All Chapters of His Games, Her Rules: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

“Ross?” I blink, stopping next to Monique. “Ms. Denver,” he greets me with a polite nod. I shoot Monique a look and tilt my head toward the apartment. She catches the silent command and groans. “You’re no fun.” With a dramatic eye-roll, she slinks back inside. Once she’s out of earshot, I shut the door behind me and face Ross. “Okay, what is this? Why are you here?” “Mr. Voss asked me to deliver these.” He extends the bouquet toward me. I don’t take it. “What’s the occasion?” I ask, eyeing the card nestled between the stems. Ross gestures to the card. “You’ll want to read it.” With a sigh, I lean down and scan the message. Dinner. Tomorrow night. 8 p.m. Please. I let out a laugh, short and surprised. Dominique Voss is asking me out. On a date. And he said please. Cute—if not completely on-brand for his arrogant self. Too bad I hate lilies. “Tell him I’ll think about it,” I say coolly. “I’m sorry, Ms. Denver,” Ross replies, straightening like he’s reciting an

I can’t believe I’m doing this. And why the hell did I ever think I could avoid this? He’s Dominique Voss. He always gets what he wants. One look into those ocean-blue eyes and I was halfway to yes. That’s how easily he commands my body—and worse, how much I let him. I can’t fight this. I can’t win this. Whatever game we’re playing, I may have taken the first round, but that doesn’t mean I’ll win the next. Not when every touch, every look, is starting to feel less like a game and more like a surrender. I study my reflection in the mirror as I apply lipstick, trying not to overthink it. Behind me, Monique is rummaging through my closet like she’s the one going on this date. She squealed louder than I did when I told her I’d agreed to dinner. Her first words? “I knew you’d say yes. No one resists that man for long.” I cap the lipstick and smack my lips together. My hair is done—thanks to Monique’s magic hands—and I look…good. Better than good. I didn’t want to overdo it, but Mo

The hostess greets us at the door with a warm smile that falters only slightly when she recognizes Dominique. “Right this way, Mr. Voss,” she says, her voice polite but tinged with something close to awe. She leads us toward the back of the restaurant, where things grow quieter, more intimate. A single couple occupies a table in the far corner, their voices hushed, lost in each other. The hostess opens a side door and gestures for us to follow. Dominique’s hand rests lightly on the small of my back as he guides me forward. The contact is subtle, but my skin burns beneath his palm, a soft pressure that makes my stomach flutter. “Where exactly is she taking us?” I murmur, glancing up at him. “To our table,” he says simply, but there’s something unreadable in his eyes. We ascend a narrow flight of stairs, and when the next door opens, a soft breeze kisses my face. My breath catches. The rooftop is glowing—five elegant tents scattered across the space like something out of a

I swirl my wine glass slowly, eyes fixed on the crimson liquid as I pretend to consider my options. But I already know what I want to ask. I lift my gaze and find his still locked on me, waiting—expectant, cocky, completely in control. Time to rattle him. “Have you ever touched yourself thinking about me?” I ask, tone casual, cool. Then I tip my head, watching him. “And did you come saying my name?” Dominique stills. His jaw tightens just slightly—almost imperceptibly—but I catch it. The smirk he wore seconds ago falters for half a breath. That’s when I know I’ve hit a nerve. His tongue glides over his bottom lip slowly, eyes never leaving mine. “Yes,” he says simply. No hesitation. No shame. “More than once.” The air between us tightens. My stomach clenches. “And yes,” he adds, his voice a velvet drag across my skin, “I said your name when I came.” I blink. I wasn’t prepared for that much honesty. I was aiming for a flinch, a stumble—maybe a deflection. Instead

Neither of us moves to silence it. My chest heaves with breathless satisfaction, while Dominique sits across from me, flushed, coiled like a predator barely holding himself together. He finally reaches for his phone and kills the timer, his hand slow, deliberate. I adjust my dress, smoothing it back over my thighs, pretending to be composed when I’m anything but. Then the waiter appears—because of course he does. “The bill, sir,” he says smoothly, placing the folder on the table. Without so much as glancing at it, Dominique hands over his card. The waiter nods and leaves, but not before his eyes flick briefly to me. As soon as we’re alone again, Dominique’s voice cuts through the haze. “So you get off on the idea of getting caught?” he asks, tone deceptively calm, but his eyes are still burning. “Should’ve figured it out sooner,” he adds. “Considering how eager you were in that hallway.” I narrow my gaze. I’m not in the mood for teasing—especially not after what I just