Page 63 of The Rival's Obsession
“But you want to.” It’s not a question. A confirmation.
“No.”
“Liar.” I continue, voice like silk against steel. “You want to. You want to be on your knees, run your tongue up the shaft of a hard dick, and feel every vein pulse against it.”
His chest is rising faster now, each breath ragged and raw. “Fuck.”
“You want to take it deep. Feel it hit the back of your throat. Gag around it. Suck like the filthy little slut you’re too scared to admit you are.”
He grits his teeth. “No.”
I clench my hand tighter around him. Stroke deeper.
“And I know whose cock you want to choke on.”
“No.”
“Who it is that you want to come down your throat while you milk every drop from him.”
“You’re wrong.” He’s so breathless, he’s panting in desperation.
The fabric of his pants is wet with pre-cum, and he’s moving with me now, chasing the release.
But he won’t get it.
“I don’t think I am wrong.”
I wait until he’s just there—just there—right at the edge, panting like a man seconds from drowning in his own desire.
And then I stop.
He bucks forward with a choked, desperate sound. His eyes shoot open, confusion and betrayal flashing across them.
I lean down, my lips brushing his ear as I whisper, low and lethal:
“You’re a liar, Grant. And you’ll only come when you admit who you want to come for.”
And I walk out, leaving him aching and alone.
“Tell me how the fuck this happened,” I snap, slapping the folder onto the conference table. The loudthwackmakes a few heads turn before they quickly look away.
Frankie stands opposite me with her arms crossed, chewing a piece of gum like she’s got all the time in the world. Red lips. Victory curls. Leopard-print heels that sayfuck around and find out.Her expression doesn’t flinch. Not even a little.
“I don’t know how it happened,” she says. “You said the twenty-first. I had the twenty-first.”
“That’s what I said. So why the hell are we finding out today that the meeting is tomorrow?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “Ask the client’s new assistant. Or maybe a hacker with a really boring agenda. I don’t know.”
My fingers curl around the edge of the table. “I don’t need sarcasm right now, Frankie.”
“I’m not being sarcastic,” she says. “I’m being calm. One of us has to be. Besides, I’ve already rescheduled your Thursday calls, bumped the weekly check-in, and ordered catering for tomorrow’s pitch. You’re welcome.”
People are passing through the office like shadows, avoiding eye contact, ducking into side rooms. No one wants to be caught in the crossfire of a Dante Marchesi meltdown.
My hand goes to my pocket automatically, fingers brushing the edge of the cigarette pack I haven’t opened. Not yet.
Frankie sees the movement. Her eyes narrow. “Tell me you’re not smoking again.”
