Page 21 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

I don’t need to look to know he’s unraveling.

But I do anyway—because watching Grant Harrow try to hold it together might just be the highlight of my fucking week.

I make a mental note to thank Eve later. Flowers, maybe. Or I can sit her on my desk and make her come on my face a few times. Whatever it is, she’s earned it. Because this seating arrangement? A work of strategic brilliance.

Across the room, Grant sits stiff-backed in his chair, soft tan now betraying him with the warm flush rising in his cheeks.

He’s run a hand through that dirty-blond hair at least a dozen times in the last ten minutes, each pass more agitated than the last. The perfectly sculpted strands now stand in rebellion, messier than I’ve seen them in years.

His fingers drum against the table—a pathetic little outlet for the storm gathering in those blue-gray eyes. The ones he keeps flicking over to me. Every few seconds, without fail. Like he can’t help himself.

And fuck, do I love how beautiful jealousy looks on him.

Am I playing it up?

You’re damn right I am.

Matheus da Costa throws his head back, laughing at some story I can’t even remember finishing. We’ve spent the last twenty minutes talking about his three-year-old daughter and how she already has better footwork than half his team.

“Natural talent,” he’d said proudly, placing a hand over his heart. “Just like her papa.”

I’d leaned in with a grin, chuckled in that low way I know carries across the room. “I’d expect nothing less.”

He’s easy to like—charming, grounded, surprisingly earnest. And globally adored. You don’t have to know football to know his face. The man’s practically a brand of his own.

Grant knows who he is.

But Grant’s not a fan like I am.

He doesn’t know Matheus has been married to the same woman for twelve years. That he’s devoted. Straight as a midfield line. That he’s been proudly showing me photos of his daughter in matching cleats, babbling about how she already understands angles.

We haven’t even touched the business yet.

But from the way Grant is glaring like Matheus just whispered something filthy in my ear, I doubt he knows that.

So, am I going to keep this up?

Am I going to keep brushing Matheus’s arm when I laugh? Keep tipping my glass slowly, eyes low-lidded, every movement calibrated just enough to hold Grant’s attention without being obvious?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

Because I have a damn good idea where Grant’s mind keeps going.

And if I’m right—and let’s be honest, I usually am—it’s straight to my cock.

I shift slightly in my seat as the memory from two days ago floods back, vivid and electric. The way he whispered my name—Dante—breathless and low, like it had been dragged from somewhere he didn’t want to admit still existed. Like it hurt just to say it.

His hand had been on my thigh. Then higher. The slight flex of his fingers when he brushed against me—like he wanted to wrap his whole palm around my shaft and hold on for dear life. Until he pulled away too fucking soon.

I told Eve, of course.

She asked for every detail.

And last night she played it out for me.

Let me close my eyes and walk her through it—all of it—while she wrapped her mouth around my dick and sucked me like she’d been born for it. But it wasn’t her mouth I was thinking about. Not really. Not when I came down her throat saying his fucking name.

So, when I glance up and catch Grant shifting in his seat—his arm dipping just slightly under the table—I know. I know.

He’s hard, just like I am.

And he’s trying to adjust himself without anyone noticing.

Too late, Lucciolina.

His jaw clenches. His gaze snaps away. And a moment later, he’s pushing back from the table like the linen’s caught fire beneath his fingertips. “Excuse me,” he mutters, the words stiff and uneven as he stands.

He walks too quickly.

Shoulders tense. Gait too clipped. That desperate kind of pace that’s trying so damn hard to seem normal, it screams everything but.

I wait and count to five.

Maybe six.

“You order our appetizers while I use the restroom.”

I rise, patting Matheus on the shoulder twice before walking away from the table.

Our families have been members of this club for decades.

Grant and I were practically raised in its halls.

Sunday brunches and pool days and tie-optional dinners where we’d sit across from each other.

As we got older, we pretended we weren’t both wondering what it would feel like to fall out of step—just once—and touch.

Never in a million years did I think I’d be following Grant Harrow into the men’s room, hard as a fucking rock, with every intention of making him moan my name.

Grant doesn’t hear the door open.

He’s too busy bracing the counter, fingers splayed wide against the marble, head hung low like he’s trying to breathe through the storm.

