Page 167 of The Rival's Obsession
And every night after, if he’ll let me.
The bedroom is already warm from the fire crackling in the glass-covered hearth. Shadows dance across the floor, flickering over the tall mirror that stands to the right—framed in black iron and old wood, like it’s been waiting for this moment.
I guide him there, to the mirror.
To himself.
The floor cushions are arranged like I left them—thick and plush, pulled close to the fire. I’d planned for comfort. For conversation. A slow exhale after the weight of the day.
But Grant needs something else.
He needs to see.
I turn to face him. My fingers trail over the buttons of his shirt—slow, deliberate. “You’re going to watch tonight,” I say, voice low, calm. “Every second. Every sensation. You’re going to see exactly what I give you. What you deserve.”
His breath stutters. His hands twitch at his sides.
“This,” I murmur, undoing the first button, “isn’t just about touch. It’s about truth.”
Each button undone is a peeling back of pain. A removal of shame. Guilt. Armor.
He lets me take it—his shirt, his belt, his pants. Piece by piece, I strip him until he’s bare in the firelight, trembling and beautiful and so damn breakable.
I pull one of the pillows over, setting it in front of the mirror.
“Hands and knees,” I tell him, my voice firmer now. “Head down, ass up. Face the mirror.”
He obeys without a word, moving like his limbs are heavy with want and memory. He settles with his head on the pillow, thighs parted, his reflection raw and exposed. Vulnerable.
Perfect.
I kneel behind him, still fully dressed—dark slacks, sleeves rolled to my elbows. Deliberately untouched.
Untouchable—until now.
My hands part his cheeks and I kiss each one. My thumb toys with the ring of muscle I’m going to devour tonight and he clinches. It makes my cock twitch.
My lips keep moving across his ass, kissing, sucking and licking as I move to his center. I lean in, dragging my tongue between them with a slow, deep stroke.
Grant shudders violently.
“Fuck,” he gasps, knuckles going white as he grips the edge of the cushion.
But I don’t stop. Don’t relent.
I devour him.
Filthy, wet, merciless—each pass of my tongue staking a claim. Marking him from the inside out. His thighs tremble. His groans crack apart in the air, desperate and sharp.
I reach under him with one hand, wrap around his cock, and stroke—slow. Steady. Measured.
He chokes on a moan, forehead pressed to the cushion, his reflection a portrait of unraveling: flushed cheeks, bitten lips, eyes fluttering half-lidded with shame and need.
And still, I don’t stop.
Because he needs to see this.
Needs to witness the way he breaks for me. How his body pleads without a single word.
