8. The Rule I Break
The Rule I Break
COOPER
My apartment is too quiet. Usually, the silence is a palette cleanser after a day of high-decibel corporate posturing, but tonight it feels like a vacuum.
It’s a space that usually reflects my best self—clean lines, organized bookshelves, a kitchen that actually gets used—but as I drop my keys on the entryway table, the air feels heavy with the ghost of a dinner that didn’t happen in this zip code.
I can still smell the faint, yeasty scent of pizza dough and the sharp, bright tang of the tomato sauce Sloane used.
It’s ridiculous. I’m three miles away from her kitchen, yet I can feel the phantom heat of her oven.
I can see the way she moved through that space—efficient, graceful, a woman who has turned her home into a fortress, every spice jar and toy bin a brick in the wall she’s built around herself and Milo.
I shed my jacket, tossing it toward the sofa, and head straight for the kitchen.
I need water. I need a cold shower. I need to stop thinking about the way Sloane Donovan looks when she’s trying not to laugh, that tiny, microscopic twitch at the corner of her mouth that she thinks is invisible.
It’s not invisible. To me, it’s a flare in the dark.
I lean against the cool granite of my counter, the water from the tap running over my wrist, but I don’t fill a glass.
I’m too busy replaying the way she tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear while she watched Milo play.
Her hands are small but capable, the kind of hands that build LEGO Batmen and dismantle predatory influencers with the same ruthless precision.
I want to know what those hands feel like when they aren’t holding a weapon or a child.
The thought hits me with the force of a physical blow, a sudden, sharp ache in my chest that has nothing to do with the gym.
This is the rule. The big one. The one that says you don't fall for the woman who looks at you like you’re a particularly annoying virus.
You definitely don’t fall for the woman the network is planning to feed to the wolves.
I pull my henley over my head, the fabric catching briefly on my shoulders, and the cool air of the apartment does nothing to settle the fire under my skin.
I’m a professional. I’ve spent my life being the guy who makes everyone else feel comfortable, the golden retriever of the lifestyle circuit, always ready with a smile and a fix-it kit.
But standing here in the dark, the reflection of the city lights shimmering on the glass of my window, I don't feel like a golden retriever. I feel like something much hungrier.
I close my eyes, and she’s right there. She’s standing in front of me in that kitchen, her eyes narrowed, her voice a low, raspy velvet that does things to my heart rate that should probably be medically monitored.
I imagine reaching out, just an inch, to see if that fierce loyalty of hers has a physical temperature.
I imagine what would happen if I stopped playing the nice guy and just took what I wanted—if I finally admitted that my interest in her isn't just professional, but visceral.
My hand moves down, my fingers ghosting over the waistband of my jeans.
It’s a slow, deliberate movement, an admission of defeat.
I’m not going to sleep tonight. Not unless I find a way to get the taste of her out of my mind, or better yet, lean into it until it consumes me.
The thought of her mouth—that sharp, beautiful mouth that says such terrible, wonderful things—is a siren song I’m no longer trying to resist.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, the darkness of the room pressing in, and I let the fantasy take hold.
It starts with her at the studio, but in this version, the microphones are off.
We’re alone in the booth, the red 'On Air' light dark for once. She’s leaning against the console, her arms crossed, looking at me with that signature skepticism.
"You’re doing it again, Ellis," she says, her voice a smoky vibration in the small space.
"Doing what, Sloane?" I step closer, invading her space, feeling the heat radiating off her.
"Being... you. All sunshine and helpfulness. It’s exhausting."
I don’t answer with words. In the quiet theater of my mind, I reach out and grip her hips, pulling her flush against me. She gasps, a sharp, caught sound that fuels the fire in my gut. I want to see that control break. I want to be the one who shatters it.
My breath hitches as I slide my hand inside my jeans, my fingers wrapping around my cock.
It’s thick and heavy, already aching with a need that’s been building since the moment I walked into her studio and felt the air crackle between us.
I stroke myself slowly, my thumb tracing the sensitive ridge at the tip, and I picture her eyes going dark with the same desire that’s currently making my head spin.
"Tell me to stop," I whisper into the empty room, but in my head, she doesn't. She leans back against the soundboard, her legs falling open, her skirt riding up her thighs to reveal the pale, soft skin I’ve spent the last week trying not to imagine.
