“How long has it been since you and Grant got along without tearing each other apart?”
Dante’s voice is husky with desire when he answers, his breath brushing warm across my skin.
“Five years.”
He leans in, his mouth heading toward my breast—and fuck, I want it. I want his tongue. I want the scrape of his teeth, the possessive pull of his mouth around me. I can already feel the phantom heat of it and the way my body would melt for him.
But I want to win.
And I’m enjoying the game far too much to give him an edge.
So, I slide off him instead, turning my back to him like a teasing punishment. I sit again, this time with my back against his chest, and begin to roll my hips—slow, sinful circles over his cock that’s still straining against his slacks.
He groans low. His hands find my ass again, rough and greedy. Fingers splayed wide, squeezing and spreading me likehe’s imagining what it’d feel like to push inside and watch himself disappear into my ass.
“Not long after you both became CEOs,” I murmur, letting it click into place.
But before I can follow it up with another question—because I absolutely want to—his voice cuts in, smoother than the wine and twice as dangerous.
“Time to draw,” he says, and I can hear the smirk on his lips.
Technically, he’s right. A second question would be cheating.
I wonder if there’s a punishment for cheating.
If there is . . . I’d almost certainly try for it.
We draw.
He wins.
Again.
His hands slide to my hips and hold me in place, guiding me into one more slow grind before he stills me with a possessive squeeze. Like he’s trying to memorize the feel of me—slick, hot, relentless—before I slip away again.
Then comes the direction, murmured like a command sealed in silk.
“On your knees. Take out my cock and stroke it.”
A pulse goes through me. Every nerve awake. Aroused. Ready.
I get up slowly, turning to face him with the kind of deliberate movement that tells him I’m not just going to obey—I’m going to put on a fucking show.
I lower myself to my knees, parting them wide as I go. My pussy is on full display—glistening and flushed from the grind of his cock through his clothes—and when his eyes drop to look, he curses under his breath.
“Fuck.”
First, I unbutton his crisp white shirt, pulling the tails tucked into his slacks. His olive skin and sculpted body are perfect.
He would be living art fully naked.
Next, I reach for his belt.
I slide the leather through the buckle and pull it free with one slow, satisfying tug. Then I slip it over my head and let it fall around my neck like a collar, tightening it just enough to feel the bite but not enough to bruise.
Dante’s head tips back.
His control is starting to fray.
