Page 43 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

I sit low in the armchair, the highball glass sweating against my palm. Whiskey untouched. The ice has long since melted, but I haven’t moved.

I’m watching the clock.

He wanted to go alone.

Told me this was something he needed to face by himself. Said it gently, with a hand on my chest and that stubborn set to his jaw. So I let him. I waited. I’ve been waiting—for the knock, the call, the anything that would tell me how it went.

Instead, I get silence.

For hours.

And then—finally—the door creaks open.

And the man I’ve been in love with for most of my life walks in.

He doesn’t say a word.

Doesn’t need to.

He looks like defeat made flesh—like a ruin barely held together by bone and breath. His shoulders are slumped, his eyes glassy, the weight of everything he’s carried etched into every slow, heavy step.

I’m already standing. The glass hits the table without care. I meet him halfway.

I take his face in both hands. His skin is cold.

“Grant,” I whisper, but that’s all I get out before I’m kissing him.

I mean for it to be soft. A welcome. A balm.

But he gasps into my mouth and clutches at me—fingers knotting in the back of my shirt, arms winding around my neck like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.

He rises onto the balls of his feet, chasing the kiss, deepening it, pouring all the agony and ash and fury of today into me. And I take it. I drink it. I let him taste something other than grief, if only for a minute.

I pull him into me so there’s no space left. No air. No past. Just heat and pressure and the ache of finally being needed this way.

I can feel him—every shiver, every unspoken plea pressed against me. We’re both already hard. Already moving without direction, just instinct. His hips grind against mine like he’s trying to forget his own name.

And maybe he is.

Maybe that’s what this is.

He doesn’t need comfort. Not now.

He needs to be burned down to nothing and built again from ash.

I can do that.

I will do that.

My hand tangles in his hair, the other sliding down his back to grip his waist, grounding him as he ruts against me like he can’t stand not being skin-to-skin. I walk us backward, guiding him toward the bedroom, kissing him like a man who finally has permission to worship.

Because I will worship him. Every inch. Every scar.

Tonight, I’ll strip him bare—not just his clothes but the haunted version of himself he brought back through that door.

And when he looks in the mirror tomorrow, he’ll see something new.

Something clean.

Something loved.

Tonight, I’ll give him exactly what he needs.

And every night after, if he’ll let me.

The bedroom is already warm from the fire crackling in the glass-covered hearth. Shadows dance across the floor, flickering over the tall mirror that stands to the right—framed in black iron and old wood, like it’s been waiting for this moment.

I guide him there, to the mirror.

To himself.

The floor cushions are arranged like I left them—thick and plush, pulled close to the fire. I’d planned for comfort. For conversation. A slow exhale after the weight of the day.

But Grant needs something else.

He needs to see.

I turn to face him. My fingers trail over the buttons of his shirt—slow, deliberate. “You’re going to watch tonight,” I say, voice low, calm. “Every second. Every sensation. You’re going to see exactly what I give you. What you deserve.”

His breath stutters. His hands twitch at his sides.

“This,” I murmur, undoing the first button, “isn’t just about touch. It’s about truth.”

Each button undone is a peeling back of pain. A removal of shame. Guilt. Armor.

He lets me take it—his shirt, his belt, his pants. Piece by piece, I strip him until he’s bare in the firelight, trembling and beautiful and so damn breakable.

I pull one of the pillows over, setting it in front of the mirror.

“Hands and knees,” I tell him, my voice firmer now. “Head down, ass up. Face the mirror.”

He obeys without a word, moving like his limbs are heavy with want and memory. He settles with his head on the pillow, thighs parted, his reflection raw and exposed. Vulnerable.

Perfect.

I kneel behind him, still fully dressed—dark slacks, sleeves rolled to my elbows. Deliberately untouched.

Untouchable—until now.

My hands part his cheeks and I kiss each one. My thumb toys with the ring of muscle I’m going to devour tonight and he clinches. It makes my cock twitch.

My lips keep moving across his ass, kissing, sucking and licking as I move to his center. I lean in, dragging my tongue between them with a slow, deep stroke.