But he hears the click of the door shutting.

He jerks upright, catching my reflection in the mirror just as I lean back against the door, leaving it unlocked behind me.

“Meeting a little harder than you anticipated, bug?” I ask, smirking as I take a step forward.

His eyes narrow. The heat flares.

“What do you want?” he snaps.

I huff out a laugh. “You’re the one watching me like a dying man in a desert. Don’t act surprised when I come offer you water.”

His jaw works like he’s chewing down a dozen things he doesn’t want to say. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s still fucking hard.

I tilt my head. “How much longer are you going to keep pretending?”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“No?” I arch a brow. “So, you weren’t thinking about the hospital room?”

His mouth opens—closes.

I keep going, taking a step closer.

“You weren’t thinking about the way you said my name? The way your hand moved on me?”

His shoulders stiffen.

“I’m curious.” I step closer.

He backs into the cold stone wall behind him.

“Would you have sucked me off, Grant? If the nurse hadn’t walked in?”

He glares at me, voice tight. “I wasn’t thinking about the hospital.”

“Hmm.” I drag my eyes over him slowly, lingering on the hard line pressing against the front of his tailored slacks. “So, if I grab your dick right now, it won’t be hard as stone?”

He doesn’t have to answer because I reach for him anyway.

And fuck me—he’s hard.

Rock-fucking-hard.

“Mmm.” My fingers flex over the thick ridge of him, stroking through the fine silk of his pants. He gasps—sharp and involuntary—and grabs for my wrist with one hand.

But I move before he can do anything else.

My free hand snatches his, slamming it up against the marble wall above his head. I hold it there, pressing my body into his, crowding him while my other hand keeps stroking.

“Because I confess, Lucciolina, I would have let you.”

He curses under his breath, chest rising like he’s trying to find enough air to push me back.

“Fuck.”

But he doesn’t move. He can’t.

Because he doesn’t want to.

“You can lie to yourself all you want,” I murmur, lips inches from his ear. “But your body tells me the truth, Harrow.”

Grant’s voice breaks when he finally speaks. “Stop,” he breathes—barely more than air. “Dante…”

My name. Said like that.

Like a fucking prayer.

I press in, close enough that my breath skims his cheek, and he shudders.

“I’ve waited so long to hear you say my name like that, bug.”

My hands drop to his belt. He jerks—but not away. Not enough to stop me.

He fumbles, grabbing at my coat instead, fists twisting in the lapels as I pop the buckle.

“Knock it off,” he says, trying to sound stern, but it lands somewhere between desperate and dazed. “I’m not interested.”

I lift my eyes to his and smirk.

“Then stop looking at me like you want to be fucked.”

His cock is hard when I take it in hand—hot, heavy, aching against my palm. I groan, letting the sound hum low in my throat.

His skin is soft. Too soft for how hard he is. Like silk over steel.

I spit into my hand and stroke him, slow at first, deliberate.

Grant curses, head hitting the marble wall with a quiet thud.

His eyes squeeze shut. His jaw clenches. And when he exhales, it’s all breath and no control.

“Have you ever had your dick sucked by a man before?” I ask, voice husky with want.

He snaps his eyes open at that. “You know I haven’t.”

I smile, pleased. “Good.”

My hand moves faster now, rewarded with another choked-off breath, his thighs tensing where I’ve pressed between them.

“Have you been waiting for me, Lucciolina ?” I murmur, watching him fall apart.

His only answer is a low groan, hips barely lifting into my fist.

I lean up, mouth brushing his ear.

“Perché io sto ancora aspettando te, amore mio.”

? * God, what I wouldn’t give to fuck him right now.

“Ever since that day.” My hand never stops working him, but those words—the reminder—make his breath stutter.

“Dante,”

“What you lied about.”

Then I drop to my knees, not wasting a fucking second.

The instant his pants are down, my tongue is on him—long, slow, deliberate. I lick up the underside of his cock, tasting the salt of his skin, the heat of him pulsing against my mouth. I don’t blink. Don’t breathe. I just watch.

“Oh, God.” Watch what it does to him.

