Page 80 of The Rival's Obsession
“Oh, my fucking god.” His breath catches. His body goes taut and his fist tightens in my hair. “Ah.”
“Ah, God.”
And then he’s coming—hard—his warm pleasure spilling down my throat as I take every drop because every part of him belongs to me.
I slow my pace, tongue dragging through each pulse of his release, savoring the way he shudders from the overstimulation. I don’t rush it. I worship it. I want him to feel everything. Every beat of his heart inside my mouth.
When he’s spent and breathless, I pull back just enough to let his cock fall from my lips.
I look up at him—at my oldest friend, my longest rival—and run my tongue one last time under the base of his shaft. Long. Slow. Cleaning the last of his mess like it’s sacred.
When our eyes meet, the war between us rages there.
Still burning. Still unresolved.
But today, I won the first battle.
And I’m going to win the next.
And the next.
Until Grant fucking Harrow finally admits what he’s been lying to himself about for five years—that he’s mine.
Whether he’s ready to say it or not...
his body already has.
I rise slowly, never breaking eye contact, letting the silence stretch thick between us. My thumb drags across my lower lip, then slips into my mouth as I taste the edge of him once more before sucking my thumb clean with deliberate calm.
I don’t say a word.
The moment doesn’t need it.
I back away, leaving him alone in the restroom—wrecked, breathless, and reeling.
* “Because I’m still waiting for you, my love.”
The Harrow estate is a monument to appearances.
The stone façade rises like it was carved from pride itself—sharp lines, manicured hedges, iron gates that whisper wealth without having to shout. Everything about it is curated. Perfect. And emotionally sterile.
Even the breeze feels rehearsed.
As I step out of the car, the staff is already in place. Gates open. Door ajar. The housekeeper, Elaine, greets me with the same warm smile she’s worn for as long as I’ve been alive. But it never reaches her eyes—not when she looks at me.
Not anymore.
“Welcome home, Mr. Harrow,” she says gently, like I’m a guest. Like I don’t still carry the ghosts of this place in my skin.
I nod, offering a polite smile, and walk through the grand foyer where the scent of fresh polish tries—and fails—to mask the memory of lilies. My mother’s favorite. There were so manyfilling the house after she died. Now, for sixteen years there’s only one vase. Always with a full bouquet. Always white.
My father is in the study—where he always is at this hour. The door is open, fire lit even though it’s warm outside. He’s a man of habits. Routine. Control.
I suppose that’s where I get it.
“Grant.” His face lights up as I enter, all warmth and pride and subtle worry, perfectly wrapped in the image of the loving patriarch. “You made good time.”
I nod, letting him pull me into a brief hug. It’s real, but it’s rehearsed, too. My father loves me—I don’t doubt that. But he’s also spent the last decade and a half loving me around the edges of a wound neither of us speaks about.
