Rules of the Game

Prologue

The voices outside still echoed through the Bandeirantes Palace. Protests, outrage, the furious right, the suspicious left. Fernando Serra's government was at the center of a hurricane—and he was in the eye of it.

When I entered the office, he was sprawled in the armchair, staring blankly at the ceiling, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his jacket tossed over the back of the chair.

And even exhausted, he still radiated authority.

The man who commanded the most powerful state in the country.

The untouchable widower, whose tragic story shielded him from any moral attack.

I knew he was forbidden.

But every time we were alone, something between us hummed with tension.

“I brought the documents for you to sign,” I announced, approaching.

He didn't respond right away. He just ran his hand over his face before lifting his eyes to me. Tired. Dark.

And yet, dangerously attractive.

“Sit for a bit, Glória,” he said, pointing to the armchair across from him. “I need to breathe before going back to this chaos.”

I obeyed without arguing. My job, after all, was to make things easier for him.

He stood up, went to the sideboard, and grabbed the bottle of whiskey.

“Have a drink with me?” he asked, turning toward me.

I hesitated for a moment. He'd never invited me to drink with him. Not like this.

But the day had been long. The tension between us had been building for months. And my gut screamed that if I accepted this glass, something would change forever.

“Just one,” I replied, as if a single sip could stop the avalanche I already felt coming.

He poured the drinks and handed me a glass. I sat on the edge of the sofa while he leaned back in the armchair, legs spread, his gaze fixed on the amber liquid.

“Do you think I'm wrong?” he asked, out of nowhere.

I raised my eyebrows.

“Wrong about what?”

“About all of this. The government. The concession project.”

I paused for a moment, weighing my words.

“I think you knew it would be difficult. But you underestimated how hard they'd try to bring you down.”

He laughed, but it was short, humorless.

“I lost my entire family to this job, Glória. And still, it's never enough.”

My fingers tightened around the glass.

I'd never heard him talk about his wife and son like this, so openly. He'd always been discreet, keeping the pain locked away. But that night, he seemed different.

Tired.

And completely alone.

“Fernando…”

“Forget it,” he cut me off, taking a long gulp of his drink. “You've stayed too late already.”

“I've stayed later before.”

He looked me in the eyes for a full second.

Too long.

His mouth was tense. His jaw clenched.

A shiver ran up my spine.

“You're beautiful, Glória.”

My stomach dropped.

He'd never said that.

Never.

And if I were smart, I would have laughed, would have steered the conversation elsewhere. But I wasn't smart. Not when it came to him.

“I know.”

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head.

“And cocky.”

“Just realistic.”

“You provoke me, you know that?”

The air grew heavy.

Pull away. Deflect. Pretend this never happened.

Those were the rational options.

But when Fernando Serra leaned forward, his eyes locked on mine, his breath heavy with whiskey and raw desire, my mind went blank.

The glass in my hand hit the table with a dull thud.

His followed.

And then… he was on me.

His large, calloused hands grabbed my face, pulling me against him with a force that made me gasp.

The kiss was rough, hungry—years of repression exploding all at once.

My rationality drained away, and my body took over.

I climbed onto his lap, my knees sinking into the armchair, my dress riding up my thighs as I pressed myself against him.

I felt his hard bulge pressing between my legs, and I was already wet, heat pooling between my thighs.

His hands gripped me with intent—waist, hips, ass—as if he wanted to break me, possess me, mark me as his.

The kisses grew savage, his teeth grazing my lip, his tongue invading my mouth with a taste of whiskey and sin.

My nails dug into the back of his neck, pulling at his short hair as I ground against his lap, feeling his cock pulse beneath his pants, thick and ready.

He grunted low, primal, and ripped my blouse open with a yank, buttons flying.

My hands flew to his belt, fumbling it open, while he tore off my panties with a sharp snap of fabric.

Before I could think, we were in the adjoining room off the office. He threw me onto the bed—the cold sheets shocking against my flushed skin—and stared at me for a second, chest heaving, his eyes feral.

“I shouldn't be doing this,” he growled, his voice rough, almost a warning.

“Then stop,” I shot back, daring him, my eyes locked on his.

He caught his breath, jaw clenched tight.

Then, without a word, he lunged like a predator.

He grabbed my thighs and yanked them apart, spreading me open for him, and I felt his cock—hard, hot, thick—brush against my pussy for just an instant before he slammed into me.

The impact ripped a loud moan from me, almost a scream, as he filled me to the hilt, rough and merciless.

He was big, throbbing, stretching me in a way that hurt and felt good at the same time, every inch of him tearing me apart.

He didn't stop to let me adjust. He thrust hard, the sound of our skin slapping echoing through the room, the rhythm wild and desperate. I grabbed his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh, legs trembling as he fucked me like he wanted to destroy me.

“Fuck, you're tight,” he grunted through clenched teeth, sweat dripping from his forehead onto my skin.

I moaned loud, lost in it, pleasure rising in waves as he opened me wider, dominated me, his cock driving in and out with a brutal force that made the bed creak.

My legs were already weak, draped over his arms, when he sped up even more, his hips slamming into mine with wet smacks.

“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice deep and authoritative.

I couldn't hold back—the orgasm hit me like a punch, my whole body shaking, muscles clenching around him as I screamed his name. He didn't stop, thrusting deeper, faster, until he came with a guttural roar, his cock pulsing inside me, filling me with hot, thick spurts that dripped down my thighs.

When he collapsed on top of me, panting, his weight crushing me into the sheets, I could barely breathe. My legs were jelly, my body throbbed, and his scent—sweat, sex, power—clung to every part of me.

Nothing would ever be the same again.