Page 24 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

T he end of the charity golf tournament always means one thing—excess.

The ballroom at the Four Seasons has been transformed into a high-roller’s fever dream. Poker tables straight out of Vegas. Roulette wheels spinning. Craps, blackjack, Texas hold ’em—you name it, it’s here. Crystal chandeliers hang like icicles made of money.

Every cocktail is handcrafted. Every smile, rehearsed. Manhattan’s finest dressed in custom tuxedos and couture gowns, all here to drink, gamble, and drop seven figures in the name of philanthropy.

And later—after the games end and the masks slip—we’ll all sit down to a five-course dinner where every plate costs more than a college education.

Just another night in the empire.

Usually, at events like this—where Marchesi and Harrow are both expected to smile for the cameras—we orbit each other carefully.

Deliberately. Grant keeps to his side of the room.

I keep to mine. I bring a Ledger companion.

Sometimes two. Just enough skin, just enough laughter, just enough whispered filth into a perfectly attentive ear to make sure he sees it.

We never talked about it. Never had to.

It was just a game.

Unspoken rules. Silent power plays.

But tonight, I’m playing a different game.

And I’m looking for the long-legged brunette I enlisted to help me win it.

A white-gloved server approaches with a tray. “Your bourbon, Mr. Marchesi.”

I take the glass with a nod of thanks, the cut crystal heavy in my palm. Good burn. Smooth finish. Nothing but the best for the men who rule this city and the women who wear gowns as well as they wear secrets.

I’m mid-sip when the crowd shifts—and then parts.

And there she is.

Eve Sterling.

She’s impossible to miss in Ledger red.

In that dress. Fuck.

A fitted sequin gown hugs every curve like it was sewn onto her body. The slit running high up one thigh flashes skin with every step. And when she walks, it’s like she’s hunting something. Or someone.

Christ.

That leg.

That leg could ruin a man. Could break him open and leave nothing behind but worship.

I want to feel it wrapped around my head while I feast on what she’s hiding between her thighs. Slow. Filthy. Grateful.

She sees me before I reach her.

I take another sip of bourbon, let it linger on my tongue as I make my way through the crowd—never taking my eyes off her.

She doesn’t look away either.

We meet near the roulette table, where some hedge-fund vampire is bleeding money like it means nothing. I wrap an arm low around her, my face turned into her neck and taking an appreciative pull of her perfume.

“Stunning.” I place a light peck just below her ear.

Eve gets straight to our shared purpose for the night.

“Grant’s here,” she says, voice low, smooth as the liquor I haven’t finished yet. “But he ran into a leech.”

I smirk around the rim of my glass. “Corrine?”

She nods once—sharp and knowing.

Of course it’s Corrine.

She’s like a rash you can’t treat.

No matter how far you push her, she always finds a way to cling to Grant like she’s owed him.

I set my glass down on the velvet edge of the table and pull a deck of playing cards from inside my tux jacket.

“Do you carry cards everywhere you go, Mr. Marchesi?” Eve asks with a flirty smirk.

“Perhaps,” I say, giving them a slow, deliberate shuffle. “You never know when luck might strike.”

She watches the way my fingers move, the crisp snap of the deck between them.

I fan the cards and then cut, the way I was taught as a boy by men who played for more than money.

When I set the deck down between us, I look at her, eyes daring.

“Feel like playing a game tonight?”

Her eyes flick to mine, interested. “Always up for a fun time.”

We each draw a card.

Mine’s higher.

I can’t suppress my grin as I lay it down on the felt—smug and slow.

“I was hoping to win,” I admit, reaching inside my tux once more. This time, I pull out a slim, matte-black case no bigger than a pair of sunglasses.

Eve’s brow arches, instantly suspicious. “You pack light.”

I slide it across the table to her. “I’m a man of priorities.”

She pops the latch and lifts the lid, and her smile widens.

Inside, nestled in foam padding: two sleek, rose-gold toys. One slim and curved, the other more substantial with dual-stimulation points.

She lifts the vaginal toy with gloved fingers, examining it with clinical calm. The anal plug stays untouched because she knows who that one is for.

“Nothing like a charity gala with the rich and famous,” she muses, “without a little voyeurism, I suppose.”

“Exactly my thoughts,” I murmur, taking the toy from her hands and setting the case aside.

“This game,” I say, tearing open a discreet lube packet from the corner compartment, “is called Can Grant Find Who Has the Remote? ”

Eve chuckles low in her throat, unbothered—aroused by the danger of it all. Her eyes are already heating with anticipation.

“So, this is why you tortured me with wearing panties tonight.” Eve’s gleam is just as dark as mine.

The toy is beautifully designed—curved to hit the G-spot with precision, the external suction piece shaped like the whisper of a kiss. Expensive. Remote-controlled. Fully rechargeable. Waterproof—though I doubt we’ll need that feature tonight.

I apply the lube with practiced fingers, coating the smooth silicone while she watches me work.

Then I glance up, voice low. Coy.

“May I?”

Her lips curl at the corner. “Be my guest.”

I step in closer.

The high poker table shields us from view, leaving just the upper half of our bodies visible to the rest of the room.

She shifts just slightly, angling her hip toward me in quiet invitation—and I take it.

With one hand, I slip the toy beneath the delicate lace band of her panties, the other holding my bourbon steady on the table. The bulb meant for her G-spot rubs against her clit first, letting me smear the lube I just applied across her slickening skin.

On the table, my phone’s already open—screen aglow with the app I synced earlier.

One press, and the toy purrs to life.

Eve’s inhale is sharp but controlled. Her lashes flutter, eyes falling shut for a single second as I work the toy against her with slow, deliberate precision.

I keep her just on the edge.

The moment her thighs start to tense, I kill the vibration.

She opens her eyes and glares at me.

I smirk. “We’re going to have fun.”

Sliding the toy fully into place, I take my time adjusting it so the curve sits flush inside her, right where it needs to be. My knuckles graze heat and silk. She clenches down on instinct, breath shaky.

Then—another press of my thumb turns it on again.

Her body shudders so slightly it’s almost imperceptible.

Almost.

I lean in, close enough to breathe her in.

Then I tap the clit stimulator.

A tiny gasp leaves her lips—no louder than the creak of a leather shoe against marble.

Her grip tightens on the edge of the table. The other hand finds my elbow, nails biting into fabric as the toy works inside her.

“Find Grant,” I murmur against her ear. “Help him with the plug.”

She lets out the softest sound—half moan, half laugh. My lips brush the side of her neck, and I feel her start to come. Quiet. A soft squeak tucked into my collar.

“Okay?” I ask.

She nods—barely.

“Okay.”

“Good girl.”

I shut the toy off with a flick of my thumb and withdraw my hand as smoothly as it entered. Her body stays close to mine another beat longer, legs trembling like a thoroughbred held at the starting gate.

I press the closed case into her hand.

My phone slides back into my pocket.

“I’ll see you out there on the floor.”

She turns and walks away, that slit in her dress swaying with every step. But she doesn’t get far before glancing back.

As if she knows me already.

She knows what I’m about to do.

I stir my bourbon with the fingers that were just inside her—slow, indulgent, like I’m savoring the flavor of the night.

Then I bring them to my mouth and lick them clean. I smile as I take a long sip from my glass.

She disappears into the crowd, looking for our third player, while I’m already imagining what comes next.

“Let the games begin.”