Page 33 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

S howering with Grant Harrow after fucking him within an inch of his life?

Yeah.

That’s a goddamn life goal crossed off my list.

Cooking for him?

That’s next.

He loves breakfast. Brunch. Anything involving eggs and carbs and too much coffee. And what else do you cook at two in the morning for a man you just broke open but eggs Benedict and mimosas?

The hollandaise is perfect. Poached eggs—soft and trembling.

The ham is crisped just the way I like it.

Three servings, plated hot and waiting. A chilled bowl of cubed cantaloupe rests at the center of the table.

Champagne flutes sparkle in the low light, condensation beading on their delicate stems. The orange juice is pulpy.

The champagne is cold. I haven’t poured them yet—I want the bubbles fresh.

I’d showered fast—quicker than I usually do—leaving Eve and Grant behind. It’s not that there wasn’t room for all three of us. There was plenty. But she’d offered to wash his hair, pressed up against him, whispering something about how tight his shoulders were. How brave he’d been.

I knew he’d be starving when she was done with him. Starving in more ways than one.

My lounge pants hang low on my hips, towel slung over my shoulder, as I finish wiping down the counter. I’m just setting the last plate down when I hear the door open.

Eve appears first—glowing and flushed. Her long, wet hair hangs down her back, and she’s wearing one of my T-shirts—oversized and swallowing her completely. She’s radiant. Soft. A vision of satisfaction and mischief.

But it’s Grant I really look for.

He lingers in the doorway, damp curls mussed, the waistband of his borrowed pants slung loose. He sees me and freezes—just for a second. His eyes lock on mine, and something flickers across them. Not regret. Not fear.

Bashfulness.

A pink flush rises to his cheeks.

I raise an eyebrow. A silent warning: Don’t you dare backtrack. Not after tonight.

I don’t know if he gets the message. But I know Eve sees it—because she breaks the tension effortlessly, slipping beside him with a teasing smile and a shoulder bump that makes him exhale a laugh.

“Sit, sweetheart,” she says, squeezing his shoulders as she guides him toward the table. “I’ll get the drinks.”

I bring over the plates, setting hers and mine down before returning with his. I lean in, fingers under his chin, and tilt his face up to mine.

“Eat,” I murmur, brushing a kiss to his lips. Just a taste. A reminder.

He looks down at the plate like it’s a miracle—then back up at me with something equal parts admiration and disbelief.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” he says, voice playful. His eyes drop lower, roaming my bare chest, the trail of hair leading beneath the low waistband of my pants.

I smirk. “I do have a few hobbies… other than fucking like a god.”

His mouth pops open in surprised amusement, and I waste no time. I lean down and kiss him again, swallowing the sound he makes.

Then I press my lips to his ear, voice dark and low.

“Careful opening your mouth like that, bug. I’ll take it as an invitation for my cock.”

He chokes on a laugh. His entire face turns the prettiest shade of red.

I leave him like that—wrecked and grinning—as I cross to Eve. She’s just finished pouring the mimosas, her back arched slightly as she reaches for the chilled champagne. I slide up behind her, arm curling low around her hips. My lips press to her bare shoulder, warm and damp from the shower.

“Go sit,” I murmur against her skin. “I’ll finish up.”

She hums and lets me take the last glass from her hand. I drop a single raspberry into each flute, the crimson fruit sinking with a tiny fizz.

Then I join them at the table, lifting my glass.

“To firsts,” I say. “And seconds.”

Grant meets my eyes across the rim of his flute.

His smile is small.

But it’s real.

We eat.

We talk.

We laugh.

It’s easy. Too easy, maybe. The kind of easy that only comes after good sex and better company. The air between us feels softened—like the fight is gone, like we’ve wrung it out of ourselves one orgasm at a time.

Eve makes a joke about a client who once tried to pay her in rare books, and Grant laughs so hard he nearly chokes on his mimosa. He wipes his mouth, shoots a bashful glance my way—and I catch it. Just like I’ve caught all the others.

