Page 36 of The Rival's Obsession
More intimate.
A denial. One so complete it created a canyon between them—wide, brutal, and burning. A fire that’s raged for five years without cooling, without softening, without healing.
The deep pools of Dante’s eyes bore into mine.
And my answer is right there. Just like I knew it would be.
He reaches down and gently takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger. His touch is soft—unexpectedly so—and the pad of his thumb brushes over my bottom lip.
The command is quiet. Intimate.
“Game’s over, piccola?*.”
There’s a reverence in his tone I don’t miss. A kind of ending that feels like a beginning.
He helps me to my feet as he tucks himself back into his pants, the moment slipping between us like silk drawn through fingers.
I bend to pick up my dress from the marble floor—slowly, deliberately. His hand drags over the globe of my ass—one last squeeze, a silent confession.
He loves it.
I know he does.
I straighten and glance over my shoulder, returning his belt from my neck. “See you tomorrow.”
His eyes are molten.
I take a final look at the hard plane of his abs, still partially exposed from where his shirt has come untucked. Then I turn, my dress clutched in my hand, heels clicking softly as I walk toward the elevator wearing only them.
And the heat of his stare burning into every step I take.
The doors close behind me, sealing the night with a soft chime.
And I don’t smile until I’m alone.
* “So good for me, baby… so perfect with your mouth full of my cock.”
* Baby
The limo pulls through the gates of the Silverleaf Invitational—a charity golf tournament so drenched in old money and sports legacy it practically smells like polished wood and generational privilege.
It’s hosted annually at the Wexley Club, acountry-club-meets-five-star-resortwith rolling green hills, manicured fairways, and a press line long enough to make my jaw clench.
Flashbulbs go off before we’ve even parked. I can already see retired pros, billionaire donors, and influencers pretending they understand anything about golf—as long as there’s champagne.
“Fucking white carpet,” I mutter.
“Of course,” Eve replies smoothly from beside me. “This is Manhattan’s elite. They’ll wear white after Labor Day if there’s a camera involved.”
She’s calm. Relaxed. Like this is just another Tuesday—which it might be, for her.
I was surprised to see her at my penthouse this morning.
I’d just finished shaving when my housekeeper let her in. Wearing wide-leg cream slacks and a black halter-neck blouse that managed to be chic, commanding, and just androgynous enough to make it feel like she could seduce both the room and the boardroom at once.
She wanted to review the plan for today. Check my outfit. Adjust my tie. Make sure I didn’t look like I wanted to throw a driver at Dante’s head the minute we stepped onto the course.
She wanted me to switch to a navy suit, so I let her.
