Page 9 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

H e picks up the deck of cards like it’s an old friend, sliding the box open with one hand and pulling the cards out in one practiced motion. There’s something effortlessly masculine about it—controlled and casual. Like everything he touches obeys him eventually.

Dante begins to shuffle. Slow. Measured.

The sound of cards slipping over each other is the only thing in the room besides the low jazz and the soft crackle of the fire.

“Any boundaries I should know about?” he asks, glancing up at me.

Cute.

I tilt my head, holding his gaze. “There are very few boundaries I have, Dante. And I’m confident you won’t come close to crossing them in your harmless little game.”

He grins.

The deck stills in his hands. He sets it between us on the table.

“Ladies first.”

I draw. Seven of hearts.

He flips his—nine of spades.

I exhale through my nose, more amused than disappointed.

Dante offers his hand, helping me slide off the table. He doesn't look at my face now—his eyes have dipped lower, drawn to the sway of my hips and the hem of my dress clinging to the tops of my thighs.

I’m already guessing what direction we’re headed. And I’m right.

“Clothes off,” he murmurs. “Heels stay on.”

Of course.

I smirk, turning around in front of him with an exaggerated arch of my back as I take a seat on his lap, deep and slow. I feel his cock—already hard—pressing up into me through his slacks.

Ooh. Big boy.

His hands go straight to my hips, fingers tightening in a grip that promises he’s been thinking about this since I first perched on the table.

“Having a hard time, Mr. Moretti?” I tease, voice brushing the shell of his ear as I lean back and whisper.

His grip tightens.

“I was,” he mutters, low and rough. “Still am.”

“Mind helping with my zipper?”

I move my hair to one side, exposing my bare back to him.

His hands slide up—deliberate, reverent. Palms dragging up the curve of my spine, fingers brushing bare skin until they find the zipper. He takes his time, lowering it inch by inch until the dress loosens around me, held only by gravity and posture.

I rise from his lap and turn around slowly, catching his eye as I push the dress off my shoulders and let it fall.

The fabric slips down my body, pooling at my feet like silk spilled from a secret.

I step out of it with one heel, nudging it aside with the other as I stand there, bare and unapologetic.

His eyes move.

They start at my feet—my tall, black heels he told me to keep on—then slowly, hungrily, they climb. He drinks in my legs, the slick heat between them. He lingers there. His gaze sharpens.

Then it moves higher.

My breasts lift with each slow breath. Nipples pebbling under his heated gaze.

They're high, bouncy, natural—just the right size for attention but not too much to be mistaken for an offering.

One of the best surgeons in the world is a longtime Ledger client, and mine are some of his best work.

Dante licks his mouth. Doesn’t even try to hide it.

I watch his throat bob with a swallow, his fingers flexing against his thighs like he’s holding himself back.

His eyes are locked on my chest now, and I know exactly what he’s thinking about.

Sucking.

Biting.

Teasing them until I’m gasping under his mouth.

His voice drops, velvet-dry. “Are you often without your panties?”

I grin, unabashed. “Usually.”

It’s the truth. Confidence isn’t just a costume I wear—it’s the skin I live in.

He shuffles the cards again and places the deck back between us. We draw.

He wins.

Again.

Smug confidence settles across his face like it belongs there. The fire paints him in bronze and shadow, his dark hair gleaming at the temples, his mouth curled into something self-satisfied—and fucking dangerous.

A new song spills into the room, slower and deeper. Something sultry and bass-heavy. The kind of beat you feel first in your chest—then lower.

It seems to inspire him.

His eyes flick lazily over me, then he leans back in his chair with a single word etched into the heat between us.

“Dance.”

God, that smile. That smirk. That challenge.

I start slow.

Just a sway of my hips, a ripple of my spine. My hands glide over my own skin, circling my breasts, down my sides, between my thighs. I drag a finger through the slick of my pussy—hot and soaked from nothing but tension—and lift it to my mouth, parting my lips to taste myself.

The moment I suck my finger clean, his jaw tightens.

It looks like it physically pains him not to touch me.

So I straddle him, slow and fluid. His hands smooth up to my ass the moment I settle. He squeezes—hard. His cock strains against his slacks, thick and ready beneath me, and I grind to the rhythm of the music, rolling my hips until we’re moving together like the beat is our pulse.

He’s enjoying my ass immensely.

