Chapter 4-New Rules #2
I tried to focus on the contracts. Sort the terms, go through the liability clauses, and build my argument like I always did.
But my brain kept circling back to that elevator.
To the way he'd looked at me when he said you really are something.
To the fact that even then — especially then — some part of me had wanted him to keep looking. Keep seeing. Keep pulling back layers until he found whatever was alive underneath.
Or proved, once and for all, that there was nothing there at all.
"I need to ask you something," I said.
Richard's fingers paused on his keyboard. "Okay."
"During Hendricks. After you — after we talked in the elevator." I forced myself to meet his eyes. "Why didn't you pursue it?"
"Pursue what?"
"Whatever that was. You saw me. You called me out. You could have—" I stopped. Started again. "Other people, when they figure out I'm faking, they either try to fix me or they leave. You did neither."
"Would you have wanted me to?"
"I don't know." The honesty surprised me. "But you must have had a reason."
Richard closed his laptop. Set it aside with deliberate care.
"You want the truth?"
"Always."
"Because I knew that if I pushed, you'd run. And I wasn't ready to watch you disappear." He leaned back in his chair. "You were the most terrifying person I'd ever met, Blaire. Not because you were cold. Because you were so good at making people think you weren't."
"That doesn't answer the question."
His voice dropped, softer now. "I didn't push because I wanted to see who you were when no one was asking you to be anything else. When you didn't have to pretend. When you could just… be."
"And?"
"And you got better at hiding." A small, sad smile. "But you didn't run. Not completely."
The silence stretched.
My throat was tight, but my hands were steady.
I didn't know what to do with that.
"Richard," I said.
"Yeah?"
"Four years ago. When you came to my office with that motion to dismiss. You kissed me."
His jaw tightened. "I remember."
"And I told you to leave."
"I remember that too."
"I lied." The words came out steadier than I expected. "When I said I didn't want it."
He went very still.
"Blaire—"
"I spent years convincing myself it was the right call. That pushing you away was the smart thing, the safe thing." I stood, my chair scraping against the hardwood. "But having you here, in my apartment, watching you remember things about me that I didn't think anyone noticed?—"
I didn't finish the sentence.
Couldn't.
Because Richard was standing now too, moving around the table with that predatory grace he'd always had in courtrooms, and the look in his eyes was the same one he'd had in that elevator the first time we talked.
Recognition.
"Tell me to stop," he said, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him. "Tell me this is the adrenaline talking, or the fear, or anything else you want to call it. And I'll go back to work, and we'll pretend this conversation never happened."
I should have.
I should have told him to stop, to leave, to go back to playing the game we'd been playing for years, where we circled each other and never let it go anywhere.
Instead, I reached up and fisted my hand in his shirt.
"Don't you dare," I said.
His mouth was on mine before I finished the sentence.
The kiss was nothing like the one before — that had been tentative, testing, the kind of kiss that asked permission. This was an answer, an accusation, a challenge, and a surrender all at once.
His hands came up to frame my face, thumbs pressed against my jaw, and I felt myself arch into him with a desperation that should have terrified me.
Should have.
Didn't.
Because this was Richard, who'd seen through every act I'd ever put on and hadn't tried to fix me or save me or run.
And I was so fucking tired of pretending I didn't want this.
I pulled him closer, my hands sliding under his shirt to find warm skin and the rigid muscles beneath. He made a sound low in his throat — half groan, half laugh — and backed me against the dining table, scattering Morrison contracts across the floor.
"Blaire," he said against my mouth. "We should?—"
"Don't." I bit his lower lip. "Just—don't."
His hands slid down my sides, gripped my ass, and lifted me onto the table.
"Bossy," he murmured.
"You like it."
"I really do."
He kissed me again, deeper this time, his body pressed between my thighs. I could feel how hard he was — what I was doing to him — and the careful control I'd maintained for years started to loosen in a way I couldn't stop.
My sweater hit the floor. His shirt followed. The expensive jeans I'd chosen so deliberately ended up tangled with his pants somewhere near the couch.
Every touch made me want more.
"Bedroom." His mouth found my neck. "We're not doing this on your dining table."
"Why not?"
"Because I plan to take my time." He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. "And I need you spread out on a bed for what I want to do to you."
The words made my breath catch, made my thighs tighten.
I should have protested. Should have kept what was left of my dignity.
Instead, I wrapped my legs around his waist and let him carry me down the hall to my bedroom.
He laid me on the bed with a gentleness that contradicted everything else about the moment.
"Richard—"
"I know." He settled over me, his weight pinning me to the mattress in a way that should have felt claustrophobic but instead felt like relief. His hand slid down my side, fingers tracing the curve of my hip. "You're going to remember this."
He was right.
God, he was right.
I was going to remember the way his hands felt on my skin — rough and gentle at the same time.
The way he watched my face as he touched me, figuring out what made me gasp.
The way he said my name, low and rough, my control slipped another notch, and when his fingers found the slickness between my legs, I forgot how to breathe.
"Look at me," he said.
I did.
His eyes were dark, pupils blown, and there was something almost vulnerable in his expression. Like he was just as terrified as I was.
"I need you to tell me you want this." He brushed his thumb across my lower lip. "I need you to tell me you want me."
The question hung between us.
I could have lied. But it wouldn't have been true.
"I want you." Then, lower: "I've wanted you since that fucking elevator."