The Sunday Rule

Flirting with the Enemy — Exclusive Bonus Chapter
by Isla Wilde

The Sunday Rule started as a joke.

Three weeks after we got back together, Reese rolled over on a Sunday morning, reached for her phone, and I caught her wrist.

“No,” I said.

“I’m just checking the–“

“No.”

“Cass, it’s one notification–“

“Sunday mornings are ours. No phones. No content. No brand. Those are the terms.”

That was three months ago. Until this morning, when Reese tried to sneak her phone off the nightstand at 6:47 a.m. while I was pretending to be asleep.

“You broke the rule,” I said.

“I was checking the weather.”

“You were checking your engagement metrics. Your pupils dilated when the screen loaded.”

“What are the consequences?” she asked.

I pulled the sweatshirt over my head. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

“The consequences are that you don’t get to touch me until I say so.”

“Hands on the headboard.”

Reese Mercer put her hands on the headboard.

“Tell me what you want,” I said.

“I want your mouth on me. Everywhere. Start with my neck and work down. Take your time. Use your tongue. And don’t stop until I can’t remember what a phone is.”

I started at her neck. Open-mouthed kisses along the tendon, the hollow of her throat. I took my time — the Cass-method kind that drove Reese out of her mind.

I circled her nipple with my tongue — slow, deliberate — and her back arched off the mattress. “Fuck, Cass–“

“Hands stay on the headboard.”

My hand slid down, pressed flat against the heat of her through the fabric. She was soaked.

I settled between her legs. “You’re beautiful. You, holding that headboard, trusting me enough to wait — this is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

I put my mouth on her. She cried out — loud, uninhibited. My tongue found her clit and I licked her with slow, broad strokes that made her thighs shake against my shoulders and her hands grip the headboard so hard the wood creaked.

I ate her like she was the only thing I’d ever wanted to taste. Deliberate. Thorough. Lighter strokes that made her chase my mouth, firmer pressure that made her spine arch.

“Inside,” she gasped. “Please — Cass — inside me–“

I slid two fingers into her while my mouth stayed on her clit, and she came apart on the terrible mattress with her hands on the headboard and my name on her lips.

“My turn,” she said against my mouth.

“You haven’t earned it yet.”

“I held the headboard for twelve minutes. I’ve earned a goddamn medal.”

She flipped me. And for the next hour, Reese demonstrated that the confidence methodology, applied with devotion and precision, was the most effective communication framework in recorded history.

She made me come three times. The first was fast. The second was slow and devastating — her fingers inside me, her voice whispering things that were equal parts praise and filth. “You’re gorgeous when you come. You’re the bravest person I know. I’m going to make you fall apart and then I’m going to hold every piece.”

The third was in the kitchen.

I turned her around. Lifted her onto the counter. She wrapped her legs around my waist. My hand slid between her thighs. She came on the kitchen counter with her legs around my waist and her forehead pressed against mine and a sound that was laughter and pleasure and love tangled together.

Afterward, we drank lukewarm coffee. We sat at our kitchen table and talked about nothing.

Reese reached for her phone. I looked at her. She pulled her hand back.

“Old habits,” she said.

She took my hand across the table. The morning light fell across our fingers.

“Same time next Sunday?” she said.

“Same time every Sunday. For as long as you’ll have me.”

“That’s going to be a very long time.”

“I know. That’s the point.”

She smiled. The real one. The one that meant everything.

And the phones stayed in the drawer.

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