Page 169 of The Rival's Obsession
“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.”
