Page 26 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

I shouldn’t still be hard.

Not after what just happened at the Craps table.

Not after coming so completely, I nearly collapsed against the poker chips, panting, like a fucking teenager.

But I am.

Because now I know it was him.

It was Dante—controlling the plug buried deep inside me, his fucking hand on the remote the entire time.

And the moment I realized it the orgasm hit me so hard I saw white behind my eyes and bit down on my own tongue to keep from groaning.

And now, thirty minutes later, washed up as best I can manage, I’m stepping back into the ballroom like nothing happened.

Like I haven’t just been wrecked in the most humiliating, exhilarating way imaginable.

They’ve moved the gala into a new room—larger, moodier, candlelight flickering from chandeliers and along the mirrored walls. Waiters circulate with silver trays and practiced smiles, passing out oysters and champagne while the city’s elite cluster in small, curated conversations.

I straighten my tux jacket and glance around, scanning automatically.

Of course, I see him first.

Dante stands near one of the tall cocktail tables, deep in conversation with Matheus da Costa—the club athlete from earlier this week. Seeing them together flips the switch in my memory.

The bathroom.

On his knees.

The heat of his mouth.

The best blowjob of my fucking life.

My cock twitches.

Fucking hell.

As if he can sense it—sense me—Dante’s gaze flicks up.

Finds me instantly.

There’s no smirk. No challenge.

Just that look—intense and unyielding—but different now.

The fire’s still there. It always is. But it’s not the wildfire I’ve always known. Not the blaze that made every interaction feel like a battle.

Tonight, it burns steady. Controlled. Like it wants me to come closer.

So, I do.

I cross the floor, weaving through donors and hedge fund managers and washed-up actors clinging to their last season’s relevance. And when I reach them, Dante barely misses a beat.

“Grant,” he says, voice smooth as ever, “Have you been introduced to Matheus da Costa?”

Matheus offers his hand. “From the club the other day. We didn’t get a chance to meet.”

“It’s my pleasure,” I say, shaking firmly. “And this lovely woman on your arm?”

“Vanessa, his wife.” Dante says for him, already turning to me. “Twelve years married and somehow still madly in love.”

She flushes, laughs. Matheus beams. And I?—

I look at Dante.

Twelve years married, huh?

Madly in love, you say?

So, the flirtation earlier this week was nothing more than a performance.

Dante meets my eyes, and something smug flickers there. Not cruel. Not taunting. Just… amused.

I give him a look that says You were pretending ?

He doesn’t say anything. Just lets the corner of his mouth lift in that quiet, knowing grin.

Asshole.

And yet?—

This is easier than I expected.

Like we’ve always stood like this. Side by side. Two halves of the same pitch.

I reach into my inner jacket pocket and pull out the small, sleek case. The one I now know belongs to him.

It’s heavier again—both toys back inside.

Dante watches every move as I hand it over. He doesn’t break eye contact for a second as he takes it, fingers brushing mine, deliberate and slow.

He slides it into his own pocket like it’s nothing.

Then he takes a long pull of his bourbon and turns back to Matheus.

For the next hour, we work the room like seasoned partners. Never straying far from each other. At times, we greet people together—switching off who leads, who jokes, who seals the moment.

Eve lingers nearby.

Never front and center, but always close. She stands beside us during key introductions, just far enough back to let us stay in control. But when one of us lands a cutting remark or redirects a conversation with effortless command, her eyes shine with approval.

It’s subtle. Intentional.

And suddenly I get it.

This is what she was brought here for. What she’s been working towards.

To get us to stop waging war and start moving in tandem.

And somehow, against all odds, it’s happening.

Corrine finds her way over eventually but this time I know what side of the fence I need to be on.

“Dante,” she says warmly, brushing her fingers over the edge of his sleeve. “Heard you had a car accident. How are you?”

He nods, calm and cool, pulling away from her touch. “Barely scratched the bumper. But thanks for checking in.”

Fucking liar.

I saw the aftermath of the car. Totaled is more like it.

Lucky to be alive?–another phrase that comes to mind.

He’s been masking it, but I’ve noticed the slight limp occasionally on his right leg. The way he’s favoring it. Squeezing his thigh at times.

