Page 12 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

T he sun’s too bright. The air’s too still. And every second Grant spends entertaining Corrine while I stand here like an idiot makes me want to put my fist through something polished and expensive.

We had one job today. One.

Play nice. Look solid.

Rebuild a little trust in the firm we nearly torched in Vegas.

And it was working—until she opened her mouth.

Now I’m at the valet stand, jaw tight, heartbeat louder than the overpriced jazz spilling from the club’s speakers.

I dig into my jacket pocket and pull out a cigarette.

Flick the lighter. Shield the flame with one hand.

The tip catches fire, and I take a long drag.

The first inhale cuts through the pressure sitting on my chest like a weight plate. The second makes it easier to keep my hands at my sides.

Footsteps echo behind me—measured, calm, sharp against concrete.

I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Eve.

The engine growls as my car rounds the circle?—

a silver-blue McLaren GT, sleek as sin and just as temperamental.

It glides to a stop like it knows better than to test me today.

I flick the cigarette to the pavement and blow one last stream of smoke into the breeze before stepping forward.

Opening the passenger door, I don’t say a word.

Eve doesn’t ask me to.

She slides in like she’s done it a hundred times before—like we discussed this ahead of time.

I round the front, drop into the driver’s seat, and slam the door shut with more force than necessary.

The second the door clicks, my foot is heavy on the pedal. The tires protest. The engine snarls. And we leave everything else behind.

Eve doesn’t fill the silence.

Doesn’t try to soothe it with soft-spoken sympathy or dig for details about what set me off.

She just sits there—serene, composed, legs crossed, eyes half-lidded—as the hills blur past her window. Like we’re not cutting through winding roads at a pace that should fray nerves.

The woman has control. I’ll give her that.

It’s the second time in two days I’ve watched her wield it like a weapon.

And fuck, she looks like a siren doing it.

“You look good on my seat,” I say, eyes on the road, one hand gripping the wheel tight as I lean into the next curve. Because, like I said, it’s easier to fuck than feel.

From the corner of my eye, I catch the slow spread of her grin.

“I’d look even better on your cock.”

That’s my girl.

Heat flashes low and hard in my gut. The tension Grant lit in my chest funnels south, pooling sharp and fast behind my zipper.

Goddamn this woman.

This is what always happens.

Grant pisses me off until I can’t fucking see straight—then I end up balls-deep in someone until I can.

That’s why the Black Ledger prints money off me.

Because I don’t talk it out.

I fuck it out.

Hard. Rough. Repetitive.

Today won’t be any different.

Except this time, the distraction already happens to be in my car.

Smart. Controlled. And just dirty enough to make me wonder how far she’ll take it before she reminds me this is all part of the job.

And I respect that.

The brains behind the charm.

The plan she’s clearly putting into motion, piece by piece, trying to glue me and Grant back together. For the world’s sake. Not ours.

But it doesn’t change a thing.

I’m still pissed.

And I’m still hard.

And neither one of those problems is going to fix itself.

In my penthouse’s building, the second the elevator doors slide shut, she’s on me.

Fingers in my hair, nails dragging at the nape of my neck as she yanks me down to her mouth—open, hungry, wet.

I take her tongue with mine, taste the groan that builds in her throat as she arches into me like her whole body’s been begging for this since we left the course.

She pulls back just enough to speak, eyes bright, lips kiss-bruised.

“I’ve been needing a good, hard fuck,” she breathes. “And you’re just pissed-off enough to do the job properly.”

That’s all it takes.

I spin her around and shove her toward the elevator wall, her palms slapping against the polished mirror surface as she braces herself.

Our reflection stares back at us—her skirt hiked high, my hand wrapped in her hair, jaw clenched tight with restraint I don’t plan to keep.

Her stance is wide. She knows exactly what she’s offering.

Her ass grinds back into my cock, and I growl low in my throat, tightening my grip in her hair until her head tilts just right.

My other hand slides beneath the hem of her tennis skirt.

Satin shorts. Useless.

I push past them, fingers slipping straight through her slick pussy.

“Fuck, Eve,” I mutter against her ear. “You’ve been wet for me since the car.”

She exhales—sharp and shaky—as I drag the wetness up, circle it slow around her clit.

“You thought about me fucking you the whole ride up, didn’t you?”

Another grind from her hips, a breathless yes caught between her teeth.

“You know I did.”

I plunge two fingers into her without warning, her moan echoing off the glass like music designed to undo me.

“Fuck, that’s it,” I growl, thrusting deeper. “Piccola.”

The doors are still closed. The penthouse is still floors away. Thirty seconds. Maybe fewer.

But it’s enough.

I yank her skirt down and let it pool at her ankles, giving her ass a single smack—tan, round, fuckable—but I’m on a mission.

My hands move with purpose. One slips between her thighs, parting her pussy lips with practiced ease. The other flicks over her clit—fast and precise—in a way I know will make her come fast.

She gasps, rising onto the tips of her tennis shoes, fingers splayed wide against the glass.

