Page 30 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

T he bell rings.

Dante sits low in the armchair across from me, one long leg draped over the other, the stem of a wineglass hanging loose from his fingers. His shirt is half unbuttoned, chest peeking out just enough to be distracting. His eyes, though—those obsidian pools—flick to the door, then to me.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to. Because we know who is here.

I rise slowly, smoothing the fitted lines of my black mini dress. Strapless. Tight. Strategic. My heels click over the hardwood as I walk to the front door and open it.

And there he is.

Grant Harrow—untethered.

His shirt is wrinkled, half untucked from his slacks. His tie hangs loose around his neck, collar spread open like he doesn’t remember unbuttoning it. His hair is a mess, like he’s been dragging his hands through it.

He looks at me like he wasn’t expecting me to be here. Like it hurts that I am.

The bravado that carried him here is slipping. But then—his gaze drifts past my shoulder.

Dante’s dark eyes, locked on him. Unmoving. Unforgiving. Unrelenting.

Grant’s jaw ticks. I see the fight flash in his expression—but it doesn’t last long. He’s unraveling. That wall he’s been holding up with spite and control is splintering.

I step forward, slow and soft, like I’m approaching something wounded. I reach up and sweep a lock of hair from his brow, my fingers trailing down the side of his face. I kiss his cheek gently. Then his neck—lingering there. He shivers.

“I know what you need,” I whisper.

He looks down at me, something broken flickering in those sharp eyes. I cradle his face in both hands and ask, quietly, “Do you trust me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares, like he’s trying to see if I mean it.

Then, finally—he nods.

I take his hand and pull him inside.

Dante doesn’t move. Still lounging in that same chair, wineglass resting on one thigh, the soft gleam of the city skyline behind him.

His shirt parts just wide enough to show that golden skin and the faint shadow of a tattoo at the edge of his collarbone.

He’s silent, still, but that stare commands the room. Commands Grant.

And Grant feels it.

He tenses slightly as I pull him into the center of the penthouse, into the space where Dante can see everything.

I turn to face him, kick off my heels, my body brushing against his.

“What do you want, Grant?”

His throat bobs. His jaw flexes. He doesn’t answer.

So I kiss him.

Soft at first. A coaxing touch of lips meant to unravel him, not claim him. He groans into my mouth, hands finding my hips, gripping like he needs something to anchor him.

“Do you want to play?” I whisper, brushing my lips across his again. “Let me help you relax.”

Another nod. More desperate this time.

I smile.

Then I grip the top of my dress and slowly peel it down, baring my breasts—no bra, no pretense. Just skin and heat and want.

His breath catches. His eyes drop, hungry.

And when he looks up again, his gaze doesn’t stop at me. It drifts to Dante, still seated, still watching.

I can feel how that stare affects him. His kiss grows rougher, hands bolder—gripping my waist, sliding down, cupping my bare ass as he hikes my dress up.

He grinds against me, and I can feel him—hard, thick, straining through his slacks.

A low growl rumbles from his chest as he presses his mouth to my neck.

But his eyes keep flicking to Dante.

Dante doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He just watches like he owns the room.

And maybe he does.

Grant’s hands roam over me with a need that borders on frantic, but there’s a question buried beneath all that desperation.

A silent: Does he want me—or just want to watch me fall apart under you?

And we all know the answer.

We just haven’t admitted it yet.

Grant works my dress down past my hips, and I step out of it—completely bare now. Bare for him. Bare for both of them.

His breath hitches.

Then his mouth finds my breast, tongue swirling around one nipple as his hand palms the other, before he switches—pulling the second into his mouth with a low, hungry groan. I thread my fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan again.

When he looks up, I capture his mouth, kissing him deep and open-mouthed, then begin peeling away his layers—slipping his loosened tie from around his neck, undoing the buttons of his shirt one by one.

He shrugs out of it, baring golden skin and sharp muscle, and my hands run down the ridges of his stomach until I’m palming him through his slacks. Hard. Hot. Throbbing under my grip.

His breath shudders out.

“God, you’re—” he starts.

I silence him with a teasing kiss and walk him backward until the back of my knees hit the couch. He follows, letting himself be guided, lips still moving with mine.

I sink to the cushions.

My lips press against the skin of his abdomen, kissing a slow trail down. He moans softly, running his fingers through my hair as I unbuckle his belt and pop the button on his pants. He kicks off his shoes without hesitation as I tug down both his slacks and his boxers, freeing his cock.

He’s already leaking.

