Private Suites & Public Secrets
Chapter thirty-five
Grant
I’m not a jealous man.
At least, I didn’t think I was.
I was married to a woman who looked like she was carved from Roman marble. Maddy was graceful, poised, and impossible to ignore. Men stared. Whispered. Bought her drinks right in front of me. But I never blinked. Never doubted her loyalty to me.
But apparently, two decades and one stolen taste of Eslin Saunders is all it takes to turn me into a murderous maniac.
Because right now, the way Darren Jones has his hands on her waist makes me want to put my fist through a wall. Or his face. Either works.
And the worst part about all of this is she’s smiling.
Not politely. Not professionally.
Smiling like she’s free. Happy. Like she forgot I exist.
It’s fair. I’m not hers. She’s not mine.
But try telling that to the fire clawing at my chest, to the sharp tension in my jaw, and to the heat pulsing in my hands like they’re looking for something to break.
I can’t watch them slow dance a second longer.
I turn and walk. Calm on the outside, storming on the inside.
Straight to my private suite upstairs—same one I’ve kept for years. The one with the same ghost of my old life tucked into every corner.
How poetic. That they chose this place for the party.
The Supper Club—my stomping ground, my kingdom.
The scene of a thousand late nights, whispered deals, all-night flings, and earth-shaking power plays.
But ever since Eslin Saunders crash-landed into my life, this place has all lost its shine. The women, the drinks, the power—it all feels muted without her.
If she’s not here, I don’t want to be either.
But tonight, she is. She’s here.
I take a few minutes in my suite to get myself together before heading back down to the banquet.
I need to look composed by the time Marlow arrives—like I’m not on the verge of imploding over her best friend.
Like I’m not unraveling every time I see Eslin laugh at someone else's joke. Especially his.
I keep telling myself she’s better off with someone like Darren Jones. But every time I repeat that narrative in my head, I start fantasizing about running the man over with my truck, dumping the body off the side of my boat, and pulling a full-on Dexter.
I push the thought down and head into the banquet room. And that’s when I see it—see her. Sitting at our table. Positioned like a temptation straight out of scripture.
Right between me and Darren.
Let’s see who leaves the strongest impression by the time this night is over.
Let’s see who she remembers when the lights come up.
Let’s see who Eslin Saunders won’t be able to forget.
I take my seat and settle in calmly. Like I’m sneaking up to my prey.
“So, Coach Jones,” I say, lifting my glass. “How are you enjoying yourself tonight?”
Eslin turns her head sharply, eyes cutting to me. “Don’t,” she mutters under her breath.
But I don’t even blink. My eyes stay on him. I didn’t ask her.
“Fantastic, actually,” he begins, smiling and clueless to the tension crackling around the table. “Got the hottest date here, Miss Poetic Justice herself, and the vibe’s incredible.”
I nod once and lift the glass to my lips, letting the bourbon burn a slow trail down my throat.
It feels like fire.
“You’ve got that right,” I say evenly. “You definitely brought the hottest date here tonight.”
“Grant. Please,” Eslin whispers through clenched teeth, her hand suddenly landing on my thigh beneath the table.
It's a warning. A quiet plea.
All it does is flip a switch.
“I see you went with the minimalist costume,” Darren says to me, his tone light, but nosy.
I don’t do costumes. But Marlow insisted it would help her image if I showed up “on theme” and supportive. So, I threw on a tux and a black masquerade mask and called it a compromise.
“Yes. Minimalist,” I say, dryly. “Let’s call it that.”
He chuckles, still trying to connect, I guess. “So what are you supposed to be?”
Holy hell. This guy. I meet his gaze, calm but sharp. “I’m a secret, Darren. Call me a secret.”
I almost miss it but I hear Tatum from across the table whisper, “Oh shit.”
Eslin clears her throat beside me—a subtle warning.
I’m starting to enjoy feeling her squirm.
Two points for me. Zero for Coach Candy Ass.
Servers float through the room in sleek black-on-black uniforms, setting plates with the kind of reverence usually reserved for royalty.
Low conversation buzzes around us, silver clinks against porcelain, and soft music hums beneath it all.
But none of that matters. Not with her hand resting where it shouldn’t be.
I don’t think, just act. I take her hand and move it higher. Straight to where I’m already hard for her.
She gasps. Doesn’t pull away. In fact, she squeezes. And I look Darren Jones dead in the eye.
