Page 96 of The Rival's Obsession
The next roll comes. Dice clatter. Pleasure spikes.
I must set down my glass. My fingers tremble, bracing on the table. I fight not to whimper. My clit stimulator kicks in — pulsing, sucking, dragging me toward the edge—and Grant... poor Grant... is right there with me.
He’s blinking rapidly now. His throat bobs. He looks down, then up. And that’s when he sees it: Dante’s phone on the table—his finger circling—exactly in sync with both our escalating bodies.
That’s when it hits him. Dante is the puppeteer. The man under his skin for years is about to make him come in hisfuckingpants.
And Dante—God, he looks like sin incarnate. A devil in full control.
And that’s exactly when the orgasm hits.
I go first—knees shaking, head tipped down, lips parted as wave after wave rocks me. I barely stay standing, clinging to the table like it might save me.
I regain enough calm to watch Grant. The moment it rips through him... his eyes go wide, stunned, humiliated, wrecked. He jerks once, twice, then goes frighteningly still—save for a slight shoulder tremble. It’s subtle, but we’re watching. We know.
Dante picks up his phone, silencing it, sliding it into his pocket. The buzzing inside me fading into afterglow. I smooth my dress, gather myself, and circle the table.
Grant doesn’t move. He can’t. He’s still shaking.
I press in close. My perfume surrounds him—sex and power and victory. I run my finger up the inside of my thigh, gathering the slick trace of what Dante just did to me... and to him.
I grip Grant’s chin, tilt his face toward me.
“See, baby...” I purr, letting my arousal coat his bottom lip.
His eyes darken. He swallows hard.
“Such a fun toy for us to play with.”
I turn him toward Dante just as the dice roll again. And now the game has irrevocably changed.
As I drift away, I know we have one more round left. And this time, our toy is going to come to us.
Ishouldn’t still be hard.
Not after what just happened at the Craps table.
Not after coming so completely, I nearly collapsed against the poker chips, panting, like a fucking teenager.
But I am.
Because now I know it was him.
It was Dante—controlling the plug buried deep inside me, his fucking hand on the remote the entire time.
And the moment I realized it the orgasm hit me so hard I saw white behind my eyes and bit down on my own tongue to keep from groaning.
And now, thirty minutes later, washed up as best I can manage, I’m stepping back into the ballroom like nothing happened.
Like I haven’t just been wrecked in the most humiliating, exhilarating way imaginable.
They’ve moved the gala into a new room—larger, moodier, candlelight flickering from chandeliers and along the mirrored walls. Waiters circulate with silver trays and practiced smiles, passing out oysters and champagne while the city’s elite cluster in small, curated conversations.
I straighten my tux jacket and glance around, scanning automatically.
Of course, I see him first.
Dante stands near one of the tall cocktail tables, deep in conversation with Matheus da Costa—the club athlete from earlier this week. Seeing them together flips the switch in my memory.