He should. I’ve worked hard on it. No shots. No surgery. Just hours of effort and the occasional good fuck for inspiration.

I lean in, lips barely brushing his ear. “Is it okay if I make a mess on your pants?”

He groans under his breath. His grip tightens.

“I mean . . .” I purr, rocking a little harder now, dragging my pussy along his clothed length, “you’ve got me soaked, Dante. I think you’ve earned the cleanup.”

His reply is immediate. Low. Hungry.

“I want you to make a mess of me.”

That earns him a moan, just soft enough to pass for breath. It’s like getting a Christmas bonus when my clients are good at fucking.

And I can tell Dante is a goddman pro.

I keep my hips moving, circling. I don’t stop as we draw again.

The cards flip.

I win.

A slow smile spreads across my lips, and I don’t bother hiding the pleasure that comes with it. Not just the sensual kind—but the strategic one. The kind that sinks its teeth in deep and knows it’s earned.

I keep grinding, slower now. A tease.

Then I ask—voice close to his ear, warm and wicked:

“How long has it been since you and Grant got along without tearing each other apart?”

Dante’s voice is husky with desire when he answers, his breath brushing warm across my skin.

“Five years.”

He leans in, his mouth heading toward my breast—and fuck, I want it. I want his tongue. I want the scrape of his teeth, the possessive pull of his mouth around me. I can already feel the phantom heat of it and the way my body would melt for him.

But I want to win.

And I’m enjoying the game far too much to give him an edge.

So, I slide off him instead, turning my back to him like a teasing punishment. I sit again, this time with my back against his chest, and begin to roll my hips—slow, sinful circles over his cock that’s still straining against his slacks.

He groans low. His hands find my ass again, rough and greedy. Fingers splayed wide, squeezing and spreading me like he’s imagining what it’d feel like to push inside and watch himself disappear into my ass.

“Not long after you both became CEOs,” I murmur, letting it click into place.

But before I can follow it up with another question—because I absolutely want to—his voice cuts in, smoother than the wine and twice as dangerous.

“Time to draw,” he says, and I can hear the smirk on his lips.

Technically, he’s right. A second question would be cheating.

I wonder if there’s a punishment for cheating.

If there is . . . I’d almost certainly try for it.

We draw.

He wins.

Again.

His hands slide to my hips and hold me in place, guiding me into one more slow grind before he stills me with a possessive squeeze. Like he’s trying to memorize the feel of me—slick, hot, relentless—before I slip away again.

Then comes the direction, murmured like a command sealed in silk.

“On your knees. Take out my cock and stroke it.”

A pulse goes through me. Every nerve awake. Aroused. Ready.

I get up slowly, turning to face him with the kind of deliberate movement that tells him I’m not just going to obey—I’m going to put on a fucking show.

I lower myself to my knees, parting them wide as I go. My pussy is on full display—glistening and flushed from the grind of his cock through his clothes—and when his eyes drop to look, he curses under his breath.

“Fuck.”

First, I unbutton his crisp white shirt, pulling the tails tucked into his slacks. His olive skin and sculpted body are perfect.

He would be living art fully naked.

Next, I reach for his belt.

I slide the leather through the buckle and pull it free with one slow, satisfying tug. Then I slip it over my head and let it fall around my neck like a collar, tightening it just enough to feel the bite but not enough to bruise.

Dante’s head tips back.

His control is starting to fray.

I unbutton him. Lower his zipper and let my eyes follow the trail of short, dark curls where they disappear beneath the band of his fitted boxers.

He lifts his hips slightly to help as I slide his slacks down just enough to free him.

And fuck… he’s big.

Thick. Heavy. Hard.

I look at it the way a starving woman looks at a feast, and when my gaze flicks up to his, he’s wearing that proud, cocky smile that tells me he saw the moment I became impressed.

“I fucking love it,” I murmur, licking my lips, “when my clients have big cocks.”

He groans again, low and deep, as I wrap one hand around him.

My fingers don’t touch on the other side.

So I bring in a second hand—one stacked above the other, moving together, squeezing and stroking in a rhythm that’s smooth and slow.

His groan travels straight to my clit, and it throbs in response—desperate for pressure. For anything. For everything.

God, I’d love to sit on his face.

But if I do that… he can’t answer my questions with his mouth full of my pussy. And I have questions.

So we draw again.