“I always had a thing for Janet Jackson growing up. You?”
He chuckles, oblivious. “Big time. Posters all over my dorm at boarding school. She was everything.”
The first course arrives—seared scallops atop truffle risotto, saffron cream drizzled like artwork. The table reacts with impressed murmurs.
Eslin tries to pull her hand away, but I don’t let her. Not right away. I hold it. Hold her gaze. Daring her to look away first.
“You are going to get me in trouble,” she whispers through a tight smile.
“You are going to drive me to murder,” I mutter back.
“I’m on a date, Grant. What do you expect me to do?”
She jumps suddenly, breaking contact.
“Did you just kick me?” she snaps across the table.
“Sorry!” Tatum chimes in, wide-eyed and innocent. “Girl, my foot fell asleep!”
We finish our first course and next, miniature heirloom beet salads arrive, each leaf and smear of goat cheese arranged like edible art come out.
Coach Jones has been charming all night. Gracious, attentive, and flirtatious in a way that would usually make a woman feel like the center of the universe. And Eslin plays along. She smiles at his jokes, leans in when he speaks, and matches his banter with that dry wit she’s mastered so well.
But it’s all surface. At least to me. The polished smile, the polite nods—none of it hides the truth. I see it in the way her jaw’s a little too tight, how her shoulders haven’t relaxed once all night. The way her eyes keep flicking to mine like she’s tracking landmines with every breath.
She hasn’t touched me again since she pulled her hand back. And she’s slowly edged her body away from Darren with each passing minute, barely angling toward him when he speaks.
But none of that matters. Not when the air between us still crackles—still hums like her fingers never left the hard length of me beneath the table. Like some invisible current is still flowing between us, daring one of us to make the next move.
I don’t care who she came with. I don’t care that Darren Jones has his hand on her chair or that he’s acting like the perfect gentleman on this little date.
I want her. I want her hands on me. Her eyes on me.
Her loyalty wrapped around me like an oath.
And every time she smiles at him or laughs a little too loud, it spikes something hot in my bones.
Fuck. Right. Not mine. But hell if I’ll sit back and watch her become his.
“So, Grant,” Coach Jones says, his tone as breezy as his grip on reality.
“What are you going to do once you officially hand the reins over to Marlow?” He chuckles like it’s all a joke.
“Usually, a man like you’s got a yacht and swooping up some hot young thing.
Or a few, if what the tabloids say about you are true! ”
Eslin chokes like the words sucker-punched her straight in the throat.
“You okay?” Darren asks, patting her back with a little too much familiarity.
“Yes!” she manages. “Wrong pipe.”
He hands her water. “Drink this.” She drinks. She listens. And I hate how she listens to him while fighting me at every turn.
“Thanks,” she says, soft and grateful.
I set my glass down. Hard. “To answer your question,” I say, not bothering to soften the edge in my voice, “I haven’t quite decided what comes next. I still have several companies to manage, and I don’t plan on slowing down anytime soon.”
I lift my drink again, stare straight at Eslin as I add, “As for the hot young thing? Let’s just say, I’ve never had any trouble stealing those up.”
She clears her throat. “He said swooping.”
I hold her gaze. “And I said stealing.”
“Ouch!” Eslin yelps, snapping her head toward Tatum. “Girl, seriously?”
Tatum shrugs, wide-eyed and innocent. “This damn foot just keeps fallin’ asleep! Must be these heels I’m wearing.” She waves it off like it's nothing. “Anyway! Have you seen Marlow?”
“No!” Eslin hisses through gritted teeth. “Maybe you should go call her!”
“She texted earlier,” I cut in. “Said she’s running behind. Something about a wardrobe malfunction.”
Eslin and Tatum exchange a look. One of those wordless conversations women seem to master. I catch the hesitation in it but decide not to ask.
Darren leans in, his hand resting casually on the back of Eslin’s chair. “I’m gonna grab a drink. Want anything?”
She looks up at him “No, thank you. I’ll be here when you get back.”
“I’ll have a Macallan, if you’re taking orders,” I chime in.
“Asshole,” Eslin scoffs but only I catch it.
He nods, grinning. “Sure thing, Mills.” Then he strolls off, just as Bruno Mars and Cardi B’s “Finesse” drops through the speakers.