Grant shudders violently.

“Fuck,” he gasps, knuckles going white as he grips the edge of the cushion.

But I don’t stop. Don’t relent.

I devour him.

Filthy, wet, merciless—each pass of my tongue staking a claim. Marking him from the inside out. His thighs tremble. His groans crack apart in the air, desperate and sharp.

I reach under him with one hand, wrap around his cock, and stroke—slow. Steady. Measured.

He chokes on a moan, forehead pressed to the cushion, his reflection a portrait of unraveling: flushed cheeks, bitten lips, eyes fluttering half-lidded with shame and need.

And still, I don’t stop.

Because he needs to see this.

Needs to witness the way he breaks for me. How his body pleads without a single word.

I feel it—the way he’s spiraling, muscles tightening, hips twitching like he’s fighting the edge. Trying to hold on.

“Dante—” he whimpers.

But I pull back.

Lick my lips. Sit back on my heels.

His body jolts, instinctively pushing back toward me, but I grip his hips and hold him still.

“Not yet,” I murmur, voice thick. “You’ll come when I say. When I decide you’re ready to let go.”

His breath hiccups—a sound caught between surrender and torment—and it sounds beautiful.

Because tonight, I’m not just giving him pleasure.

I’m remaking him.

I don’t give him time to overthink.

One breath later, I shift—gripping Grant beneath his hips and flipping him with ease, holding him nearly upside down, his shoulders and head brushing the floor while I stay kneeling, seated back on my heels.

His ass is right in my face. A gift. A fucking altar.

“Open those whore legs for me,” I rasp, voice wrecked with want. “Let me keep eating what’s mine.”

Grant moans, low and broken, as his thighs fall apart helplessly, spread wide with nowhere to go. He’s suspended—his body arched and hanging in my grip, every muscle taut with anticipation, every inch of him mine.

Obscene. Perfect.

I don’t wait. I dive in.

My tongue slides over him again, deeper this time, hungrier.

I lap and lick and groan into his flesh as I rim him open, working him loose with slow, deliberate strokes.

He’s shaking now, sobbing breathless moans into the floor as I suck his balls into my mouth, one at a time, lavishing them with wet heat until he’s delirious.

“Dante—fuck, don’t stop—please don’t stop,” he pants, voice cracked and begging.

“I’m not stopping,” I growl against him. “Not until I taste every inch of you. Until you forget anything but my mouth and what it’s doing to you.”

I devour him like he’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.

His cock is leaking, twitching untouched, and I know he’s close—too close—so I ease him down, just enough to shift, not enough to give him relief.

He whines when I let go, and I smile.

I push him gently back, keeping his legs spread, his body trembling with need as I reach for the button of my slacks. One flick, then another, and I free myself—my cock springing forward, hard and aching.

“Hold on,” I tell him, wrapping one of his thighs in my hand. “Keep your legs open. I want you to watch.”

He obeys, breath hitching as I slide between his thighs, my cock dragging over his balls, over the spit-slick stretch of his skin. I align our cocks—his flushed and dripping beneath mine, both of them thick and swollen, pointing toward his face in the mirror.

He holds himself inverted with a grip on my legs. With both hands, I take our cocks, side by side and hard as fuck. I stroke us slow, long pulls. Then harder.

“Look at that,” I murmur, eyes locked on the mirror. “Look at what you do to me. How hard I get just touching you. Just hearing those filthy little moans.”

Grant groans, loud and desperate. His hands dig into the pillows as he bucks into my fist.

“You like this?” I ask, stroking them both in long, possessive strokes. “You like when I rub our cocks together like this? Make you feel every inch of what you do to me?”

“Y-yes,” he chokes. “Feels so fucking good, Dante—don’t stop.”

“Yeah?” I lean down, voice dark and low in his ear. “You wanna come like this? Both our cocks on your face? Want to taste the mess we make together?”

His body jerks. He’s so fucking close I can feel it in how he shakes.

“I want it,” he gasps. “Please. Please, Dante, make me come.”