I keep one hand moving up and down his length, stroking him with purpose, just long enough to flip my card.

Ace of diamonds.

Finally.

My voice is steady, sweet, and sharp as a blade.

“Whatever happened… is that the reason you use sex like a shield?”

For a moment, there’s only the crackle of the fire and the soft sound of jazz wrapping around us like smoke. His jaw tightens. His eyes narrow—but not with anger. With precision.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to deflect.

Instead, he leans back just slightly, his voice rough with restraint, low like a secret.

“Let’s just say… it’s easier to fuck than to feel.”

The words roll out with perfect control—measured, detached—but I catch the muscle twitch in his jaw, the flicker of something raw behind his eyes.

It’s not an admission, but it’s not a denial either.

Because denying it would be a lie.

And we both know it.

It’s exactly the answer I wanted—crafted like armor but heavy with truth.

My smile deepens. My hand never stops moving on his cock.

And the game continues.

It’s Dante’s win.

His voice is low and sharp, smooth as black silk.

“Get your mouth on my cock and suck. Deep.”

God. The way he says it.

Commanding. Controlled. No hesitation.

A fresh gush of arousal slicks between my thighs at the sheer authority in his voice. That rough edge. That tension he never loses.

I fist him in one hand, holding him still as I look up at him. I want him to see it—the way I obey, the way I enjoy it.

Then I lower my mouth.

My tongue circles his head first—slow and teasing—flicking around the ridge, collecting the bead of arousal already gathered at the tip. I hold his gaze as I lick it up, making sure he sees every second.

He curses, the word a whisper ripped from his throat.

I work him for a moment, lips wrapped tight, cheeks hollowing, tongue dancing beneath the head and down his shaft. I can feel how much he loves this. How he’s losing pieces of himself in the feel of my mouth.

This man—so powerful, so put-together, so utterly in control—groaning because of me.

I pull off with a wet pop, keeping my fist tight around the base of his cock as I reach for the deck and draw.

I win.

But I don’t ask my question yet because I know this will end the game.

And I want another moment with his cock in my mouth.

I lick up his shaft again, watching him the entire time. I finally look down while I take him deep, inch by inch. My hand squeezes, guiding him as I slide lower.

He groans. Fists my hair. The sound he makes is feral—deep and primal.

Then he growls, voice wrecked and full of need:

“Così brava per me, piccola… così perfetta con la bocca piena del mio cazzo.”? *

And fuck, I throb at the praise. I don’t know everything he said, but enough to know he fucking loves my mouth on him.

Every filthy word vibrates through me like permission.

Like reward.

And I don’t want the game to end—but I’ve earned my question.

“Does he know you love him?”

I punctuate my question by taking him deep into my mouth once more—slow, unrelenting, sucking hard until his thighs tense beneath my hands. Then I release him with a wet pop, licking my lips as I look up.

“Grant. Does he know?”

I wait and watch.

But I already know the answer.

This thing between him and Grant—it’s not about a woman. It’s not about money. It’s not some petty power play in a boardroom, no matter how convincing their performance might be.

It’s deeper.

More intimate.

A denial. One so complete it created a canyon between them—wide, brutal, and burning. A fire that’s raged for five years without cooling, without softening, without healing.

The deep pools of Dante’s eyes bore into mine.

And my answer is right there. Just like I knew it would be.

He reaches down and gently takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger. His touch is soft—unexpectedly so—and the pad of his thumb brushes over my bottom lip.

The command is quiet. Intimate.

“Game’s over, piccola? * .”

There’s a reverence in his tone I don’t miss. A kind of ending that feels like a beginning.

He helps me to my feet as he tucks himself back into his pants, the moment slipping between us like silk drawn through fingers.

I bend to pick up my dress from the marble floor—slowly, deliberately. His hand drags over the globe of my ass—one last squeeze, a silent confession.

He loves it.

I know he does.

I straighten and glance over my shoulder, returning his belt from my neck. “See you tomorrow.”

His eyes are molten.

I take a final look at the hard plane of his abs, still partially exposed from where his shirt has come untucked. Then I turn, my dress clutched in my hand, heels clicking softly as I walk toward the elevator wearing only them.

And the heat of his stare burning into every step I take.

The doors close behind me, sealing the night with a soft chime.

And I don’t smile until I’m alone.

* ? “So good for me, baby… so perfect with your mouth full of my cock.”

* ? Baby