Page 129 of The Rival's Obsession
And then, with his eyes full of something I’m afraid to name, he says?—
“That wasn’t just the best fuck of my life,lucciolina.”
He leans in closer, his voice barely a breath as he rubs his nose against mine.
“That was like coming home.”
* "Tell me you want me, little glowbug"
Showering with Grant Harrow after fucking him within an inch of his life?
Yeah.
That’s a goddamn life goal crossed off my list.
Cooking for him?
That’s next.
He loves breakfast. Brunch. Anything involving eggs and carbs and too much coffee. And what else do you cook at two in the morning for a man you just broke open but eggs Benedict and mimosas?
The hollandaise is perfect. Poached eggs—soft and trembling. The ham is crisped just the way I like it. Three servings, plated hot and waiting. A chilled bowl of cubed cantaloupe rests at the center of the table. Champagne flutes sparkle in the low light, condensation beading on their delicate stems. The orange juice is pulpy. The champagne is cold. I haven’t poured them yet—I want the bubbles fresh.
I’d showered fast—quicker than I usually do—leaving Eve and Grant behind. It’s not that there wasn’t room for all three of us. There was plenty. But she’d offered to wash his hair, pressed up against him, whispering something about how tight his shoulders were. How brave he’d been.
I knew he’d be starving when she was done with him. Starving in more ways than one.
My lounge pants hang low on my hips, towel slung over my shoulder, as I finish wiping down the counter. I’m just setting the last plate down when I hear the door open.
Eve appears first—glowing and flushed. Her long, wet hair hangs down her back, and she’s wearing one of my T-shirts—oversized and swallowing her completely. She’s radiant. Soft. A vision of satisfaction and mischief.
But it’s Grant I really look for.
He lingers in the doorway, damp curls mussed, the waistband of his borrowed pants slung loose. He sees me and freezes—just for a second. His eyes lock on mine, and something flickers across them. Not regret. Not fear.
Bashfulness.
A pink flush rises to his cheeks.
I raise an eyebrow. A silent warning: Don’t you dare backtrack. Not after tonight.
I don’t know if he gets the message. But I know Eve sees it—because she breaks the tension effortlessly, slipping beside him with a teasing smile and a shoulder bump that makes him exhale a laugh.
“Sit, sweetheart,” she says, squeezing his shoulders as she guides him toward the table. “I’ll get the drinks.”
I bring over the plates, setting hers and mine down before returning with his. I lean in, fingers under his chin, and tilt his face up to mine.
“Eat,” I murmur, brushing a kiss to his lips. Just a taste. A reminder.
He looks down at the plate like it’s a miracle—then back up at me with something equal parts admiration and disbelief.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” he says, voice playful. His eyes drop lower, roaming my bare chest, the trail of hair leading beneath the low waistband of my pants.
I smirk. “I do have a few hobbies… other than fucking like a god.”
His mouth pops open in surprised amusement, and I waste no time. I lean down and kiss him again, swallowing the sound he makes.
Then I press my lips to his ear, voice dark and low.
