Page 62 of The Rival's Obsession
His breathing changes—sharper now, tight in his chest. He’s getting hard. I feel the shift. The heat of him, the shape forming beneath the fabric. But it’s not just arousal I see in his eyes.
It’s discomfort.
He doesn’t want to be worshipped. Doesn’t want a pretty little thing on her knees, waiting for instruction.
So, I shift.
My smile curves inward, knowing. I rise—slowly, smoothly—and trail my fingers up his arm, across the crisp line of his chest, then down again, letting my palm drift across the bulge in his pants.
“You wouldn’t like that,” I say, voice low, circling behind him. “You don’t want to command.”
I lean in, letting my breath trace the shell of his ear as I wrap my hand around his cock—firm and aching beneath his slacks. I squeeze, just enough to pull a sound from him. He exhales, a heavy appreciative breath, his body betraying what his words never could.
“You want to be broken open,” I whisper, stroking him now, slow and possessive. “You want someone to take the reins. To make the decisions for you. To give you rules so you can feel what it’s like to let go.”
His hips twitch. His cock jerks in my hand.
“You want to be taken apart by someone who isn’t afraid of what they’ll find when they do.”
I keep stroking, using the pad of my thumb to tease the head through the fabric. His head falls back, lips parting slightly—fighting it and failing.
Then I stop.
Pulling away like nothing happened, I straighten.
“Give me the water.”
He fumbles a second before he grabs it, like a man starved for orders. Just like I thought.
I take it with a slow smile, sipping it without breaking eye contact.
When I’m done, I give it back, and my hand trails down again. This time, I don’t toy. I take.
My fingers close around him once more—hot, thick, needy.
I lean in, voice just above a whisper.
“Good boy.”
He groans.
Not a quiet one. Not subtle.
A deep, involuntary sound that rips from his chest and coils straight into my core. His hands clamp tight around the carved wooden arms of his chair. Eyes closed. Jaw slack. He looks undone.
I keep stroking him—slow, precise—watching the tension ripple through him like a live wire straining against itself.
“I know what you want,” I purr, voice velvet-wrapped sin. “You want strong hands on you. On your cock. You want to feel someone in control… someone who doesn’t let you hide.”
His hips lift slightly, syncing with my rhythm. His body answers before he can lie with his mouth.
“You want to be on your knees,” I whisper against his temple. “Begging. Submitting. Taking what you’re given.”
His breath hitches.
I press closer, my grip tightening, my strokes faster now. “Tell me something, Grant. Ever sucked a cock before?”
His eyes flash open, but he doesn’t stop me. He can’t. “No.”