I see myself dipping my head, my mouth finding the sensitive junction of her neck and shoulder.
She smells like rain, expensive coffee, and the electric ozone of a studio right before the 'On Air' light kills the silence.
I can almost feel the vibration of her groan against my lips as I bite down, just hard enough to leave a mark, a claim on the woman who belongs to no one.
My hand moves faster now, a rhythmic, punishing friction that matches the pounding of my heart.
I’m hard, so fucking hard it hurts, and every sliding motion of my palm is a rhythmic tribute to the way I want to sink into her.
I want to fuck her until the skepticism in her eyes melts into pure, unadulterated trust. I want to be the only thing she hears.
I want to fill her up until there’s no room left for the guarded, sharp-edged woman the world sees.
"Sloane," I groan, the name a jagged prayer.
I imagine her hands fisting in my hair, her nails scratching against my scalp as she pulls me down for a kiss that tastes like war.
It’s not sweet. It’s not nice. It’s a collision of teeth and tongue, a desperate exchange of everything we aren't allowed to say on the air. I can feel her pussy, soaking wet, pressing against my thigh, her body arching toward mine like she’s starving for the touch she claims she doesn't need.
I see myself lifting her onto the console, the sliders and buttons pressing into her back as I move between her legs.
My cock is straining, the tip glistening with pre-cum, and when I look at her, she’s watching me with a hunger that mirrors my own.
She wants this. She wants me to be the one who doesn't ask for permission, the one who sees the fire behind the ice and decides to jump in anyway.
I slide two fingers inside the fantasy-Sloane, feeling her clench around me, her heat a literal physical weight in my mind.
She’s so tight, so ready, and I imagine the sound she’d make—that high, thin wail of pure, unadulterated pleasure—when I finally drive myself into her.
I wouldn't be gentle. I wouldn't be the sunshine guy. I’d be the man who knows exactly how to make her scream his name.
The friction of my hand becomes frantic, a blur of heat and skin.
I can feel the pressure building, that sharp, tightening coil in the base of my stomach that signals the end.
My vision is swimming with images of her—her tits bouncing as I pound into her, her face flushed and beautiful, her eyes locked on mine as she realizes I’m the only one who can handle her.
I’m close. So close. I can almost feel the phantom pressure of her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper, her heels digging into my back.
I imagine her whispering dirty, desperate things in my ear, her voice breaking as she reaches her peak, her pussy clamping down on me in rhythmic, delicious waves.
"Fuck, Sloane," I hiss, my body stiffening as the first wave of release hits.
I explode into my own hand, the pleasure so intense it’s almost painful, a white-hot burst that leaves me gasping for air in the silent room. I shudder, my eyes squeezed shut as I ride out the tremors, the fantasy of her still so vivid I can almost feel her breath on my skin.
Slowly, the world comes back into focus.
The hum of the refrigerator. The distant siren on the street.
The sticky warmth on my palm. I’m alone in my apartment, and Sloane Donovan is across town, probably sleeping soundly in her fortress, unaware that I just broke every professional rule I have in the dark.
I reach for a tissue on the nightstand, cleaning myself up with hands that are still trembling.
The post-orgasm clarity hits like a bucket of ice water.
I’m in deep. I’m not just attracted to her; I’m invested.
And that makes the file sitting on my laptop—the one Rhea sent, the one that outlines exactly how they’re going to destroy her—feel like a ticking bomb.
I stand up, my legs feeling a bit like jelly, and walk back to the kitchen to finally get that glass of water.
I drink it in one long, thirsty gulp, looking out at the city.
The 'golden retriever' act is still there, tucked away for tomorrow morning, but tonight I know the truth. I want her. And I’m going to protect her, even if I have to burn the whole network down to do it.
I think of the WAV file she received, the one that left her looking so fragile in the hallway. Someone is already playing the game, and they're playing for keeps. I set the glass down with a sharp click against the counter.
I don't care if she hates me for it. I don't care if she thinks I'm just another corporate puppet.
I'm going to find out who sent that file, and then I'm going to find a way to make sure NovaWave never touches her again.
Because after tonight, there's no going back.
I've broken the rule, and honestly? It's the best thing I've done in years.