Grant’s head tips back, throat tight, one hand braced on the wall like the air’s been knocked out of him. His breath punches out on a curse. My cock aches just from seeing it—seeing him like this. Coming apart because of me.

“Dante,” he grits out. “Fuck. Someone could walk in.”

I don’t pause. Don’t even hesitate.

“I would fucking love it if they did.”

Because I want them to see. Every single person in this goddamn club. I want them to know exactly who he belongs to—who he’s always belonged to—even when we were stupid kids pretending we didn’t notice the way our eyes lingered too long.

I work his cock with my mouth, slow at first. Long pulls down his shaft, then back up again, lips tight, tongue teasing the slit until he groans—a rough, broken sound that sends a thrill straight down my spine. I hum around him, letting the vibration hit him deep.

“The whole fucking club can see me on my knees for you,” I growl between strokes, my voice ragged. “I wouldn’t care.”

Because this—us—has never been about hiding. It’s been about fighting. About years of pretending it didn’t burn between us like crackling electricity.

I take him deeper, choking slightly as he hits the back of my throat, and fuck, I love it.

I love the way he tastes—familiar and new all at once.

Love the way he trembles, trying to stay quiet, but he can’t.

Not when my mouth is on him like this. Not when I’m savoring every goddamn second like I’ve waited my whole life for it.

Because I have.

I’ve thought about this moment for years. Since the first time I saw him looking at me like he wanted to kiss me but didn’t have the balls to do it.

Grant’s hand clamps the back of my head, fingers threading into my hair. Fisting it. He could pull me off. He says he wants to. Says it under his breath like a warning, like a plea. “You need to stop, Dante.”

But then his hips jerk, thrusting forward, pushing his cock deeper into my throat like instinct overrides everything else.

Like he needs this just as bad.

“F-Fuck.”

He puts pressure on the back of my head, not to stop me—but to keep me there. To anchor me to this moment, like it’s the only one that’s ever mattered.

And maybe it is.

Because this? This has been forged into our lives for nearly twenty goddamn years. It’s been simmering beneath every joke, every fight, every near miss that left us both aching.

When I was a teenager, jerking my cock to the thought of my best friend—the way he’d come out of the shower, towel low on his hips. The way he’d laugh and then look at me, all heat and confusion. Every time I caught him watching me like he wanted to close the distance between us and fuck it all up.

This has always been inevitable.

If Grant would only stop fucking fighting it.

“No.”

The word leaves his mouth in a breathless stutter, punched out between clenched teeth and ragged moans. “No—Dante—no?—”

But it comes with every thrust of his hips, every desperate roll forward that buries his cock deeper down my throat.

“Fuck.”

“Oh, fuck. Dante,” He’s pulsing his hips as I suck. “Fuck. Fuck… don’t.”

“Ah.”

“Stop.”

With every suck of my mouth on him, it loses strength. Loses meaning. Until all that’s left is the way he trembles—then locks up.

“Oh, my fucking god.” His breath catches. His body goes taut and his fist tightens in my hair. “Ah.”

“Ah, God.”

And then he’s coming—hard—his warm pleasure spilling down my throat as I take every drop because every part of him belongs to me.

I slow my pace, tongue dragging through each pulse of his release, savoring the way he shudders from the overstimulation. I don’t rush it. I worship it. I want him to feel everything. Every beat of his heart inside my mouth.

When he’s spent and breathless, I pull back just enough to let his cock fall from my lips.

I look up at him—at my oldest friend, my longest rival—and run my tongue one last time under the base of his shaft. Long. Slow. Cleaning the last of his mess like it’s sacred.

When our eyes meet, the war between us rages there.

Still burning. Still unresolved.

But today, I won the first battle.

And I’m going to win the next.

And the next.

Until Grant fucking Harrow finally admits what he’s been lying to himself about for five years—that he’s mine.

Whether he’s ready to say it or not...

his body already has.

I rise slowly, never breaking eye contact, letting the silence stretch thick between us. My thumb drags across my lower lip, then slips into my mouth as I taste the edge of him once more before sucking my thumb clean with deliberate calm.

I don’t say a word.

The moment doesn’t need it.

I back away, leaving him alone in the restroom—wrecked, breathless, and reeling.

* ? “Because I’m still waiting for you, my love.”