Page 88 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
Just raw. Just real.
He walks me backward until I feel the wall of the building against my shoulders, his body pressing into mine with delicious weight. His hands slide down my sides, over my hips, gripping my thighs to lift me higher. I wrap my legs around his waist, the position bringing him hard against my center, drawing a sound from his throat that vibrates through my skin.
"Inside," I manage between kisses, aware of the open balcony, the sleeping child down the hall.
He carries me through the sliding door, into the darkened living room, never breaking contact. My back hits the couch, his weight following me down, and suddenly we're horizontal. His body covering mine, his mouth moving from my lips to my jaw to the sensitive spot below my ear that he still remembers.
I arch against him, hands pulling at his shirt, needing skin. Needing proof that this is real, that he's here, that the connection between us wasn't just something I imagined to explain the hollow ache of his absence.
His shirt comes off, and I spread my palms against his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him. I trace the ridges of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hipbones, the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his jeans.
"Chanel." My name sounds like prayer on his lips. His hands move to the buttons of my blouse, hesitating. "Are you sure?"
The question cuts through the haze of desire—a splash of cold reality. I should say no. Should remember the professional exile, the betrayal, the fundamental fracture that still exists beneath this momentary connection.
But my body has its own memory. Its own truth. Its own hunger that four years of denial hasn't diminished. "Yes."
One word. Permission. Surrender. Choice.
Even as part of me hates myself for this weakness, for wanting him despite everything. For proving all over again that my body knows no loyalty to the boundaries my mind tries to establish where he's concerned.
His fingers make quick work of the buttons, exposing the black lace beneath. His eyes darken at the sight, thumb tracing the edge of the cup where it meets my skin.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, bending to press his lips to the valley between my breasts. "I've missed you. Every day."
The confession breaks something loose in me—some dam of emotion I've kept carefully contained. I pull him back up to my mouth, kissing him with everything I can't say aloud. The anger. The hurt. The longing that never faded, just transmuted into something I could survive.
He responds in kind, his kiss turning deeper, hungrier. His hands sliding beneath me to unclasp my bra, peeling the fabric away to expose me fully to his gaze, his touch, his mouth.
When his lips close around my nipple, I gasp, arching into the contact. His tongue circles the sensitive peak, teeth grazing just enough to send sharp pleasure down my spine. His hand finds my other breast, kneading, teasing, remembering exactly how I like to be touched.
I reach between us for the button of his jeans, needing more. Needing everything. He lifts his hips to help me push the denim down, and then he's naked against me. Hard Hot. Perfect.
"Bedroom," he murmurs against my throat. "I want to taste you."
The words send liquid heat pooling between my thighs. He lifts me again, carrying me down the hallway to my room, laying me on the bed with a gentleness that contrasts with the hunger in his eyes.
He makes quick work of my remaining clothes, peeling them away until I'm bare beneath him. His gaze travels over my body like physical touch, lingering on the changes time has wrought—the slight softening of my stomach, the faint stretch marks on my hips from carrying our son, the new definition in my arms from years of gym sessions used to exhaust myself into dreamless sleep.
"Still perfect," he says, voice rough with emotion. "Still mine."
I should correct him. Should remind him that I stopped being his the day he lied to me. Should hold that line of separation between us.
Instead, I reach for him, pulling him down to me. Skin against skin, heat against heat.
His mouth finds mine again as his hand slides between my thighs, fingers tracing the wetness there with reverent precision. I gasp against his lips as he circles my clit, remembering exactly how to touch me, exactly how to make me come undone.
"Jakob," I breathe—half plea, half surrender.
He moves down my body, trailing kisses over my throat, my breasts, my stomach. His shoulders push my thighs wider as he settles between them, his breath hot against my most sensitive flesh.
The first touch of his tongue nearly undoes me. I allowed myself this vulnerability, this surrender to pleasure not entirely under my control.
He licks into me with the confidence of a man who knows my body, knows what makes me arch and gasp and tremble. His hands grip my hips, holding me steady as his tongue works magic, circling my clit before dipping lower, tasting me, devouring me.
I thread my fingers through his hair—not guiding, just needing the connection—as pressure builds low in my belly. He moans against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my nerves.
"Don't stop," I whisper, the words a confession I can't hold back.
