Page 68 of Endless Obsession

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An hour and one stop at the grocery store later, I park in the underground lot at Charlotte’s building and she leads me to the elevator that will take us up to her floor. I feel a twist of anticipation in my stomach—I haven’t been to her apartment yet, and I’m well aware that this is another step forward. A signal of trust on her end that I don’t deserve, not with everything I’m doing in order to make this relationship happen.

She unlocks the door, letting us inside, and I’m hit with the scent of sweet fall candles, something that smells like pumpkin and vanilla and honey. “I really like this time of year,” she says apologetically, a sheepish smile on her face as she sees me look around for the source of the scent, and that sharp feeling of anger pierces me again.

Not at her. Never at her. But I know that reaction comes from something someone else needled her about. Her asshole ex, probably, making fun of her for liking fall candles.

“Here, you can hang your jacket up.” She points at a brass coat rack on the wall next to the door. “I’ll take the stuff into the kitchen.” She’s already shrugged off her jacket, and she takes the bags out of my hand.

When I join her, she’s put her hair up and tied on a cute cream-colored apron with a pair of red chickens embroidered on the front of it. She looks impossibly adorable, and I wince as I look at her, my rational mind breaking through the fog of obsession again for just a moment.

What the fuck are you thinking, Ivan? What makes you think you can have someone like her, even for just a little while? What gives you the right to break her heart?

If it was just physical, still, maybe I could walk away. There are plenty of gorgeous women in the world, and I’ve never had trouble convincing any of them into my bed. But if it was still just physical—I also wouldn’t care. I wouldn’t feel this stinging guilt as I look at her, knowing I’m leading her down a dead-end path to a cliff’s edge, and knowing that I can’t stop taking her there.

She turns, holding out a potato peeler, and I quickly school my expression into something neutral, leaning up against the doorframe. “You said you weren’t very good at baking. Think you can handle peeling the apples?” she asks teasingly, and I nod, smiling as I reach out to take it.

If only you knew just how good I am with sharp objects, dove, you’d run screaming instead of handing me one.

I take the bag of apples, stationing myself on one side of the counter with a bowl while Charlotte starts working on pie crust on the other. She sets her phone on the corner, opening a music app, and puts on some kind of soft jazz music—it sounds a little like Norah Jones, maybe—and sways back and forth with a smile on her face as she mixes ingredients. Halfway through, I look over from cutting up the apples into small chunks to see she has flour on her nose, and I turn before I can stop myself, reaching out to brush it off.

She goes very still, looking at me. Her lips are parted, and I can tell that just that small touch roused something in her.

Fuck, I want to kiss her. And if I do, I’m not entirely sure we’ll stop. But the way she’s looking at me—I’m not sure she’s going to want me to stop, either.

I can feel myself leaning forward, on the verge of doing it. On the verge of reaching for her. And then, the shriek of a timer buzzes through the air, making us both jump, and Charlotte bursts into nervous laughter.

“I think that means it’s time to assemble the pie,” she says with a laugh, and I take a step back, shoving down my rampant desire as I push the bowl of sugary apples towards her instead.

An hour later, the prettiest and best-smelling apple pie I’ve ever seen is cooling on the counter, as Charlotte collects her things for us to go out to the movie. “See?” she says teasingly, gesturing at the pie. “I told you we could do it.”

“It’s all on you,” I retort, getting my keys. “On my own, I would have made a complete mess of it.”

It all feels so achingly normal, the kind of life I’ve never lived and never really thought I wanted. I’ve long wanted to get away from my father, from the Bratva life, his boot on my neck, and the things I’m forced to do, but I always pictured myself as a rolling stone after that, going from city to city, never staying in one place or with one person for long. I never pictured myself with someone like Charlotte, doing the kind of things we’re doing today. But as we go to the movie theater and get tickets, buy soda and buttery popcorn, and sit next to each other in the slightly creaky seats—I find my chest aching with a longing to keep this normalcy for a little while longer.

It’s like she’s a breath of fresh air, a sliver of light, and I’m grasping for it even though I know it’ll slip away.

She leans into me as we watch the movie, her sweet scent surrounding me, her hair tickling my cheek and neck. Her hand finds its way onto my knee this time, and my fingers link with hers. Her touch sends a jolt of desire through me, but the lust isn’t at the forefront, for once. Not right now. At this moment, I’m aching for something different—something far less familiar to me.

When the credits roll and the other people around us start getting up, I turn to look at her. She tilts her head back, looking at me with an expression that I can’t entirely read, and a small smile curves the edges of her lips. “Did you have fun today?” she asks softly, so softly that I can barely hear it—but what I can hear is the uncertainty there. The worry that I tolerated all of this, that I’ve just been counting down the minutes until this very ordinary date is over—and that couldn’t be further from the truth.

“I’ve had more fun today than I’ve had in a very, very long time.” That’s the truth, and as I say it, as I see her eyes light up in the dimness of the theater, I can’t stop myself from kissing her any longer.

I reach out, sliding my hand into her hair, tugging her mouth to mine. She comes easily, willingly, her lips parting against mine as she lets out a soft, gasping breath that turns my cock to steel in an instant, my entire body pulsing with need. My other hand lands on her thigh, gripping just enough to drag another of those breathy gasps from her, and it’s all I can do not to pull her into my lap. She tastes salty and sweet, hints of the salty butter still on her lips, and I lick it away, feeling like a teenager desperate to get to second base again as our tongues slide together, and I groan aloud.

She pulls back, and even in the low light, I can see that her face is flushed, her lips prettily swollen and pink from the kiss. “We should get out of here,” she says softly, and I feel my entire body react to those few words.

It’s not exactly an invitation back to her place, but it’s not not an invitation. The chance is enough to keep that anticipatory desire throbbing through me as I gather up my coat, holding it in front of myself to hide the awkward bulge in my jeans. My cock feels stiff and uncomfortable, aching to be freed, and I want to bury myself in her so badly it hurts.

We barely make it back to the underground lot at her apartment before I’m kissing her again. I wanted to kiss her at every stop sign, every red light, and the minute I turn the car off, I push my seat back, reaching over to unclip her seatbelt as I slide one arm around her and pull her into my lap.

She gasps, her hair falling in messy waves around her face as she looks down at me. “Ivan?—”

“Tell me if you want to stop.” My hands are sliding under her sweater, frantic to touch her, my mouth already on hers as I pull her down to me. The weeks of hearing her talk about her fantasies online, of getting myself off to them while I know she’s miles away doing the same thing, the sweet torture of being close to her and that kiss in the stairwell—it all boils over, desire burning through me hotly enough to make me feel as if I’m going mad with it, and I know as she squirms in my lap that she can feel how hard I am.

My hands slide higher as her tongue tangles with mine, over the soft cups of her bra, molding them in my hands. I yank the cups down, filling my hands with her bare breasts, feeling the stiff nipples against my palms, and Charlotte moans against my lips, her hips rocking against me, down on the thick ridge of my cock.

She’s wearing that corduroy skirt still, and it’s pushed up around the tops of her thighs, only the thin fabric of her panties separating her from the rough denim of my jeans. She moans as she rocks down onto me, the hard length of my cock and the stiff material rubbing her through her panties, and the sound makes me throb painfully.

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