I tighten my grip, stroking faster now. Filthy sounds of slick skin and gasping breaths echo in the firelit room. Grant is falling apart beneath me—open, ruined, so fucking beautiful.

Just before he breaks, I cup his jaw, force his chin up with my palm so he has to look.

“Come for me,” I command. “Come on your own mouth. Don’t flinch. Don’t fucking hide.”

His eyes flutter open. Wide. Vulnerable. And he obeys.

He comes, a strangled cry ripping from his throat, cock spurting over his flushed skin, some of it catching on his tongue, dripping over his lips. His thighs tremble as he shakes through it, hands limp, spent and shaking.

I follow a heartbeat later—groaning deep in my chest as I watch him take it, let it hit him, claim him. I pump through it, milking every drop until we’re both coated in it.

Grant’s tongue darts out. He licks his lips. Swallows.

And I damn near lose my mind.

“Good fucking boy,” I growl, hand still wrapped around our cocks. “Look at you. Messy and mine. Fucking perfect.”

Grant’s still trembling when I ease him down fully onto the cushions. His head finds a pillow, and his chest rises in shallow, staggered breaths, skin flushed and streaked in our mess.

I’m on him again in a second—crawling over his body.

He barely has time to catch a breath before my mouth is crashing onto his, tongue sliding in deep, invading his space, claiming it like I’ve claimed every other part of him tonight.

His lips are sticky, still salty-sweet from the orgasm I forced onto his face, and I groan into the kiss as we taste it together.

He moans, low and wrecked, as I lick into him, both of us swallowing the lingering traces of his release—his body twitching beneath mine, already hard again.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” I growl against his lips, biting his bottom one before pulling back.

Grant chokes on a gasp as I reach between us, drag two fingers through the slick mess on his chest. I smear it lazily, then lean down and lick it from his skin—long, slow swirls of my tongue across his ribs, over his pecs, chasing every drop.

“Dante,” he breathes, his voice thready, helpless.

“Shh,” I murmur, closing my mouth over one of his nipples, sucking hard until he gasps and arches up into me. “You’re not done. Not even close.”

My free hand slides between his legs, spreading him again, and I press one slick finger to his hole, pushing in slow. He’s already loose from my tongue, from my mouth, from the wreck I made of him.

His body yields like it’s waiting for me.

“Fuck,” he hisses, eyes fluttering shut. “More.”

“You want more?” I murmur, licking over to his other nipple, biting it just enough to make him cry out.

“Yes. Please—Dante?—”

I slide in the second finger, twisting, curling. His thighs shake again.

“That’s it,” I croon. “Open up for me. So eager. So desperate. You love this, don’t you?”

He nods, broken and breathless. “Yes. Fuck—yes.”

“You like when I stuff you full? Stretch you open with my fingers like the perfect little slut you are?”

His moan is almost a sob. “God, yes—don’t stop.”

I start fucking him with my fingers, slow and deliberate, scissoring him open with the ease of someone who knows this body like a prayer. My mouth finds his again, swallowing every gasp as I work him.

“You’re such a good boy,” I rasp against his lips. “So needy. So fucking filthy. Letting me use your body like this.”

“Yours,” he moans. “I’m yours.”

“Damn right, you are.”

I angle my fingers deeper, grinding into that perfect spot inside him until he jerks—hips stuttering, cock leaking again.

“That’s it,” I whisper. “You feel that? That’s where I’m gonna fuck you next. Gonna drive into that spot over and over until you forget your own fucking name.”

He’s trembling—every muscle tight, every breath ragged.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” I tell him. “Gonna let me finger-fuck your tight little hole while you make a mess all over yourself again, just like a good little whore.”

“Please,” he gasps. “Please, Dante—don’t stop—fuck?—”

I don’t.

I keep my fingers deep, thrusting hard now, relentless. I kiss him as he shatters—his body going stiff, then trembling as he comes again, untouched, crying out into my mouth like he’s never come so hard in his life.

And maybe he hasn’t.

Because I don’t just fuck his body.

I break it.

I worship it.

And I make sure he knows it’s mine.