Page 25 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

T he case is light in my hand, but it may as well be ticking like a bomb.

In my other hand, I snag a champagne flute from a passing tray, letting the cool glass anchor me as I drift deeper into the room.

The place is alive — velvet and smoke and money, wrapped in tuxedos and couture.

It doesn’t take long to spot Grant. Not being drained by Corrine, for once.

He’s standing with a man I recognize instantly from the hours I’ve spent spiraling down internet rabbit holes. Same build. Same broad shoulders. Same storm-gray eyes. His father.

They’re laughing—really laughing. His father tosses his head back at something Grant says, a hand on his son’s shoulder, clearly proud.

The sight tugs at something in me. Something tender.

But then, like a gargoyle perched atop a Gothic cathedral, I feel Corrine lurking—watching.

She’s not at Grant’s side. She’s hovering by a blackjack table she clearly has no interest in: not a single chip in front of her, not a glance at her cards.

She’s staring at Grant with a look I can’t quite name.

Not longing. Not jealousy.

It’s… almost worship.

There’s a dreamy daze in her eyes, like she’s watching the life she was supposed to have unfolding without her—like a child staring through a shop window at a toy she was promised and never received.

It unsettles me.

Because suddenly I’m not sure this is just some toxic, clingy childhood friendship. There’s something else here. Something deeper. Possessive.

Even still, I can’t resist. Not with her standing there, practically salivating over him from twenty feet away like some couture-clad ghost. So I drift closer, sipping my champagne as I slow to a stop at her side.

“You look lovely.”

She startles, clearly too absorbed in her surveillance to notice me approach.

Her eyes snap to mine, lips curving into a smile that doesn’t reach them. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t return the compliment—I figured she wouldn’t.

I glance toward Grant and his father—still deep in conversation, still laughing like nothing else matters.

Tilting my head, I ask, “So… what’s his dad like? You must know him well.”

Corrine hesitates only a second, but I catch her stammer over the words. “Barely. I’ve only really met him a handful of times.”

Her fingers betray her nerves—lifting almost automatically to toy with the solitaire diamond at her throat.

Grant’s father seems to spot someone he recognizes and, with a pat on his son’s shoulder, makes his way across the room. I take advantage to steal my target.

“If you’ll excuse me.”

As Mr. Harrow disappears into the crowd, I slide into his place without missing a beat—my hand slipping easily into the crook of Grant’s arm.

He turns to look at me, a touch surprised, until his eyes catch the deliberate curve of my body pressed to his side.

“Didn’t want you to get lonely,” I purr, tilting my head. “Though I’m not sure it’s safe to leave you unattended in this tux. You look a little too tempting tonight, Mr. Harrow.”

His gaze drops to the slit in my dress—and stays there. I shift ever so slightly, accentuating the exposed line of my thigh. A ripple of tension passes through him, low and unmistakable—apparently, Grant Harrow is a leg man. Noted.

He licks his bottom lip, gaze flicking to my mouth. “You look…”

I arch a brow. “Beautiful?”

“Addictive,” he answers.

We hold our stare, neither of us looking away, both agreeing where this conversation is going.

“Walk with me?” I ask, already guiding him toward the edge of the ballroom.

We stroll in a slow, unhurried arc around the perimeter, the buzz of conversation and music fading beneath our own quieter rhythm. We aren’t looking at the party. We’re looking at each other.

“Can I ask you something?” I say softly.

“You can ask,” he replies, eyes flicking down again—this time catching the dip of my neckline before returning to my face.

“Why haven’t you taken advantage of the full terms of your contract?”

His steps pause. He got the implication.

“I never actually saw the contract,” he admits. “Dante handled that part. I had no idea. Then you showed up on his arm and…”

“And?”

“At first, I was surprised. Maybe not pleasantly,” he says, giving me a sidelong glance. “But now…”

His eyes dip again and linger on my cleavage. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

I smile. “Now you’re imagining all the things you didn’t realize you paid for.”

His jaw flexes. He doesn’t argue.

“You know, Dante took the contract out in both your names,” I say lightly. “You each have equal access to the full package.”

He raises a brow. “Meaning?”

I guide us gently, deliberately, down a quiet corridor just off the main ballroom—the kind of space no one pays attention to unless they need a moment alone.

Grant glances around, a little wary, rubbing the back of his neck. “So does that mean… uh?—”

I turn smoothly and press him back against the wall, one hand firm on his chest.

“Does it mean you could bend me over right here and fuck me in this corridor?” I whisper. “Yes.”

His breath hitches. His eyes drop again, darker this time—arousal eclipsing hesitation.

I press my body flush—and feel the unmistakable hardness straining beneath his slacks. Perfect.

I lift one leg against him; his hands are on me instantly—one sliding down my thigh, the other gripping my waist.

“If you wanted,” I murmur, brushing my lips along the shell of his ear, “we could even see what fun you, me, and Dante could have together.”

Grant groans, pulling me tighter. I roll my hips once and his hands grip harder.

“What makes you think I would share?” he growls.

“Who says you’d be sharing me?” I whisper, letting my mouth hover just shy of his. Each word is a promise. A threat. A challenge.

“Maybe…” I breathe, “we’d be sharing you.”

