Page 57
Chapter 57 of "Ruined By My Ex's Dad" starts with thrilling twists: "You're sure?" I asked, offering one last chance to retreat. To preserve the boundaries we'd... Continue the story!
"You're sure?" I asked, offering one last chance to retreat. To preserve the boundaries we'd both cited as reasons to resist this pull.
Her answer was to rise on her toes, bringing her mouth a breath away from mine.
"I wouldn't be here if I weren't."
I kissed her then, none of the bruising intensity from the gallery but a slow, deliberate claiming. My hands framed her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones as my tongue teased the seam of her lips, seeking entrance she willingly granted.
She tasted of mint and courage, her body melting into mine with a slight sound that sent heat straight to my core. Her hands found my shoulders, my chest, tugging at the buttons of my shirt with an impatience that made me smile against her mouth.
"Eager, little fox?" I murmured, nipping at her lower lip.
"Tired of waiting," she countered, working another button free.
"Tired of pretending I don't want this."
I caught her hands, stilling them against my chest.
"Then let me show you my terms."
Her eyes darkened, pupils expanding with desire.
"Your terms?"
"My home. My rules." I brushed my lips across her knuckles.
"First rule: We take our time."
A flush spread across her cheeks.
"And if I don't agree to your terms?"
"Then you're free to leave." I released her hands, stepping back slightly.
"Or to propose alternatives. I'm not opposed to... negotiation."
Something sparked in her eyes—surprise, perhaps, or appreciation. She hadn't expected a choice. Had assumed my control meant dictation rather than collaboration.
"Show me more of your home," she said, a slight smile playing at her lips.
"Then we'll discuss terms."
I offered my hand, which she took after only a moment's hesitation. Her fingers twined with mine, warm and surprisingly strong.
Not clinging, not submissive, but equal.
Connected.
I led her through the main living area, past the kitchen with its gleaming surfaces and unused appliances, toward the staircase that led to the upper level.
"No personal touches," she observed as we climbed.
"No photos, no mementos. Nothing that says 'Lucas' rather than 'successful CEO.'"
Her perception was unsettling.
"The public spaces are designed for impression, not comfort."
"And the private ones?"