Page 35 of The Rules
Winters shiftedin her seat, the movement small and insignificant. Yet the slow drag of fabric against her thigh sent Ben's brain short-circuiting. Suddenly he was imagining Blondie straddling him again, the silk, the weight, the goddamn heat of her rolling her hips against his aching cock.
Fuck.
His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. He hated this. Hated that it was Winters sitting there, setting off a chain reaction that had nothing to do with her. Not her. Not her. Not—
"Respectfully, Mr. Sinclair," Winters said, calm, oblivious, fucking effortless, "I think there's a more efficient argument here—assuming, of course, you're actually listening."
And when he speaks, it’s smooth. Effortless. A weapon disguised as composure. "By all means, Winters," he says, the words clipped, dangerous, "Enlighten us."
And she does. Of course she does.
Katherine Winters lays out her argument with surgical precision, each point landing like a scalpel's cut. The clients nod, expressions shifting from skepticism to reluctant agreement.
Ben doesn't fucking care.
He's too busy drowning in shame.
It coils low in his gut—acidic, relentless, burning through muscle and bone.
He needs to fix this. Regain control before it slips completely through his grasp. But hours pass.
Ben sat alone in his darkened office, the city's glow casting long shadows across his desk. His fingers traced the rim of his glass, ice long melted into amber liquid. The usual evening silence felt different tonight—heavier, charged with something dangerous.
His mind refused to quiet. Images flashed unbidden: silk sliding over skin, the weight of her in his lap, that damned smirk that haunted him. The memory of Blondie burned through his veins, mixing with whiskey until his blood ran hot.
Control. He needed it like oxygen. But tonight, he was drowning.
His hand moved to his belt, hesitating at the buckle.
The office door stood unlocked—a risk he shouldn't take.
Lock the door. Now.The thought screamed through him. Getting up to secure it would be the smart choice. The safe choice.
But movement meant retreat. And retreat meant another night of this maddening hunger.
No. Not tonight.
His fingers ghosted over the buckle, hesitation flickering like a dying match. Then—deliberate. He unfastened it. The metallic click seemed to echo in the empty space, too loud against the distant hum of traffic.
When he freed himself, the first touch made his stomach clench, a low jolt tightening through his core. A sharp breath hissed through his teeth, his head tipping back against the leather, fingers already curling.
Christ.
His body responded instantly, desperately, like it had been waiting for this moment. Like it knew exactly what it needed.
Days of denial crashed through him. Days of wanting.
Of remembering. Of fighting this exact moment.
But now? Now he gave in.
Ben's grip tightened around himself, each stroke measured and controlled. Even now—even like this—he refused to rush. His strokes were measured, the control almost masochistic. Every breath stoked the burn beneath his skin.
Blondie. Her body, a brand against his lap. The way she moved—slow, deliberate, a torture tailored just for him.
The deliberate way she'd settled into his lap, testing his limits. His cock throbbed at the thought, precum beading at the tip, slick against his palm. The leather creaked beneath him, too loud in the silence.
She was almost naked. He felt everything. The silk of herskin, the curve of her ass, the weight of her against him.
