Page 18 of Endless Obsession

Something heats in his gaze at the mention of me touching myself. “I’d like to see that,” he murmurs. “The way you make yourself come. But I’d rather teach you what it feels like for a man who knows what he’s doing to give you an orgasm. Or more than one,” he adds, that wicked smile on his lips again, and I stare at him.

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Oh, it is.” His voice is full of confidence as he takes another step towards me, and I back up, my pulse suddenly racing. “I could make you come more than once, little dove—I promise you that.”

“I—” I lick my lips, and his eyes are instantly fixed on my mouth again.

“So you’re here because you’ve been neglected.” That smile turns into something more like a smirk. “Am I closer to the truth now?”

“I’m here because my ex cheated on me.”

The moment it slips out, my face heats. I hadn’t expected to say that. I hadn’t meant to just blurt it out, but the man in front of me goes very still, his smile faltering.

“Someone cheated on you?” He says it with utter disbelief, as if it’s such an impossible thing to imagine.

“I don’t think it’s that hard to believe,” I murmur awkwardly. “I’m not that exciting.”

He takes another step forward, his dark eyes fixed on mine so intently that I feel frozen to the spot. His gloved fingers capture my chin, his thumb touching my lower lip. He’s not touching me anywhere else, but I feel that heat pooling in my stomach slide lower. I’m wet, just from him touching my lip. Aching, from the slide of leather against my skin.

“I don’t know you well enough to know if that’s true,” he murmurs. “But I can see that you are beautiful. Sweet. Innocent. And no one should ever hurt you like that.”

I look up at him, transfixed by the heat in his dark blue eyes, by the way he’s looking at me from behind the mask. No one has ever looked at me like that before. No one has ever made me feel this desired with nothing but a look and a simple touch.

It’s intoxicating.

“He never told me what he wanted,” I whisper. “And then he did those things with other women. He said he respected me too much to ask for them.”

That wicked smile tilts the corners of the man’s mouth again. “That’s bullshit,” he murmurs softly. “But I can tell you one thing, little dove.”

“What?” I whisper, fighting the urge to flick my tongue out, against the tip of his thumb that’s still resting on my lower lip.

“In that case, I’d like nothing more than to disrespect you tonight.”

That smile turns into a knowing smirk as he says it, and I have the vague feeling that the woman I am outside of this place—the one who never wears heels higher than two inches because they make her feet hurt and has a whole closet of basically-matching shirts—should be offended.

But whoever I am for tonight—I’m not offended. I’m curious. Intrigued. And I don’t want him to stop.

“You deserve a man who will focus on your pleasure, and not on his own,” he continues, his voice smooth and rich as that gloved fingertip brushes over my lip, his hand moving to cup my jaw. It’s as if he doesn’t want to give me even a chance to look away from him, as if he wants to keep my attention, so that I don’t have the opportunity to get frightened and fly away like the bird that he keeps referring to me as.

“I—” I bite my lip. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do.”

The cool leather of his glove is warming against my skin. His thumb sweeps over my cheekbone, his gaze darkening with some secret knowledge of what comes next.

“If you want to find out,” he murmurs, in that same husky, rich voice, “then go and lie down on the bed, little dove.”

6

CHARLOTTE

As soon as he tells me to go and lie down, that urge to run flares up again. In a fight-or-flight situation, I’m definitely always going to choose flight. But this one is flight-or-fuck—and I’m dangerously close to picking the latter.

If I run now, it feels like admitting that Nate was always right about me. That I deserved to lose the relationship, instead of him being the asshole that never even gave me a real chance to be what he wanted. That’s how it’s felt all night, every time I’ve come up against one of these decisions.

Talk to the masked man. Have a drink with the masked man. Go upstairs with him. And then?—

I hadn’t even really noticed that there was a bed in the room. All I’ve been able to look at is him. But now, as I twist around to look for where it is that he wants me to go, I see the rest of it.

The room is warm and luxurious, continuing the sort of modern French baroque theme from downstairs. The walls are wallpapered a rich red, with a narrow window to the left, draped with gold. There’s a plush, wide chair next to it, as well as a small table, and I feel my cheeks heat as I realize that the chair is the perfect width for a man to sit back in while a woman straddles his lap. My knees wouldn’t even slide off the sides.

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