Page 92 of The Rival's Obsession
Almost.
I lean in, close enough to breathe her in.
Then I tap the clit stimulator.
A tiny gasp leaves her lips—no louder than the creak of a leather shoe against marble.
Her grip tightens on the edge of the table. The other hand finds my elbow, nails biting into fabric as the toy works inside her.
“Find Grant,” I murmur against her ear. “Help him with the plug.”
She lets out the softest sound—half moan, half laugh. My lips brush the side of her neck, and I feel her start to come. Quiet. A soft squeak tucked into my collar.
“Okay?” I ask.
She nods—barely.
“Okay.”
“Good girl.”
I shut the toy off with a flick of my thumb and withdraw my hand as smoothly as it entered. Her body stays close to mine another beat longer, legs trembling like a thoroughbred held at the starting gate.
I press the closed case into her hand.
My phone slides back into my pocket.
“I’ll see you out there on the floor.”
She turns and walks away, that slit in her dress swaying with every step. But she doesn’t get far before glancing back.
As if she knows me already.
She knows what I’m about to do.
I stir my bourbon with the fingers that were just inside her—slow, indulgent, like I’m savoring the flavor of the night.
Then I bring them to my mouth and lick them clean. I smile as I take a long sip from my glass.
She disappears into the crowd, looking for our third player, while I’m already imagining what comes next.
“Let the games begin.”
The case is light in my hand, but it may as well be ticking like a bomb.
In my other hand, I snag a champagne flute from a passing tray, letting the cool glass anchor me as I drift deeper into the room.
The place is alive — velvet and smoke and money, wrapped in tuxedos and couture.
It doesn’t take long to spot Grant. Not being drained by Corrine, for once.
He’s standing with a man I recognize instantly from the hours I’ve spent spiraling down internet rabbit holes. Same build. Same broad shoulders. Same storm-gray eyes. His father.
They’re laughing—really laughing. His father tosses his head back at something Grant says, a hand on his son’s shoulder, clearly proud.
The sight tugs at something in me. Something tender.
But then, like a gargoyle perched atop a Gothic cathedral, I feel Corrine lurking—watching.
