Page 34 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

T he car ride home is quiet.

Not awkward quiet—just... peaceful.

Mom hums softly, some tune I don’t recognize. The radio’s off. She’s never really needed music when she had her own melodies to carry her through the day.

She already asked the usual how-was-school questions. I gave the usual one-word answers. If Corrine were here, the conversation would’ve gone longer. They would’ve started singing by now—something loud and theatrical. Show tunes or Fleetwood Mac. One of those duets they somehow know every word.

But Corrine stayed home today. Sick, supposedly. She texted me around noon that she was “vomiting sunshine,” which is code for too tired to pretend today.

I didn’t ask questions.

She’s been living with us for almost a year now. Ever since...

Well. Since the day her mom snapped.

People still call it an accident. They whisper it like maybe it wasn’t what it clearly was.

Her mother killed her father.

Tried to kill Corrine.

Tried to kill herself.

But she failed at the last two.

Corrine lived.

And her mother... well, she’s not really alive. Not anymore. Whatever she drank—or took—burned out half her brain. Now she’s just this vacant body. Breathing, blinking, tapping her fingers like some eerie metronome.

Mom says she’s harmless now.

Corrine never talks about it. Acts like none of it happened. Laughs, jokes, plays along with everything.

Mom always says how well-adjusted she is. How strong.

I think she’s just pretending.

Saving her tears for the dark. Mourning when no one’s watching.

Mom’s been talking to Dad about adopting her.

He said no but Mom will do it anyway.

She always gets what she wants. She decides, and Dad... he just smiles and lets her. He loves her too much to stop her. Probably always has.

I glance down at my phone as we turn onto the long drive that leads to the estate. A new email pings with a delivery confirmation, and my stomach flips.

Shit.

The package has been delivered.

I shift in my seat, fingers tightening on my phone.

Mom doesn’t notice. She’s still humming. Still driving us up the winding path like everything is normal.

I lean toward the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the front step. The way the driveway curves makes it hard to see anything past the hedges and columns out front, but I already know it’s not going to be there.

We don’t leave things outside.

Not in this house.

Housekeepers bring everything inside. They open packages, discard the boxes, and leave the contents arranged neatly on the round table in the center of the foyer like we’re living in a damn museum.

And I never get packages.

Which means if my father sees it, he’ll open it.

And if he opens it...

There’s no fucking way I’ll be able to explain what’s in there.

My chest tightens as Mom pulls into the garage.

Before she’s even shifted into park, I’m out.

My feet slam into the tile, and I move fast, cutting through the back hall into the kitchen, then through the open archway to the main atrium.

I skid to a stop at the edge of the table.

Empty.

No box.

No packaging.

No telltale stack of mail to hide it beneath.

My stomach coils.

Please no. Please. Please.

“Grant?” Mom’s voice calls from the garage. “Everything okay?”

I rush past the table and tug open the massive front door.

My breath punches out of me in a wave of relief.

There it is.

Little brown box.

Untouched.

Still sealed.

I bend down, snatch it up, and call back, “Yeah! Everything’s fine!”

The box is light but somehow heavy in my hands.

Like it knows it almost exposed me.

I’m already taking the stairs two at a time when I hear her behind me.

“Hold up, mister.”

Shit.

I turn halfway. She’s standing there, hand on the banister, still in her pale yellow cardigan and slacks, watching me with that look only moms have—the one that sees way more than you want her to.

“What’s in the box?”

“Just a new jockstrap,” I say quickly. “For rugby.”

That does the trick.

She makes a face, waving it off like she doesn’t want to go anywhere near that conversation. “Okay, well, Elaine’s off today, so we’re on our own for dinner.”

Ah.

That explains it.

No housekeeper today. That’s why the package was still outside.

Thank God.

“We’ll order takeout in about an hour, so get your homework done.”

“Okay,” I call back, already halfway up again.

I try to walk casually once I reach the top landing, even though my heart’s still beating out a frantic rhythm.

Box clutched tight.

Every step echoing like I’m walking a tightrope.

I don’t stop until I’m behind my door, and toss the box on the bed.

And then I finally exhale.

I turn on the music like I always do when I study. Lo-fi beats, mellow and steady—something I can pretend to focus to. Nothing out of the ordinary.

My heart’s racing, fingers twitching with the urge to move faster than I should. I drop my bookbag to the floor and reach for the box.

