Page 89 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
He responds by sliding one finger inside me, then another—curling them forward to find the spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. His mouth never leaves my clit, sucking gently as his fingers pump in a rhythm designed to unravel me completely.
The orgasm crashes through me without warning, my body arching off the bed, a cry escaping my throat that I muffle against my arm. Wave after wave of pleasure. Jakob working me through it, drawing it out until I'm trembling, oversensitive, gasping.
He kisses his way back up my body, gathering me against him as the aftershocks ripple through me. His hardness presses against my thigh—a reminder of unfinished business.
I reach between us, wrapping my fingers around him, feeling the velvet hardness, the proof of his desire. He groans against my neck, hips pushing into my touch.
"I need you," he murmurs, and the rawness in his voice undoes something in me.
"Then take me."
He shifts above me, aligning our bodies with practiced ease. The first press of him against my entrance makes us both gasp. He pauses, eyes finding mine in the darkness, asking without words.
I answer by lifting my hips, taking him deeper. His groan vibrates through me as he pushes fully inside, filling me. Completing me in a way I've tried to forget.
We find our rhythm immediately, muscle memory guiding us. His hips rolling into mine, my legs wrapping around his waist to take him deeper. Each thrust slow, deliberate, like he's trying to memorize the feeling. Like he's afraid this might be the last time.
With each movement, fragments of the past flash behind my eyes—our wedding night, lazy Sunday mornings, the night Jaden was conceived. The pleasure of the present tangled with the pain of what we lost, what we threw away, what was taken from us.
"Look at me," he whispers, and I open eyes I didn't realize I'd closed.
The vulnerability in his gaze catches me off guard. No masks, no walls, just Jakob—the man I married, the man I left, the man who's still embedded in my heart despite everything.
"I love you," he says, the words falling between us like stones in still water. "I never stopped."
I don't tense. Because I know he loves me, that love was never our problem—now I know. Trust was. Control was.
What surprises me is my response—the way my body tightens around him, the way my heart races, not with panic but with recognition. With truth I'm not ready to voice but can't deny.
I pull him closer instead, kissing him deeply as our bodies move together, building toward something that feels like absolution. Like resurrection. Like the answer to a question I've been asking for four years.
His movements grow more urgent, less controlled. I meet each thrust with equal hunger, feeling another climax building. This one deeper, more complete.
"Come with me," he murmurs against my lips, his hand sliding between us to circle my clit.
The dual sensation pushes me over the edge, and I come with his name on my lips, walls pulsing around him. He follows immediately, burying himself deep inside me with a groan that sounds like surrender. Like coming home.
We lay tangled together in the aftermath, his weight comforting rather than crushing, his breath warm against my neck. Neither of us speaks, afraid to break whatever spell has wrapped around us. Afraid to reintroduce the complications that exist outside this bed.
Reality waits beyond these walls—professional exile, Megan's threats, four years of broken trust. Questions without answers. Wounds still bleeding beneath temporary bandages.
Eventually, he shifts, rolling to his side and drawing me against him. His hand traces idle patterns on my bare shoulder, touch reverent. In the dim light filtering through the curtains, I study his profile—the sharp jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the mouth that still knows exactly how to unravel me.
"This doesn't fix anything," I say finally, voice soft in the darkness.
"I know." His lips press against my temple. "But it's a start."
I don't answer. Can't. Because despite everything—the hurt, the betrayal, the years of silence—something has shifted. Some door has opened that I thought permanently sealed.
But this moment of connection, this physical surrender, feels like standing at the edge of a cliff. One wrong step and I'll fall all over again. One moment of misplaced trust and I'll shatter more completely than before.
I ease carefully from his embrace, sliding to the edge of the bed. The hardwood is cool beneath my feet as I stand, wrapping myself in the silk robe that hangs on my closet door. At the window, I push aside the curtain, looking out at the city glittering beyond—a constellation of lights, of lives intersecting and diverging in patterns too complex to map.
Behind me, I hear him stir. The sheets rustle as he sits up, watching me.
"Chanel." My name in his mouth still carries weight I don't want to feel.
"You should go." The words come out steady, despite the tremor I feel in my chest.
