Page 28 of The Rival's Obsession
“I’ll do it.”
We haven’t texted directly in nearly a year, and prior to that, it was nothing but the occasional low jab and arguments.
And now... here we are. The two of us agreeing to face this. The spark of possibility between us, crackling hotter than the flame I cooked with.
“I figured you were too self-centered to cook,” she replies, and smiles like she expects me to be offended.
I am.
But only a little.
I lean back in my seat, fingers toying with the stem of my glass. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it.” Her gaze flicks up. “That’s what makes this job interesting.”
I should keep this professional.
But she’s not making it easy when every move she makes gets the attention of my hardening cock.
“You’re not curious?” she asks, breaking the silence. “About what Grant and I talked about?”
“I already know what matters.” I trace the rim of my glass. “He said yes.”
“True,” she concedes. “But what I really want to know is how you two fell out. I mean, I’m supposed to fix it. Seems a little unfair you left that part blank.”
I watch her. “I didn’t want to bias you.”
“You mean you didn’t want to be the villain up front.”
“Same thing.”
Her eyes narrow like she’s trying to read me. And she is. Smart, strategic. She’s not just beautiful, not just sharp—she’s trained. Every word I say, she files away like evidence.
I slide my chair back, letting the tension stretch between us like a drawn wire. One leg crosses over my knee as I settle deeper, slower, needing more distance and less of it all at once.
She gets up, and my eyes trail down.
The temperature in the room spikes in a second.
That red dress hugs her body like it was stitched directly onto her skin. Tight, short, indecently elegant. It shifts with her every step, clinging to her hips and ass like it wants to make me suffer. She brings her wineglass with her—never breaks eye contact—as she crosses the room with the kind of grace that makes my cock twitch beneath the table.
When she reaches my side, she doesn’t ask for permission.
She slides onto the table beside me, smooth and unbothered, her thighs flexing as she settles on the polished mahogany like she belongs there.
She fucking does.
My mouth waters watching the fabric inch up as she crosses her legs—slow, sensual, elegant. Her calves rub together, the movement so deliberate I know she’s doing it for my benefit.
And it’s working.
My hands ache to reach between them, to slide beneath that dress, grab that perfect round ass she’s clearly sculpted with hours in the gym—and maybe a personal trainer or two. I want her on her knees. I want her on all fours. I want her bent over this table with my hands digging into her hips so hard she bruises.
But she’s talking. And I want that too.
“What do you know so far?” I ask, voice low and steady.
She lets the question settle as she takes another sip of wine. Then she starts her assessment like she’s peeling a label off a fine bottle—slow, deliberate, ready to see what’s underneath.