She hums, sips her drink, clearly expecting more. But Dante gives her nothing else. Just that polite wall of ice he wears so well when she’s around.

Then—she pivots.

Eyes on me now. “Grant. I was thinking about that weekend in Charleston—remember the rooftop bar?”

She places her hand on my arm. Light. Familiar.

I glance at it, then at Dante.

“Actually,” I say, spotting Isabella across the room, “Dante, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Dante follows my line of sight as I lean closer. “Isabella Lévêque. She’s working on something I think you’ll be very interested in.”

Corrine’s hand drops.

Dante’s already nodding. “Lead the way, bug.” I feel his touch–featherlight–on my lower back and my stomach drops as deep as his voice when he says that nickname.

And just like that, Corrine’s left behind—no offense, no confrontation. Just… unchosen.

It feels like a thousand pounds have lifted from my chest. No verbal sparring between Dante and Corrine with me putting out fires between them. I can’t help but wonder if things really could be this easy.

We move toward Isabella like we’ve done this a thousand times.

And maybe we haven’t.

But it sure as hell feels like we will.

The dinner table is massive—round, lacquered mahogany dressed in black velvet and candlelight. It seats twelve, all of us from the firm. Dante is directly across from me. Eve to my left. Corrine—two seats down on my right.

Each place setting cost two hundred and fifty grand. An entire table bought without blinking. The money goes to notable causes across the city—rehab centers, food banks, arts programs. But our contributions tonight are earmarked for the St. James Orphanage.

Dante let Eve pick the benefactor.

It’s never been on our charitable service days hosted by the firm, so I make a mental note to look into it later.

The five-course meal was decadent—foie gras, tenderloin, sea bass in citrus butter. Wines paired with each dish. Everyone’s belly is full. The lights are dim.

All eyes face the stage as a speaker begins to thank sponsors.

It only takes a second and I feel that heat crawling up the back of my neck. That static of being watched.

I turn slightly and my eyes land on Dante.

He’s not smiling. Not smirking.

He’s devouring.

And I’m helpless under the weight of it.

That flame from earlier—meant to warm, to pull me toward him—it’s gone.

What stares back at me now is consumption.

The inferno that used to feel like war but it’s different now and I’m lost to it.

He’s so beautiful it knocks the breath out of my lungs. His lips part like he’s struggling too. Like something primal’s coiled tight inside him, desperate to break free.

Then his hands move, slipping beneath the table, slow, smooth, and out of view.

I feel my cheeks flush. I glance down the table, searching for a witness.

Eve is focused on the stage, face poised, spine elegant. Corrine’s halfway through a glass of wine, legs crossed, attention fixed somewhere across the room.

No one sees except me.

And I know what he’s doing.

I see it in the slow, near-imperceptible shift of his shirt fabric. The smallest motion—a rhythmic pump that has everything to do with his cock in his hand under the table.

The semi I walked in with swells into something painful. Torturous. Like I’ve never been this hard in my life.

I grip the edge of my chair. My thigh flexes under the tablecloth. Every cell in my body screams for friction, for release, for him.

For the very thing I’ve been fighting for five years.

Fuck, longer than that.

Then Dante shifts. Barely. His nostrils flare, his throat tightens, and his jaw goes rigid with tension. His mouth opens just enough for a whisper of breath to leave him—and I know.

He’s coming.

Right now.

Right here.

At this goddamn charity gala. In a ballroom full of power and performance and polished fucking reputations.

Even our fathers are here—seated at a different table across the room with the old-money fossils they play golf with.

And yet Dante sits there, going still as the euphoria slides through him.

I watch the tension bleed out of him, one vertebra at a time. Then a shift of fabric as I imagine he’s zipping himself up.

Jesus Christ. My cock is leaking in my fucking pants… Again.

And just as the lights begin to brighten again—signaling the end of the segment—he pulls a folded napkin from his lap.

And his phone.

With a smirk that sends a ripple straight through my core, Dante taps the screen a few times. Then darkens it.

Not two seconds later, my phone buzzes inside my jacket.

My heart punches the inside of my ribs.

No.

No way.

He didn’t.

Did he?

“Excuse me, everyone,” Dante says, voice low and polite as he pushes back from the table. “It’s been a wonderful evening.”

