Page 182 of The Rules
Benjamin hums, the sound dark and pleased. She knows exactly which one. The fact that she's playing innocent only confirms it.
His fingers trail lower—just above her thigh, to the edge of her skirt.
"That little rule about what you wear under this?" he asks.
His hand lifts the hem just slightly. Testing. Teasing.
Not enough to see—just enough to remind her that he could.
She sucks in a breath, sharp and sudden.
Because of course she remembers. Of course hechecks.
Benjamin doesn’t think. He moves.
One second, she’s smirking—so damn smug. Taunting him. Knowingexactlywhat she’s doing.
The next—he’s on her.
His mouth crashes into hers, brutal and breathless, a punishment disguised as a kiss. But it’s not a kiss. It’s a reckoning. A consequence for every sly glance, every tilt of her chin, every time she’s made himwanther more than he wants to stay in control.
She gasps—sharp and startled—but there’s no hesitation.
No pushback.
Shegrabshim. Fingers fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer, lips parting under the weight of his hunger. She meets him head-on, fire for fire, tongue for tongue.
The sound she makes when he deepens the kiss—a ragged, breathless moan—sends a pulse of heat straight through him.
His hand slides up her neck—fingers splayed, curling around her throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Reminding.
His thumb brushes her pulse—racing, wild, frantic. Betraying her. And fuck, it does something to him. That proof of how badly she wants this. Wantshim.
His other hand is already moving—skimming down, fingers dragging along the soft curve of her thigh. Her skirt bunches under his palm, rising, rising, riseing.
She’s burning hot. Smooth and bare. Each inch he touches feeds the fire climbing up his spine.
And then—he finds it.
Lace. Delicate. Soft. Exactly what he told her to wear.
He groans, low and rough, the sound torn from somewhere deep and feral. The fabric is wet.Soaked.He slides two fingers over the heat of her, just to feel the slick, forbidden proof.
She shudders—hips jerking into his touch, breath hitching against his lips. A whimper tumbles out of her mouth, needy and raw.
He breaks the kiss, dragging his mouth across her cheek, her chin, down her neck. Tasting her. Devouring her. Her skin is hot and salted and smells like vanilla, adrenaline and Kath.
She tilts her head back—offering. Surrendering. Daring him to take.
His teeth graze her collarbone as his grip tightens on her thigh. He presses her into the shelving behind them—files and folders forgotten. The whole damn archive could fall around them and he wouldn’t stop.
He wants to ruin her.
And God, she wants it.
She’s writhing under him now—arching, gasping, her hands tugging at his shirt like she wants to tear him apart just to get more. Her nails dig into his shoulders, and the sting of it turns his blood molten.
Her voice is a breath against his ear. “Ben…”