Then I kiss him.

He groans into my mouth—hungry, desperate, searching. I taste the frustration, the desire, the need he didn’t know what to do with until now.

I don’t have to guess how turned on he is. I can feel him throbbing against me, so I grip his cock over his pants and massage. Because right now, he’s mine to play with.

I bite at his bottom lip as I pull away, slow and deliberate, tugging just enough to make him chase my mouth again. I don’t let him catch it.

“I want you to do something for me, Grant,” I murmur, voice low and liquid with promise.

His eyes remain fixed on my mouth. “What?”

I take his hand—large, warm, eager—and guide it between us. Beneath the slit of my dress. Under the delicate band of my panties.

With a hum, his fingers slip in, and I see the exact moment he finds it—his breath catches, his whole body goes taut.

“Feel that?” I purr, keeping my gaze fixed on the ballroom.

An elderly couple ambles past the corridor entrance, laughing softly, oblivious. They don’t see us—but they could. And I fucking love that.

He presses a little deeper, testing the shape of the toy inside me, and I shiver.

“I have one for you to wear too,” I whisper.

I pull his hand from my panties, lift it to my mouth—one then two fingers—sucking them clean like a dessert I’ve been craving all night. My other hand returns to his cock.

His jaw tightens. His erection twitches. And I smile.

Without a word, I loop my arm through his and lead him back toward the ballroom, our pace unhurried but his breathing anything but.

I lean in, letting my lips brush his ear as we rejoin the edge of the crowd.

“Have you ever enjoyed anal play before?” I ask softly, ensuring no one else can hear.

He’s quiet—for a moment, I think he won’t answer.

Until he finally does. “Yes.”

My lips curl.

“And did you enjoy it?”

His gaze flicks to my mouth. “Yes.”

I hum, pleased, and slip the discreet black velvet case from my clutch into his jacket pocket.

Then I rise on my toes like I’m going to kiss his cheek—and do.

But my words are anything but innocent.

“Then go be a good boy and put this in,” I murmur, lips brushing his skin. “Then come find me.”

I let my lips linger one heartbeat too long, then turn and walk away without a backward glance.

Because I don’t have to look. I know he’s going to do it.

I spot Grant before he sees me—lingering near the edge of the crowd, tall and lethal in a black-on-black tux. Tension in his frame, hunger in his stare. But he doesn’t move—until I smile. Then he comes closer.

I’m standing at the center of the craps table crowd, one hand wrapped around a champagne flute, the other resting below the table’s edge. Hidden. Secret. Just like the game we’re playing.

Or at least… he thinks he is. Because I’m not the one holding the remote tonight.

Grant doesn’t know that yet—but he will.

Dante’s on a streak—the kind of winning run you only see in movies. Every toss of the dice is perfect. The crowd is euphoric, throwing chips and shouting praise. But the real show isn’t the money.

It’s us.

When the toy inside me flickers to life, I gasp. And across the table Grant’s lips part at that exact moment—and I know he’s wearing it. I mouth, “Good boy,” and watch his pupils dilate.

He doesn’t understand yet—that it’s synced to Dante’s phone, that every wave of pleasure is coming from the man he swore to hate.

I glance at Dante. He doesn’t look at me, not yet—just grins like a king. But I know he’s watching.

Grant follows my gaze—just as the plug’s rhythm deepens inside me. The one in him must match, because I see the shift in his posture—chest rising faster, grip tightening, jaw ticking like he’s trying not to reveal everything.

The next roll comes. Dice clatter. Pleasure spikes.

I must set down my glass. My fingers tremble, bracing on the table. I fight not to whimper. My clit stimulator kicks in — pulsing, sucking, dragging me toward the edge—and Grant... poor Grant... is right there with me.

He’s blinking rapidly now. His throat bobs. He looks down, then up. And that’s when he sees it: Dante’s phone on the table—his finger circling—exactly in sync with both our escalating bodies.

That’s when it hits him. Dante is the puppeteer. The man under his skin for years is about to make him come in his fucking pants.

And Dante—God, he looks like sin incarnate. A devil in full control.

And that’s exactly when the orgasm hits.

I go first—knees shaking, head tipped down, lips parted as wave after wave rocks me. I barely stay standing, clinging to the table like it might save me.

I regain enough calm to watch Grant. The moment it rips through him... his eyes go wide, stunned, humiliated, wrecked. He jerks once, twice, then goes frighteningly still—save for a slight shoulder tremble. It’s subtle, but we’re watching. We know.

Dante picks up his phone, silencing it, sliding it into his pocket. The buzzing inside me fading into afterglow. I smooth my dress, gather myself, and circle the table.

Grant doesn’t move. He can’t. He’s still shaking.

I press in close. My perfume surrounds him—sex and power and victory. I run my finger up the inside of my thigh, gathering the slick trace of what Dante just did to me... and to him.

I grip Grant’s chin, tilt his face toward me.

“See, baby...” I purr, letting my arousal coat his bottom lip.

His eyes darken. He swallows hard.

“Such a fun toy for us to play with.”

I turn him toward Dante just as the dice roll again. And now the game has irrevocably changed.

As I drift away, I know we have one more round left. And this time, our toy is going to come to us.