Page 116 of The Rival's Obsession
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.