I watch her reflection.

Her eyes flutter shut, lips forming a soft, perfect “O.”

Her brows arch—flushed, desperate—as the orgasm barrels into her faster than she expected.

“Fuck—Dante—don’t stop,” she moans, voice breathy, ragged.

“Why the fuck would I?”

Her thighs tremble, her breath stuttering through the high. She rides it out, panting against the mirror, body humming with release.

And just as it fades?—

Ding.

The elevator opens.

I turn her, lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist like muscle memory. Our mouths crash together again—messy and hungry.

Behind us, the elevator doors close—and with them, Eve’s discarded skirt.

Her hair falls around us in a curtain—soft and wild—but I don’t break stride. I know every inch of this place.

We move straight to the bedroom—because I’m nowhere near done.

Her feet hit the floor for only a second. Just long enough to kick off her shoes and yank her shirt over her head.

She’s hungry for this. Clawing for it.

And for some reason, that keeps the fury from today simmering at the surface instead of fading. It sharpens it. Makes it useful.

Eve doesn’t wait. She grabs my shirt and rips it open, buttons scattering across the hardwood like shell casings. Her mouth is on me in the next breath—hot, open, biting down around my nipple.

She’s not gentle. And good. I don’t fucking want gentle.

I growl low in my throat as I hook my arms under her thighs and lift her. Her body wraps around me like silk on fire.

I latch onto her breast, biting her until she calls out, back arching, nails scoring my shoulders.

Then I drop her—unapologetically—onto the edge of my bed. The mattress dips under her weight, the dark sheets catching the sheen of her skin in the low light.

“Lean back.” My voice is gravel. “Feet at the edge.”

She does—no hesitation.

The position spreads her wide. Puts her on full display. I step closer and reach for my belt, sliding it slowly through the loops with a hiss of leather.

Her eyes find mine—molten heat behind long lashes, her chest rising and falling with anticipation.

“Boundaries,” I murmur, wrapping the belt around my fist.

She grins like the predator she is.

“You want to know what I won’t do? Not much,” she says, voice like honey over a blade. “So, tell me what you’re into, and I’ll tell you when to stop.”

Goddamn.

This woman’s going to get me in trouble.

And I’m going to let her.

I take a moment just to look at her. Laid out across my bed. Legs spread, waiting. Every inch of her daring me to push.

“I’ve got something I think’ll look beautiful on you,” I murmur.

She doesn’t answer—just watches me as I head for the bar built into the corner of the room. I pour myself a bourbon—two cubes. Let them clink against crystal before taking a slow sip. Let it burn on the way down.

I open the drawer beside it, metal whispering against velvet as I pull out a chain. The sound it makes—sharp, deliberate—echoes behind me as I walk back.

Eve sees it.

Her eyes flick from the collar to my face. She reads me. Doesn’t even think it through. She just tilts her chin up and says softly, “Do the honors.”

I take another drink, finish the glass, and set it down on the floor beside me as I kneel between her thighs.

She stays exactly how I left her—legs wide, hands braced back on the mattress, waiting.

My hands slide up her stomach, to her breasts. I palm them both—rougher than I need to be—rolling her nipples between my fingers until she gasps.

“You should get these pierced,” I murmur, watching the peaks swell under my touch.

She smirks. “If I ever do… your mouth gets them first.”

I growl and reach for the chain.

The first piece is a black leather collar—sleek, elegant, laced with dark silver hardware. I wrap it around her neck and pull it snug, letting her feel the slow drag of control before I fasten it.

“How’s that?” I ask, voice low.

“Good,” she breathes. “Tighter.”

I smirk and pull just enough. I take one last sip of the bourbon, then let the glass hang in my hand for a second. The two remaining cubes glisten, half-melted in the amber. An idea forms.

I set the glass beside me and lean in, mouth claiming her breast again. I lick around the nipple, then suck it between my lips—hard and slow. She gasps, arching into me.

I reach down, pluck one of the cubes from the glass, and roll it gently around her nipple. The reaction is immediate—her back bows, her hips jerk, a moan breaking free.

I follow it with my mouth again, warming her with my tongue, before trailing to the other breast. I repeat the motion—mouth, ice, mouth again—until she’s trembling beneath me, skin pebbled, breath erratic.

When I know she’s on the edge of begging, I reach for the clamps.

But I pause.

Hold one between my fingers.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much,” I say.

She nods, lips parted.

“Words, piccola.”

“Yes,” she breathes. “I’ll tell you.”

I let that sit for a moment, watching her eyes. Then I attach the first clamp. She lets out a high whimper, a shudder racing through her. The second follows, and her hands fist into the sheets.

A delicate chain sways between them, connecting nipple to nipple, each movement making her bite her lip as sensation hums through her body.

Her chest is flushed. Her thighs are slick. And her pussy is soaking the edge of my bed.

“Lay back,” I tell her, voice rough. “Keep your legs spread. I want to see you gleam while you wear my chain.”