I track his every step as he crosses the ballroom, his gait loose now. Relaxed. He nears the exit, passing a waste bin. I watch—actually watch—as he drops the used napkin into it, like he’s tossing out a receipt.

And then he’s gone. His tall, muscled form walks out through the double-doors.

I swallow hard.

“I’m going to hit the restroom,” I say, already rising. My voice cracking on the last word.

I move quickly—grateful the direction is away from the lights, away from the crowd. Once I’m in the bathroom, I go straight for the last stall. The one farthest from the door. Quiet. Private.

I lock it behind me and press my back to the cold tile wall.

Heart pounding. Hands shaking.

I fish my earbuds from my pocket. Slip one in and pull out my phone.

There’s a text. The first text he’s sent me personally in years.

DANTE: I had fun tonight.

There’s a video attached.

Jesus.

My throat tightens as I tap it.

The screen brightens. And my breath catches as it flickers to life.

I can see his shirt hem riding up, his hand sliding over himself, slow and practiced, the thick ridge of his cock gripped in his fist.

Holy shit.

He’s big.

I mean, I knew that already. But watching it? Seeing the dark flush of his head, the way his hand glides up and twists just beneath the crown, coaxing slick from the tip like it’s nothing?

I’m practically drooling.

My cock is throbbing, still aching from earlier. From him. From this... fucking game.

I don’t hesitate. I unzip my pants, take myself in hand, and give in.

I stroke myself in time with him. His hand on screen. Mine in the stall.

The breath that leaves me is ragged. Every nerve lights up. Every thought zeros in on the heat in my palm, the image of Dante's fist sliding wet and steady down the length of his cock.

He’s close.

I can tell by the flex in his forearm. The twitch of his fingers.

And then he comes.

Fuck.

His cum spills over his fingers, thick and white, streaking down his shaft to the waiting napkin in his lap.

And that’s all it takes.

I bite my lip, eyes locked on the screen as I follow him over the edge. My hips jerk, release hitting me like a train. Fast. Blinding. I choke out a breath and catch it in a wad of toilet paper, gripping tight to keep from collapsing entirely.

Shit.

What the hell are we doing?

On the screen, he strokes, long and slow until he’s satisfied, then he wipes it all away.

I clean up in silence, flushing the evidence and heading to the sink.

Washing my hands. Fixing my tie. Running my fingers through my hair. I stare at myself in the mirror, chest still rising and falling, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to my brow.

Bathrooms.

Seems like they’re becoming a fucking theme.

First one—admitting I got the best blowjob of my life… from my oldest friend and business partner.

Second—sticking a plug up my ass and made to come at a goddamn charity event.

Now this—jacking off in a goddamn stall to a video of his dick.

I can’t keep pretending anymore.

Can’t keep pretending this is anything but inevitable.

This isn’t a power game anymore. It’s a collision course.

And I know what it’s going to make me face.

The pressure in my chest tightens—too fast, too sharp. My stomach turns.

My mother.

The smell of blood and lilies. The icy numbness of guilt I never seem to shake.

Not now. Not here.

I splash cold water on my face. Let it run down the back of my neck. Try to force the memory out. Then I exhale, fix my bowtie and open the door.

And stop.

Because there he is not even ten feet away.

Dante leans against the wall like he owns it, bourbon glass in hand, blazer unbuttoned, smirk in full, unbothered amusement.

He knows.

He fucking knows what I just did.

What I just came to.

That I was in there, fucking my hand, watching him send me over the edge with a goddamn napkin in his lap and a smirk on his lips.

“Just wanted to say goodnight, Lucciolina.” he says, voice low and smooth like the bourbon he sips.

Lucciolina . It’s Italian for little glowbug. I looked it up. The name he always calls me that I have no fucking clue why. But tonight, it’s not an insult. It’s a caress.

He doesn’t wait for a reply.

Just finishes his drink, pushes off the wall, and strolls down the hallway with a lazy, arrogant grace that says checkmate.

And I stand there, heart thudding in my throat, and realize?—

This whole time, I thought we were circling the ring, both of us throwing punches.

But Dante?

He’s been playing chess.

I didn’t even know the board was set.

And now?

Now I’m losing.

Not just to him—but to the truth I’ve spent years burying.

The denial.

The lie.