Page 142 of The Rules
Her pen stilled on the margin.
"Josh is none of your concern," she muttered, keeping her tone neutral.
"Mmh. Cute." He stood, moving slowly from behind the desk. She didn’t need to look to know he was coming closer. She felt it. Felthim. The shift in the air. The warning before the storm.
"Did he kiss you?" The question wasn’t loud, but it landed with the weight of a gavel.
She didn’t answer.
"You let him, didn’t you?" he murmured, and this time there was something dangerous under the velvet. "He leaned in, and you didn’t pull away."
She swallowed hard.
"Was it good?" he asked, mock curiosity lacing every syllable. "Did it make you forget what it felt like when I had you moaning in my mouth?"
"Ben—" Her voice cracked.
"Just tell me," he said, moving closer. "Did he get to touch you?"
A beat of silence. Then another.
"Did he get what I did?" he whispered, every word a hot brand. "Did he get your thighs? Your throat?"
She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor—but she didn’t move away. Just turned. Met his gaze head-on.
Her chin high. Her eyes blazing.
“That’s none of your damn business.”
Ben tilted his head. "Wrong."
She clenched her hands into fists.
"What does it matter to you?" she snapped, chest rising too fast, her breathing uneven.
But he didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Because her asking meant everything.
Ben stepped into her space.
"You think I don’t see it?" he said low. "That I don’t know when you’re lying? When you’re pretending something didn’t get under your skin?”
Watched her stiffen.
Just a flicker. Barely more than a breath. But he caught it—the shift in her posture, the flash of panic she tried to bury behind silence. He almost smirked. Almost. That reaction? That meant something. And Ben Sinclair had never been good at letting things go when they meant something.
“Rule Four, Winters. I ask. You answer.”
Ben watched the hit land—subtle, but there. The way her spine straightened, the way her breath stalled in her chest.
He recognized the silence that followed. Not defiance.
Not submission. Just the quiet crack of someone cornered.
He'd pressed the right spot. He always did.