I glance up at him through my lashes as I take him in hand, stroking once—slow and firm. His jaw clenches.

Then I grin.

My tongue runs a slick path along the underside of his shaft, from base to tip, before I take the head into my mouth. Swirl. Suck. Just enough pressure to make his head fall back with a groan.

“Fuck, Eve?—”

But I’m not looking at him.

I’m looking at Dante.

Still in his chair. Still clothed. Except now one hand is lazily stroking over the thick bulge behind his slacks, his palm pressing firm over the outline of his cock. His jaw is tight. His nostrils flared. There’s a tick in his cheek he doesn’t bother hiding.

Oh, he likes this.

Grant moans again, hips twitching slightly beneath my mouth.

I release him with a wet pop and guide him lower on the couch. I kiss him, slow and messy, tasting his own arousal on my tongue.

Then I lean back and open my legs.

Completely bare. Completely ready.

Grant’s pupils dilate. But I catch his jaw, tipping his head back toward mine.

“Show him,” I whisper. “Show Dante how well you eat my pussy. Show him how hard you can make me come.”

His breath catches. I feel the hesitation in his body.

And then—obedience.

He shifts, moving down the couch until his head is between my thighs, shoulders hooked under them. His hands grip my hips, and he pulls me closer, closer still, until his mouth is on me—tongue flicking through my wet pussy before flattening against my clit.

My head tips back.

And when I glance up through hooded eyes—Dante is standing.

Unbuttoning his shirt. Watching. Silent. Hungry.

Watching Grant worship me while his cock strains behind his zipper.

Watching him submit.

Grant’s tongue is relentless.

Soft flicks. Deep licks. Wide, messy strokes that make my thighs shake. I grind against his face, my hands in his hair, riding every gasp he coaxes from me with skill that surprises me. No hesitation. No restraint.

“Just like that,” I murmur, rolling my hips in time with his mouth. “God, you’re so good, baby. That mouth of yours—fuck.”

He groans against me, the vibration deep and rich. I look down and find his eyes locked on mine, hungry and desperate for more praise. I give it to him with a moan, a sharp tug to his hair, letting him know I feel every stroke.

I don’t even hear Dante move at first.

Then—

A slow creak of leather as he rises. Footsteps. Deliberate.

He steps up beside us and sets a dark wooden box on the coffee table. Quiet. Heavy. The kind of box that makes promises.

I glance at it—but it’s Dante who steals my attention.

His pants are next. He undoes them with precision, sliding them off and letting them drop to the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

His cock is thick, flushed, heavy in his hand.

He strokes himself slowly, lazily, dragging his thumb through the glistening bead of precum at the tip.

Then he brings it to his mouth, tongue flicking out to taste it.

Grant groans low against my pussy—tongue still moving, licking me like he can’t stop. His hungry eyes are on Dante’s dick, and I’m not sure if he’s starving for it or scared of it.

Dante’s voice is gravel and silk.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he says, crouching beside the couch. “You like how he licks your pussy, piccola?”

I nod, breathless. “So good.”

Dante’s eyes darken. “He’s licking you like a good boy, huh?”

“Mhm,” I hum, my head tipping back. “So fucking good.”

Grant moans again, and I feel the tension in his shoulders tighten. His grip on my hips turns bruising.

Dante leans in and kisses me—slow, deep, tongue parting my lips with absolute control. One hand slides into my hair, holding me in place, while the other drags down the curve of my neck to cup one breast.

His mouth leaves mine to kiss down my jaw, my throat.

“Look at you,” he whispers, lips ghosting along my collarbone. “Letting him work that mouth just to please us.”

He finds my breast, lips closing around my nipple as his other hand rolls the opposite one between two fingers, pinching until I gasp. My back arches, caught between the flick of Grant’s tongue and the suck of Dante’s mouth.

Pressure builds.

Pleasure blooms.

“Dante—” I gasp, my whole body shaking.

“Come for us,” he murmurs. “Let him taste it. Let him know how good he’s doing.”

I cry out as the orgasm rolls through me, wave after wave crashing over my spine. Grant doesn’t stop. Not for a second. He holds me down and licks me through every pulse, every tremble, until I’m shaking and soaked and clawing at the couch cushions.

Only then does Dante rise to his feet again, cock thick and twitching as he looks down at us both.

“Good,” he says, eyes on Grant now. His thumb wipes across Grant’s full bottom lip, glossy with my release. Sucking his finger clean, he hums and says, “I want to see you do it again.”

Dante doesn’t touch me at first—just watches, eyes dark, voice a calm command that makes my body obey before I can think.

