Page 60 of The Rival's Obsession
His knuckles go white around the armrests.
Bingo.
I don’t bring up Dante. I don’t need to.
This is about control. About the way Grant holds it like a lifeline. The way it’s killing him.
But before I can say anything more, a flicker of movement catches my eye.
Corrine stalks past the outer corridor, not even pretending to be subtle. Her gaze cuts toward the office like a hawk in stilettos. The floor-to-ceiling glass makes the space feel open—vulnerable. And judging by the smug set of her lips, she likes it that way.
I lean in just enough to draw Grant’s eyes to mine, softening my voice until it’s almost a purr. “Is there a way to get a little more privacy in here?”
He nods slightly. “The windows fog. There’s a switch near the door.”
He starts to rise, ever the gentleman, ever in control—but I lay a light touch on his forearm. Just enough pressure to still him.
“I’ve got it,” I say gently. “Let me.”
His eyes drop to my hand. His throat works around a slow swallow.
I smile and pull away, crossing the room in deliberate steps. Not rushed. Not coy. Just present. Owned.
I glance over my shoulder once, then again as I reach the door. Temptation in motion. An offer wrapped in silk.
Then—with a click, the world outside the windows fades in a breath. Glass shifts to clouds, the clear view replaced by frosted walls of fog. No one can see in.
We can’t see out.
Much better.
I motion toward the sitting area—two leather chairs angled toward each other across a low, round table. “Why don’t we get comfortable while we talk?”
Grant hesitates for a beat, then nods. Always so polite. Always so careful.
I reach for the crystal water set arranged like a still-life centerpiece. The glass is heavy in my hand, cool. I pour a clean stream into one of the tumblers, turn, and offer it to him.
He looks at it, then at me. “No, thank you.”
I set it down anyway—just beside his armrest. “In case you change your mind.”
He doesn’t respond. But his eyes stay on mine as I take the seat across from him, crossing one leg slowly over the other.
“I wanted to talk about something today,” I begin, folding my hands loosely in my lap. “Something personal.”
He arches a brow, teasing. “Well, never expected that.”
I smile softly. “Sex.”
The temperature in the room shifts. Not much—but I feel it.
He leans back slightly, jaw ticking. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Frustration. Tension,” I say smoothly. “They’re often the result of repression. Or a lack of release. And nothing releases pressure like a satisfying, consistent sex life.”
Grant gives a humorless huff. “Not all problems are solved by sticking your cock into something.”
“No,” I agree, tilting my head. “But some are eased. Or at least clarified.”