Sneaky little fucker.

He keeps glancing. I keep letting him.

Because we both know we need more out of tonight than our cocks. We’ve both danced around it long enough—whatever this is. Whatever it’s becoming.

And it’s coming. The moment. The reckoning.

The meal winds down. The plates empty. The bottle of champagne? Bone dry. Eve drains the last of her glass and tilts her head, locking eyes with me.

I see the message written clear across her face.

I’m overstaying.

It’s time.

I nod once. Nothing more. No need for words between us.

I rise and take the plates, scraping them quietly into the sink. The water runs hot. I rinse, wash, focus on the sound of it—the scrape of ceramic, the rinse of silverware. The hum of something shifting between the three of us.

I hear the gentle scrape of her chair. Don’t have to look. But I do.

Just in time to see her hand on Grant’s cheek. Her lips on his.

“You don’t need me anymore tonight,” she whispers.

Then she’s beside me, brushing her lips against my cheek. Warm. Affectionate.

“I’ll be out on a personal assignment, so…” She pushes a stray lock of hair away from my eyes. “See you Friday at the board decision?”

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. “That’s coming up.”

She just smiles, strutting off toward the bedroom like she owns the world, scooping up her little black dress from where it’s been discarded for hours on my floor.

Grant brings the half-empty bowl of fruit to the counter and sets it down. He leans into it, exhaling like the weight of the world just let go of his spine.

But I don’t let him get any further.

I shut off the water.

Then I’m turning, grabbing his hips and tugging him between me and the counter. His body fits there like it was always meant to.

One of his hands lands on the counter beside me; the other hesitates before cupping my jaw. My hands slide up his sides, fingers grazing bare skin.

“Don’t you dare,” I say, low and firm.

He blinks. “Dare what?”

“Start running away from me.”

His eyes widen just a touch, but he doesn’t look away.

“You can’t run from this anymore, Grant.” I keep my voice soft, steady. My brown eyes ping between the stormy gray-blue of his. “Not from me. Not from us.”

He looks down, shoulders slumping ever so slightly, but his hands move—gently curling around my waist. His thumbs rub my skin like he needs the contact to stay tethered.

“I don’t want to run away,” he murmurs.

And when he lifts his gaze again, I see the truth there. He means it. But something still haunts him. Hangs there behind his eyes like a ghost he’s not ready to name.

I cradle his jaw in both hands and kiss him.

My tongue sweeps into his mouth, and he gives me a sound—soft and desperate, a moan like surrender. I press him tighter against me, drinking in the warmth, the give, the sweetness of his lips and the promise they hold.

I fucking love kissing Grant Harrow more than I remembered.

More than I let myself remember.

I lived off that one kiss for five years like it was oxygen—and now that I have him again, I’m starving.

Behind us, the door clicks shut. Quiet. Eve is gone.

Leaving us alone.

Just the two of us and the history that shadows everything we are.

I rest my forehead against his.

“We don’t have to figure everything out tonight, baby,” I whisper. “I just want you to stay with me.”

He nods once and swallows deep.

I take his hand, twining our fingers together, savoring how natural it feels. His palm against mine. The warmth. The rightness.

He follows me without a word as I guide us toward the bedroom.

I close the door behind us. The lights are still low. The orange glow from the electric fireplace dances across the walls, painting us in flickers of gold and shadow.

We kiss again.

And again.

Slower now. Like we’re trying to make up for the years we lost.

I kiss his lips.

His cheek.

His throat.

“Are you tired?” I murmur against his mouth.

He smirks and shakes his head—but something in the smile falters.

I watch him for a beat, tension laced in the quiet between us.

“What do you need, Lucciolina ?” I ask.

I’m patient. I’ll wait.

His throat works around the words. It takes time. He’s trembling, even if just inside. I see it in his eyes. In the way he blinks hard and then finally says?—

“I need to tell you how my mother died.”