“Ride his mouth again,” he says, voice smooth as glass. “Come on his face, angel. I want to see it this time.”

I nod, lips parted, still trembling from the last orgasm as I shift up and off the couch.

Grant’s eyes follow me, lips wet with me, hands already reaching. I swing a leg over him, straddling his face, bracing myself on the arm of the couch as I lower down.

His tongue finds me instantly.

God.

I cry out, hips jerking as he laps at me—greedier now. Less careful. He’s lost in it, in me. Because this is familiar for him.

Being with a woman. Opening himself to me first, before giving it all to Dante.

I’m already close to coming again when Dante moves in front of me.

He strokes his cock, slow and thick, and holds my jaw to meet his eyes.

“Open,” he says.

I do.

He slides into my mouth, inch by inch, until I’m full of him—until I can taste his salt and heat and he’s groaning low in his throat.

“That’s it,” he breathes, thumb caressing my cheek. “Suck me, Eve. Nice and slow.”

I hum around him, swirling my tongue along the underside of his shaft, taking more. He’s so long I can only get half of him before he’s hitting the back of my throat.

Fuck, I love big-cocked clients.

Grant moans beneath me, and my hips rock harder, grinding on his mouth.

Dante doesn’t pull out.

He stays deep, letting me moan around him, letting me struggle to breathe as the pleasure crashes again—sharp and wild and too much to contain.

I come with both of them holding me down—Grant licking me through it, Dante gripping my jaw, cock still buried in my mouth as I moan and tremble and come again.

When my hips finally still, Dante strokes my jaw once more, pulling back with a wet, lewd sound. He steps back and retrieves two condoms from the wooden box, tossing one to me.

I catch it with shaking fingers.

Grant watches, still breathless, eyes wide as I slide off his face. His lips are swollen, glistening. I kiss him—long and messy and grateful—before easing him back against the couch.

“Sit up,” I whisper.

He does. I drop to my knees between his legs.

I open the condom wrapper with my teeth, hold his cock at the base, and lower my mouth. Rolling it down inch by inch as I suck him, licking and teasing while he curses softly and fists the cushions at his sides.

Behind me, Dante’s voice is lower now. Rougher.

“Let’s stuff her full of us, lucciolina.”

My heart skips.

Grant groans. His hand finds my face as I release him with a pop and rise again, straddling his lap. I kiss him as I guide his cock to my entrance, teasing him with slow rolls of my hips.

Then I slide down.

He’s thick. Hot. Deep.

I wrap my arms around his neck, moaning as he fills me completely, his hands gripping my hips like he never wants to let go. He kisses me again—hungry, messy, eyes flicking over my shoulder toward Dante before returning to mine.

I ride him, slow at first.

And then?—

Dante’s hands.

He’s behind me now, kneeling on the couch. I hear the soft crinkle of his condom being unwrapped; the slick sound of lube being applied—drizzled between my cheeks, preparing me for his fat cock.

He strokes himself slowly, watching us with that calculating hunger.

His hands are warm as they slide over my hips.

“Easy now,” he murmurs, slowing my rhythm. He kisses my shoulder, my neck. His fingers spread the lube over my ass, making me gasp and tense.

The other hand finds my hip, brushing Grant’s fingers. Neither of them moves. They just… stay there. Touching. Not running. Not retreating.

Just… holding.

I feel Dante’s cock at my entrance.

He presses in slowly.

My mouth falls open every second it takes him to slide in, inch by inch, until I’m completely, utterly full.

“Come on, bug,” Dante groans against my ear. “Let’s fuck her. Let’s make her scream for us.”

And God—they do.

Two men. One rhythm. One purpose.

Dante’s grip moves to my hips, pulling me into him. His hand drags to Grant’s. Then his wrist.

Grant’s gaze locks over my shoulder, and I know Dante is holding his stare with equal intensity. Dante’s hand continues to slide up Grant’s forearm, pulling Grant to him. Wanting to feel his fingers on his bare skin.

Grant takes the invitation, his callused palm sliding from my hip to Dante’s. Grant must squeeze him, because I feel Dante let his head fall back as a moan escapes him.

Their thrusts sync—Dante deep in my ass while Grant pounds into my pussy—their hands gripping each other, gripping me, owning me, as I sob and moan and fall apart in the space between them.

My body is fire.

Every sensation—it’s all too much and not enough. I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, only that I never want this moment to stop.

I’m wrecked. Gloriously ruined.

And when I come again, shaking and gasping, it’s with their names on my lips—both of them.