity.
I close my eyes and surrender to the memories of tonight. His hands on my waist. His mouth on my neck. The way he looked at me across the crowded room like I was the only woman who existed.
My fingers trace the path his once traveled—along my collarbone, down the curve of my breast. I cup myself, feeling mynipple harden against my palm. A soft gasp escapes my lips as I imagine it's his touch, not mine.
The soap slides down my body in rivulets, creating slick pathways for my hands to follow. I trace the curve of my waist, the flare of my hip, remembering how he used to grip me there, how his fingers would dig into my flesh when passion overtook him.
"This is madness," I whisper, but I don't stop.
My hand drifts lower, following the suds as they trail between my thighs. I part my folds, finding the heat there—the slickness that has nothing to do with the shower. My fingers circle, tentative at first, then with growing urgency.
I lean against the cool tile wall, legs trembling as I stroke myself. Behind closed eyes, it's Jakob's fingers, Jakob's mouth. The pressure builds, coiling tight in my core.
My breath comes faster, matching the rhythm of my fingers. The water pounds against my body, but all I feel is him—the ghost of his touch, the memory of his body against mine.
When release comes, it crashes over me in waves. His name slips from my lips like a truth I've been avoiding.
"Jakob."
I slide down to sit on the shower floor, water still streaming over me, aftershocks pulsing through my body. Tears mix with shower water on my face—for what was lost, for what might have been, for what I still want despite everything.
Because I never stopped loving him.
I just got better at pretending it didn't matter.
TEN
ALWAYS MINE
JAKOB
I find her asleep on the couch.
Not the guest room where she's supposed to be. But sprawled across the living room couch, one arm flung above her head, files scattered across her lap and the floor.
She’s been here for three days.
Three days of us returning to civil coexistence. It feels like losing her all over again, yet her fragrance lingers, her coffee mug rests in my sink, her shoes are by my door.
Three nights of knowing she’s just twenty feet away, divided only by drywall and self-control.
I should wake her to maintain this illusion of unthreatening neutrality. To pretend that kiss didn’t change everything.
Instead, I stand motionless, committing this unguarded version of her to memory. The slight furrow between her brows—concentration that follows her even into dreams. The way her lips part on quiet exhales. Her hair flows over the pillow, wilder in sleep than she ever allows while awake.
I move toward her slowly, wanting to touch her, but knowing I shouldn’t.
My pulse thrums in my throat as I gather the scattered papers, stacking them on the coffee table. Singapore disclosures. Timeline projections. Handwritten notes.
She hasn't stopped working since moving in, as if constant motion might outpace whatever's building between us.
Chanel shifts and a sound escapes her—not quite a word, but it sounds like my name. I freeze, caught between the intensity of her whisper and the urge to pull away.