Tatum perks up like she’s been hit with electricity. “Oh, hell yes. My jam!” She jumps to her feet, hips already swaying. “You’ve gotta honor the ‘90s when the groove hits this hard!”
She drags a few others with her to the dance floor, laughter trailing behind. The table shifts, the energy thins—and then, it’s only us. Me and Eslin.
The music pulses. Lights flicker like heat lightning across her skin. Everyone else is spinning, lost to the beat. But we sit, still and charged, like something unspoken is winding too tight between us.
She doesn’t look at me at first. Her eyes stay fixed on the crowd.
“Grant, you have to stop.”
My jaw clenches. “You expect me to sit here and watch him touch you like that? Like he has the right?”
She turns, finally meeting my gaze. “You don’t get to act like this unless you want someone to discover your feelings!”
“My feelings? So it’s just me?” I lean in, my voice dropping. “Tell me I’m imagining it. Tell me I’m the only one losing my damn mind.”
She doesn’t answer.
“Eslin. Tell me it’s just me.”
“I can’t think when you’re this close.”
“Good,” I murmur. “Because I haven’t been able to think straight since the second you walked back into my life.”
My hand slips under the table—reckless. I’ve always been good with both hands, but it’s my left that moves now, slow and precise. I find the zipper of her jeans, tug it down inch by inch, my knuckles brushing her skin.
She doesn’t stop me.
Her breath catches, sharp, shaky, like she’s been holding it since the moment Darren walked away.
I find the edge of her panties and slide them aside, baring her heat to the cool air and the weight of my touch.
“Grant—”
“Shh.” My fingertips brush the edge of her wetness, slick and warm. “Don’t lie to me. Not when your body’s already told the truth.”
She shifts, barely, but it’s enough. Enough for me to slide two fingers between her folds and feel how ready she is. How far gone we both are.
My eyes lock on hers. “You still want to pretend this is one-sided?”
Her lips part. No words. Just her pulse pounding against my wrist, her thighs trembling under the table, and the quiet, desperate truth of her not pushing me away.
“I never said it was one-sided—” Her voice breaks, a gasp strangled in her throat. “Shit. Grant.”
“I have no right to you, Eslin,” I say, my fingers moving between soft, slow circles over her clit and then sliding deep inside her, knuckle-deep. “I know that. I know I shouldn’t ask. But I’m going to ask anyway. Demand it.”
Her hips jerk against my hand. The bass of Usher’s Good Kisser vibrates through the floor, and I match its rhythm—stroking her, teasing her, claiming her with every thrust of my fingers.
“Ask me,” she pants. “Fucking say it.”
“He doesn’t touch you like this,” I growl. “He doesn’t make you sound like this.”
“Are you insane?”
I push my fingers deeper. “Very. Now promise me—”
Her breath catches on a moan, her head bowing, hands gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping her from screaming.
“I’m coming—”
“He can’t give you this, Eslin.” I drive deeper, adding pressure, another finger. “Say it. Promise me.”
“Shit!”
Three fingers now.
“Shit!”
“Wrong answer.”
Across the room, I see Darren walking back toward us, two drinks in hand and none the wiser.
“Grant, he’s—” Her voice is frantic, flushed with panic…and pleasure.
“Promise me.”
“You’re fucking crazy!”
“And my fingers are still inside you. Do you want him to hear you moaning my name while you come?”
She clamps her lips shut, eyes wide—then she shatters around my fingers.
“Fucking hell—I promise! I promise!”
“Promise what?” I murmur, not letting up.
“Shit!” she gasps. “I promise he can’t touch me like this.”
I press deeper, slower now, drawing every last tremor from her.
“No one but me?”
“Grant—” She begs.
“The clock’s ticking, baby.”
Not wanting to really give us away, I withdraw my fingers just as Darren strolls up, completely oblivious. He sets the drinks down with a laugh.
“You two looked like you were in a pretty heated debate.”
Eslin shifts in her seat, eyes down, cheeks flushed. She’s trying to breathe like she didn’t just fall apart under the table.
But then I hear it—a whisper, faint and fractured. “Nobody but you.”
I grin then whisper, “Good fucking girl.”
I look up and make eye contact with Darren, I swirl my glass, then dip the same two fingers I just pulled from Eslin into the Macallan.
I bring my gaze to Eslin, stir once, slow and deliberate, before bringing them to my mouth.
She watches, frozen.
I suck them clean.
“Eslin and I were just placing a little bet on the next match.”