Page 36 of The Rules
His free hand gripped the chair's armrest, knuckles white, nails biting into expensive leather. The ghost of her breath still burned against his neck, that teasing whisper—
"You sure you don't want to touch, Mr. S?"
His hips jerked up involuntarily, seeking friction that wasn't there. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as his pace increased, control slipping through his fingers like sand.
His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything but the memory of her.
The way she'd rolled her hips. Christ. The perfect, torturous pressure against his cock. His hand moved faster now, rougher, chasing the memory of her heat. His head pressed back into the chair, throat exposed, chest heaving with each ragged breath.
A ragged sound escaped him—half-growl, half-confession. He hated her for this. Hated how good it felt to lose to her.
Hated how fucking good it felt to finally give in. How his body betrayed him, craving her with an intensity that bordered on violence.
His body locked, muscles clenched, every nerve a live wire. He was falling, spiraling, breaking—and he let it happen. Didn't try to maintain that iron control he prided himself on. His teeth clenched against the tide of pleasure building at the base of his abs.
The tissue waited in his fist, already clenched.
When release hit, it crashed through him like a wave. His jaw clenched, breath sharp and ragged. Pleasure ripped through him, white-hot and merciless. Her name burned in his throat, unspoken but undeniable. A confession he’d never make.
A weakness he couldn’t afford.
That was the real danger. Not the act itself, but the fact that it was her. The truth of it settled in his bones like lead, inescapable and damning.
Ben found himself gripping thewheel without quite remembering how he got there. The engine thrummed beneath his hands, headlights slicing through the dark like razors.
He didn’t recall grabbing his keys. Didn’t remember the elevator ride, or walking through the lobby like a man with purpose instead of a problem.
But here he was.
The city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow, nothing but static around the single thought anchoring him.
Her.
His jaw flexed. One hand tightened on the wheel, the other drumming once against his thigh—restless, conflicted.
He shouldn’t be doing this. He knew that.
And yet—he’d never been the kind of man to ignore what he wanted.
A red light bloomed across the intersection. He didn’t stop.
The streets gave way to familiar territory. And as the car slid to a halt, he was already climbing out—heart pounding with something he didn’t want to name.
The doors of Crimson Bloom swung open, swallowing him in sound and scent.
Bass thrums beneath designer soles, mixing with crystal chimes and hushed secrets. The familiar scent of aged bourbon and expensive perfume fills his lungs. His gaze cuts through the dim rouge lighting, past writhing silhouettes on stage, beyond the weighted stares that track his movement. Every step carries purpose, each motion calculated.
Through the corridor where shadows deepen. Past the barrier that keeps common men at bay. Toward the one person who can grant what he needs.
The door yields to his hand. He doesn't knock. Doesn't pause. Because this isn't about protocol anymore. Permission is irrelevant.
His authority fills the room before he does.
Ben's entrance breaks the quiet of Ian's office, measured footfalls marking his approach. Ian straightens from his perch against mahogany, lips curling into that knowing smile that makes Ben go rigid. The man's casual posture screams of deliberate provocation.
"Back so soon?" Ian's voice drips with false surprise. "Thought you got the hint."
The words slide off Ben's armor. His response cuts through the pretense, precise as a blade.
