All Chapters of His Games, Her Rules: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Dominique slams me against the wall and our mouths crash together, raw and desperate. I moan into his kiss, my tongue slipping into his mouth as he growls low in his throat—a sound that vibrates straight between my legs, igniting something primal. I don’t know how we got here. One minute, I was daring him to take me somewhere quiet; the next, we were stumbling into this barely lit hallway, hidden from the gala but not safe. We could get caught. Anyone could walk in. And the thought only thrills me more. I’ve never done anything like this. I’ve had flings, one-night stands, sure—but not in public, not at a charity gala, not with someone who makes my body betray every rule I’ve ever set for myself. Because Dominique isn’t just some stranger. He’s the man I swore I hated. And yet, here we are—his mouth trailing down my neck, his hands mapping the curves of my body like he’s memorizing them. I want him. I want every inch of him. I want to be reckless. To feel. To take. For once, I

DOMINIQUE Her moan is soft—almost a whimper—and she clings to my shoulders as I pull out and push in again, deeper this time. Her nails dig into my skin. Each thrust draws me further into her heat, her body stretching to take me in, and I groan at the sensation. “Fuck,” I growl, staring into her eyes. “So fucking tight. So fucking perfect.” There’s something flashing in her gaze—something wild, desperate, and completely undone. God knows how long it’s been for her. But tonight, she’s mine. I lift her other leg and wrap it around my waist, holding her steady as I start to thrust, slow and deep. My hands grip her bare ass, keeping her right where I want her as I pound into her, each stroke harder, deeper, rougher. She moans, loud and reckless, her voice breaking with every filthy word she says. “Fuck, Dominique—just like that. Harder. Please.” I grunt, hooking my arms under both knees to support her, slamming into her with relentless rhythm. The sound of our bodies meeting

Club Rogue is absolutely packed tonight. It’s Friday, and clearly, we’re not the only ones desperate to shake something off. Monique looks dangerously beautiful in a simple purple halter dress that barely covers her ass, paired with white knee-length boots. Her curls are styled to perfection—voluminous, effortless—and silver hoops glint under the lights, matching her heart-shaped necklace. I, on the other hand, was ready to step out in baggy jeans and a T-shirt until Monique and Tiwa shoved me back into my room and played dress-up. Now I’m wearing a short black leather skirt and a zebra-print tube top, paired with the same boots as Monique. No earrings tonight, but my neck carries a single chain necklace—silver, with my name Robyn engraved on it. Tiwa showed up looking like a dream. She’s rocking a strapless denim mini dress and four-inch white heels with straps crisscrossing up her legs. Her long braids are swept into a sleek high bun, with two falling perfectly around her face.

You know that moment in life when you seriously consider quitting your job and doing something—anything—else? Yeah, this is that moment for me. As I park in the driveway, I’m silently praying this is all a bad dream. That I’ll wake up, safely tucked in my bed, far away from this ridiculous situation. But no. It’s not a dream. I’m really here—at Dominique Voss’s house—to administer treatment. Mondays have never been my thing, but today? Today takes the crown. The morning started off normal. I was doing rounds, checking in on patients when I got a call that the president of St. José wanted to see me. My heart dropped. Not because I’d done anything wrong—but because I had a bad feeling. And I was right. Apparently, Dominique Voss—hospital stockholder, billionaire, and New York’s most infuriating man—was ill and needed care. And out of all the capable nurses and doctors in the entire damn hospital, he specifically requested me. Why me? I wanted to argue, to say no. But it would

DOMINIQUE “Dinner reservation for Camilla Voss,” I tell the hostess as I step inside the upscale Italian restaurant. “Right this way, sir,” she replies with a warm smile, leading me past dimly lit tables and polished wine racks. She stops in front of a secluded table near the back. “Your party’s already seated. A waiter will be with you shortly.” “Thanks.” I nod and make my way over—and that’s when I see them. Leo sits on one side of the booth, Camilla beside him. Across from them is a woman. She’s talking, animated, but Leo’s expression is tight, and Camilla’s gaze is flicking nervously between the two of them. I stop cold. As I approach the table and draw out a chair, the woman lifts her gaze. Everything stills. She looks at me. And I nearly forget how to breathe. Different emotions flicker in her eyes—shock, regret, maybe even guilt—but one thing is certain: I know her. And I hate that I do. “What the fuck is this?” I snap, still standing, my hands balled in