Page 78 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
His hand slides between my thighs from behind, fingers finding slick heat, circling my entrance without penetrating. Teasing with deliberate skill that pulls a sound from my throat—part plea, part demand, part surrender.
"Jakob," his name emerging breathless, urgent. "Please."
"Please what?" The question edged with playful dominance that sends another flood of heat to my core. "Tell me what you need, Chanel."
"You," I repeat, the word carrying everything I can't articulate more specifically. Everything I've denied wanting. Everything I've pretended not to miss. "Inside me. Now."
He makes a sound—half groan, half growl—that vibrates against my back as he positions himself, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance, stretching me slowly, carefully, giving my body time to adjust to the intrusion it craves and fears in equal measure.
I push back against him, taking more, demanding more, silently communicating that I don't want careful. Don't want measured. Don't want controlled. I want him as he truly is—powerful, demanding, completely present in this act of joining that feels like coming home and stepping off a cliff simultaneously.
He understands without words, hands gripping my hips with bruising force as he thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion that knocks the air from my lungs. That fills me so completely I can't tell where I end and he begins.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Just breathes through the overwhelming sensation of reconnection, of bodies joiningafter separation. Of puzzle pieces clicking into place with the precision of design and intention and perfect fit.
Then he begins to move, setting a rhythm that starts slow but quickly builds as my body responds. As I push back to meet each thrust. As the headboard hits the wall with each drive of his hips against mine. The sound should embarrass me—this audible evidence of abandon, of need, of complete surrender to what he offers. Instead, it fuels something primal in my chest, something that recognizes this act as claiming. As marking. As mutual possession that transcends legal documents and careful distances and the fiction that what we are to each other can be contained in words likeexorco-parentortemporary.
His hand slides from my hip to between my thighs, fingers finding the bundle of nerves that sends electricity up my spine. Circling with the precise pressure he remembers, he knows, he's mastered through years of learning my body's language.
The dual sensation—his cock filling me from behind, his fingers working magic from the front—pushes me rapidly toward the edge of control, of coherence, of the careful compartmentalization I've maintained even during our recent reconnections.
"Fuck…Chanel…"
The use of my name, the knowledge that we’re falling apart together, converges in a perfect storm.
The pulsing of his cock as he empties himself inside me, shatters my control, sends me tumbling into orgasm with a cry that would embarrass me if I had any capacity for self-consciousness remaining.
My body clenches around him, inner muscles gripping with rhythmic pulses that milks his release from him. He drives into me one final time, deeper than before, a groan torn from his chest as my name is a broken syllable on his lips.
For several heartbeats, neither of us moves. Just breathes through aftershocks.
He withdraws carefully, before gathering me against his chest, my back to his front, bodies still connected.
His arm drapes over my waist, hand splayed possessively across my stomach. His breath warm against my neck, gradually slowing from rapid pants to the steady rhythm of satiation.
His body curls around mine in the protective embrace that once made me feel safest, most seen, most completely accepted.
"I love you."
The words murmured against my shoulder—quiet but distinct. Impossible to pretend I haven't heard.
I don't tense. Don't pull away. Don't retreat.
Because this time, the words don't surprise me.
Don't conflict with actions. Don't contradict the evidence of the man he's showing himself to be—in our bed, with our son, in the mundane moments that define a life shared rather than merely intersecting.
His arm tightens around my waist. I settle deeper into his embrace and close my eyes.
"I love you too."
FOURTEEN
THE BEAUTIFUL LIE
JAKOB
Routine has never been my sanctuary, but these past weeks with Chanel and Jaden living in my penthouse have rewritten that truth. I've become a collector of moments—each one preserved, counted, treasured like artifacts from a life I don't deserve.
