Lahat ng Kabanata ng His Games, Her Rules: Kabanata 61 - Kabanata 70

The spa session with Camilla and her bridesmaids was exactly what I imagined—unbearable. Camilla, for all her Hollywood glamour, is actually sweet. Kind. Humble, even. But her friends? Privileged. Vapid. Cunts. Yeah, I said it. Especially Aimee. God, that woman is an emotional paper cut. I still can’t believe Dominique ever slept with her. Sure, she’s got the looks—platinum blonde, legs for days, and the kind of laugh that makes men look twice. But the moment she opens her mouth? Instant migraine. She’s a walking cliché. And apparently proud of it. The entire spa session was an ego-driven monologue, mostly starring Aimee. She talked about her designer wardrobe, her rich parents—yep, found that out too—and the yacht she’s naming after herself. Men probably line up to get a taste of her, and she’d let them, too—if they’re rich enough. Or famous enough. Or, apparently, if their name is Dominique Voss. Now it’s nightfall, and somehow, I’ve ended up at a swanky LA club with th

So now I’m naked, he’s half-naked, and somehow I’m the one trying not to combust. I know he sees the heat rising in my eyes because he gives me that glare—the one that says don’t get ideas. “Nothing is going to happen,” he warns, his voice low and stern. God help me… that only makes me want him more. I watch as Dominique undoes the button on his jeans and pulls the zipper down. He steps out of them, kicks off his shoes, and stands before me in nothing but black briefs while I’m completely naked. This is the first time I’ve seen him like this—half-naked and unguarded. The night in the hallway didn’t count—we never even undressed. But now… this is different. My eyes trail down his body, slowly, hungrily. His defined chest. Those muscular arms. The broad, sculpted shoulders. Ink sprawls across his golden skin like art—every inch of him honed to perfection. He looks like he was carved by temptation itself. My gaze dips lower—to his taut stomach, his hard abs, and finally, the not

I freeze. His chest brushes my back and I swear every nerve ending in my body lights up in protest—and in need. The memory of his hands on my skin last night, the way he washed me with a tenderness that shouldn’t have felt so intimate… it all comes crashing back. I don’t move as his arm comes up beside my head, his bicep brushing my shoulder as he easily grabs the coffee jar and sets it down in front of me. Then the sugar. Then the creamer. Each movement precise, intentional, torturously slow. I bite down on my bottom lip, goosebumps spreading across my arms and down my spine. His warmth envelopes me, clouding my senses, and his masculine scent—laced with expensive cologne—shuts down half my brain. I can’t think. My body responds instinctively to every light touch, every close proximity, every dirty whisper he’s ever breathed against my skin. I flinch slightly when his fingers graze my shoulder, pushing my hair gently to the side. I turn around, locking eyes with him, my puls

DOMINIQUEMy gaze trails slowly down Robyn’s naked body, savoring every inch of smooth, flushed skin until I pause—just above her right hip, where a small, familiar mark catches my attention. A scar. It’s faint but unmistakable. Clean, round, and shallow—the kind that only comes from a bullet wound. I know because I have them too. Mine are buried beneath ink and memory, but this one? It’s bare, visible. Vulnerable. I lean forward, bracing one hand beside her on the bed, and run my fingers gently over the scar. The skin there is slightly raised, textured. She flinches, not from pain—but from the memory. Her eyes meet mine, wide and suddenly distant, like I’ve brushed against something far deeper than just her body. The pleasure in her gaze dims, replaced by a flicker of something else—fear, pain, or maybe shame. She doesn’t speak, but her silence screams. I want to ask. I want to know who hurt her, why she had to carry this kind of pain. But not now. I press a kiss to th

ROBYN “Robyn Denver. The one and only,” a deep, charismatic voice says as a tall man in a sharp two-piece suit takes my hand, lifting it gently to his lips. He plants a kiss on the back of my palm, old-school charm radiating off him like heat from a fire. “I’ve heard so much about you.” “Is that so?” I ask, offering a polite smile as I glance sideways at Dominique, who’s standing beside me with one arm around my waist, firm and possessive. “William Voss,” the man introduces himself, releasing my hand. “Dominique’s father.” “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Voss.” “The pleasure’s all mine. And you, my dear, are absolutely exquisite.” I smile, my cheeks warming slightly as I catch sight of the stunning Cuban woman beside him. She looks to be in her mid-to-late thirties, graceful and confident, her hand curled around his arm with practiced ease. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” I say truthfully. There’s no denying where Dominique gets his looks—good genes clearly run in