Page 106 of Ruled By Rivalry

And anyway, “I want to see.” I never had, and it only seemed fair to show me what I was in for.

His hand tightened around my thigh. Another groan worked its way out of his throat, confirming we really didn’t have time.

My own finger slipped deeper, and my other hand fell from my breasts to continue circling my clit. I was so close, with nothing but his hand on my leg, I could taste relief. I could feel it trying to catch up with his orgasm.

But it spluttered through him before I could. His head fell back, his knuckles white around my knee, and my name on his lips as he came across my stomach, just the way I’d wanted it.

I trembled below his touch, his words—the muttered Gods and Fucks and You’re incredible, Maeve—getting me there quicker too. While he was trying to make sense of what just happened, he noticed. Begged me to let him finish this off with nothing but a single look.

His finger replaced mine effortlessly, curling inside of me, hitting a spot previously unfamiliar. Then his tongue replaced my other hand, and I was coming before I’d even managed to warn him.

He kissed my hipbone, let his hand delicately glide along my leg, up my body until he scooped me into his arms, only to let me back down with my head on his pillow. He cleaned me up, brought me water, then tucked me in below a comforter that smelled like him. When he slipped in beside me, he held me against his chest.

The entire thing was a blur, like someone had put my mind to sleep in a sunny, picture-perfect meadow. I drifted off with my head against his chest, his heartbeat drumming steadily below my ear, and woke up to absolute fucking mayhem.

THE NEW YORK GOSS

Elliot Ashwood’s Latest Headline: From PR to PDA

After his outrageous comments in a leaked video, Elliot Ashwood spent the past few months parading across every news outlet and late-night show that would have him. Successfully. His apology tour was starting to bear fruit.

No more headlines about his wild nights out, but interviews about his conservation efforts with the Ashwood Foundation. No more grainy paparazzi shots of him with ex-girlfriend Allegra Amato, but heartwarming photos alongside his grandmother, after that tear-jerking interview on Steven Stewart.

Although none of us expected it, the youngest Ashwood’s image was starting to improve. Paired with his work at Adeline Ashwood (which he posts about just enough to remind us), even our finance friends at THE NEW YORK GROSS were paying attention again. Ashwood stock was climbing—slowly, steadily.

Until now.

Because that People Magazine exclusive? It’s no longer about Elliot’s good deeds or his rehabilitated image. It’s about his newest flame. We’ll have to wait for the markets to open to see what effect that cover photo of him and Maeve Peterson—practically eating each other’s faces—will have on Wall Street.

All we know for now? Social media is eating it up. #Melliot

Chapter 41

I sat up at once, groggy but refreshed, feeling worn out but reborn. Waking up in his bed felt vastly different from my own, even though it was just down the hall. Like I’d come into his room last night one way, and would leave it a changed woman.

A woman who loved cuddling, apparently. One who fell asleep in Elliot’s arms and had woken up at the same time as him multiple times during the night to kiss and whisper things into each other’s ears, sometimes filthy, mostly sweet.

This just seems right, doesn’t it?

Like we should’ve done it a long time ago, actually. I hadn’t said it, but I thought it so hard at him, he might’ve heard anyway. Rubbing my eyes, I’d been ready to let myself fall back into his sheets, but—

Someone was yelling. Yes, that was that faint noise coming from outside. The sun peered through the dirty glass of Elliot’s room. There was a steaming cup of coffee on the bedside table, a note that read Yes, this is for you beside it, with a small smiley face doodled in the corner. The birds were chirping in the tree in front of his window, and someone was yelling.

Loudly. Female.

I’d barely managed to throw on a rogue shirt from the foot of the bed—definitely not mine because I’d come in here with nothing but a towel on, I remembered—when the door slammed against the wall.

Allegra. Closely followed by Elliot, who’d clearly been trying to keep her from storming into a room I’d been naked in less than ten seconds ago.

“Un-fucking-believable.” She barely graced me with a look before her eyes skipped back to him. “You’re sleeping with the intern!”

“I am the intern,” he reminded, nothing friendly about it.

Allegra snorted. “Yeah, right. You really are just like your father. Fucking the intern behind—”

“We broke up a year ago, Allegra. I’m not fucking anyone behind anyone’s back. You need to leave,” he added, with a finality in his tone only insignificant for someone with as much power and money as he had. An equal in every sense.

“And four months ago, you still had the ring you picked out for me in your pocket.”