Stabbing a pen into the seam, I drag it down like I’m tearing open a secret I’m not supposed to have. The tape gives with a rip. The flaps pull back.

I lick my lips without thought as I stare at the dildo.

Almost too real. I reach in and lift it out like it might be delicate, but there’s nothing delicate about this thing. It’s heavy in my hand, thick, solid. I hold it up to my forearm for comparison, eyes widening.

“Holy shit,” I mutter, a little breathless.

I wrap my fingers around it—slow, curious.

Stroke once. Then again, my thumb brushing over the smooth head like I already know how it should feel.

It’s not warm like skin, but it looks close enough to mess with my head.

The way the veins curve beneath the surface.

The way it gives slightly under pressure.

I glance up.

The mirror across the room catches me in full. Shirt wrinkled, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

“One hour,” I say out loud. “Plenty of time.”

My clothes come off fast, one piece at a time. T-shirt. Sweats. Boxers. Gone. I’m bare before I even think to hesitate, the air against my skin sharp with anticipation.

I reach into the side drawer and pull out the bottle of lube I keep tucked behind junk so my mom won’t find it.

I think back to all the things I searched for on eBay that night—half drunk on nerves, logged in under the account I made with my dad’s name. Stupid? Probably. But I couldn’t stop myself. I knew what I wanted.

Eight inches.

Tan—not quite my tone. Darker. Like his.

And the suction cup. Definitely needed that.

I kneel in front of the mirror, the toy upright between my knees, my hand circling the base like it belongs to someone standing in front of me. Someone real. Someone I know.

Someone like Dante.

My throat tightens just thinking about him. His dark brows. The way he lifts one—just one—every time he catches me looking for too long. Like he knows. Like he sees me.

My grip tightens. I stroke the shaft slowly, imagining what it’d be like to have his body close. His eyes on mine. His voice low and amused.

“You thinking about me, Grant?” I think, and swear I hear his voice in my head. “Yeah. You are.”

I bring the toy to my mouth, testing. Licking. Exploring. The mirror watches me as I close my lips around the tip and move—just a little. Just enough. My heart hammers. My body aches.

I’ve never had a blowjob before.

Jessica Stammers almost gave me one at a party last month. We were outside, making out in the dark near her pool when she asked if I wanted one.

She got far enough to jack me off a little and one lick before her parents came back early and busted the party up.

It wasn’t until I was zipping my pants that I saw Dante watching from under a tree. The orange ember of a cigarette lit his face in the dark just enough for me to see he was looking at me.

That got me harder than Jessica did.

I think about that lick—but not on my cock. On his.

I moan, softly, dragging my tongue along the side, then back up to the head. I wrap my lips around it and push it into my mouth until I gag on it, then I pull it out, blinking away the tears in my eyes.

After a deep breath, I press the suction to the hardwood, checking the grip. Firm. Steady.

With a line of lube into my palm, I slick it over the toy with slow, deliberate strokes, coating it from base to head. It glistens as afternoon sun brightens my room, practically begging.

I hesitate—just for a breath.

Then I lean over and turn the music up. A few notches louder. Enough to cover the sounds I might make.

I position myself over the toy, bracing a hand against the floor, the other at the base of the dildo.

And slowly, carefully, I begin to lower myself until I feel it.

This isn’t the first time I’ve touched myself like this. Not by a long shot.

Since the first time I ever jerked off—messy, awkward, and completely overwhelming—I’ve wondered what it would be like to feel more. Not just in my hand, but deeper. Inside. Where my fingers only barely reach.

I started small. One finger, then two. Experimenting late at night, under the covers, heart racing with the thrill of doing something no one knew about. Then I started trying things. Stuff from my room. Things I could hide. A toothbrush handle. Then the back end of my hairbrush.

But nothing ever quite did what I wanted. Nothing gave me that feeling I knew was just out of reach.

Until now.

I exhale slowly, easing myself down. My muscles tighten instinctively, but I don’t stop. I can’t—not when I’m this close. I breathe through it, one hand gripping the floor as I lower further, stretching. Adjusting. Letting it in.

And then—God.

The head finally slips past the tightest point, and I moan, loud and unguarded. My thighs tremble, but I stay. Let it sit there, just for a second, buried inside me like it belongs there.

My breath comes in short gasps now. Not from panic—but from need. From this slow burn that’s turning into something sharper. Deeper.