Page 74 of The Rival's Obsession
It’s not subtle.
And it’s not an accident.
I pick up my water, sipping slowly while Dante settles in, already charming Matheus. Dante leans in just a bit when he speaks. His smile is easy. Natural. His eyes spark when Matheus laughs—and maybe it’s innocent. Maybe it’s strategy.
But all I can see is his hand on my wrist. That burning look in his eyes.
His fingers pressing mine against the hard line of his cock as he exhales.
I shift in my seat, force my focus back to my client. Because whatever game this is, it’s already started, and I have no idea what the rules are.
Or who’s supposed to win.
Isabelle is elegance incarnate. Poised and immaculate in a crisp cream blouse that probably costs more than most people’s rent. She leans back in her chair with graceful confidence, long fingers circling the stem of her wineglass.
“I want it to feel like Avignon,” she says, her French accent soft but deliberate. “Not just in design, but in rhythm. A space that invites people to slow down. No sterile glass towers or overly industrial façades. Stone. Wood. Texture. Light.” She smiles. “Charm.”
It should be an easy pitch. This is what I do—translate vision into form. I’ve taken abstract aspirations and turned them into award-winning architecture. Marchesi & Harrow doesn’t just build structures—we craft identity. I’ve walked clients like Isabelle through every phase from site selection to skyline.
But right now?
Right now, I can’t even remember the name of the zoning consultant we’re meant to loop in.
“Absolutely,” I say, swallowing the tightness in my throat. “There’s a historic block near Gramercy we’ve been tracking—quiet, residential-adjacent, and flexible enough for a mixed-use renovation. Our firm would oversee the full restoration. We’d source reclaimed materials locally but style it to echo Provence—stonework, terracotta, soft arches. Manhattan meets the Côte d’Azur.”
She tilts her head, visibly intrigued. “And your funding partners?”
I blink.
My mouth opens—but nothing comes out. My brain stutters, locked somewhere between the sparkle of Dante’s fucking laugh and the memory of his hips shifting under my palm.
My tongue feels like sandpaper. I blink once, twice, trying to shove the answer forward from wherever it’s stuck in my brain, but it’s drowned beneath linen suits and Mediterranean cheek kisses.
Because across the room, Dante Marchesi is fucking glowing.
His head is tilted just enough to show off the clean line of his jaw. He’s laughing—like, genuinely laughing—and his hand is resting lightly on the table beside the football star, fingers barely brushing the stem of his glass. Matheus is practically swooning. And why wouldn’t he? Dante’s charming. Relaxed. Confident in a way that never feels like performance.
It’s infuriating.
I drag my eyes back to Isabelle, clear my throat.
“Sorry,” I say, adjusting my cuffs. “Long week.”
She chuckles. “No worries, darling. Are you all right? You look—flushed.”
Flushedis a fucking understatement.
Try two days of adrenaline, arousal, and the memory of Dante’s thigh under my hands. His skin hot, his cock thick and hard and straining under the covers. The sound he made when I touched him—fuck.
“We can always move this meeting to dinner. Then—perhaps—something private.”
Isabelle raises one pointed brow, and it looks like she’s giving herself credit for my state.
I shift in my seat, adjusting the pressure against my slacks.
Big mistake.
Across the room, Dante lifts his glass to his lips. His eyes are on me—have been, I realize.
