Page 46 of Endless Obsession

“I’m going to hold you to that apple-picking date,” I tell her, and the smile that spreads over her face, one that tells me she’s impressed that I didn’t push her for a kiss, makes it all worth it.

When I get home, I head straight downstairs to the basement, before even changing out of my suit. I have a strange conflict about whether I hope she’ll be online or not—on the one hand, my arousal is raging out of control, and I desperately want her to tell me what she’s fantasizing about right this moment, so we can get off together. But at the same time, that would mean that right after our date, she would have gotten online hoping to talk to who she believes is another man.

I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that, after an hour of waiting and checking my camera logs, she never comes online.

I’m supposed to go with Leo, Jonas, and Brad to Masquerade again tomorrow night. But my usual anticipation for it isn’t there. Charlotte has invaded my mind so completely that the thought of doing anything to another woman—or having anything done to me—doesn’t hold the appeal that it usually does. When I think of sex, all I can think of now is her.

That will change, after I’ve had her. It has to. Maybe it will take a little while to fuck her out of my system, but sooner rather than later, I’ll get tired of her. The obsession will wane, and I’ll come to my senses and remember that a woman like Charlotte has no place in my life long-term.

But for now, it’s painfully clear that she’s all I want. It’s clear after my shower, when I go to bed and can’t fall asleep until I get off to the thought of her coming on my tongue, and it’s clear the next night at Masquerade, when I turn down every advance, choosing instead to watch the show on the main floor while sipping vodka, and then get a private room to stroke myself alone to that same memory.

I haven’t been inside a woman for weeks now. And it’s all because of her.

It’s even more clear Sunday morning, when I follow her to her brunch. She’d mentioned on our date that she has a standing weekly brunch with her girlfriends, and the text thread that pings on my phone from hers tells me all the details. They’re going to a place called Amuse-Bouche, a trendy brunch spot that I’ve passed a number of times but never had any interest in going to, and I take an Uber from my house to downtown, waiting until I get a ping from their group chat mentioning where their table is before going in. I’m wearing black cargos and a black t-shirt, with a black baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, and thankfully, the chill in the air means that I can add a jacket to that, which only adds to my ability to shroud myself in a corner on the outside patio.

With my laptop in front of me, I’m able to keep myself hidden enough that Charlotte and her friends shouldn’t notice me, and if they do, neither she nor Jaz will figure out who I am. There’s a small risk, of course, but that’s a part of the rush, I’m realizing. Just like the two other identities I’ve shrouded myself behind to keep tabs on Charlotte, both of which aren’t completely foolproof. But they’re close enough to it that the odds of her figuring it out are low.

There’s no real reason for me to be here. It’s another symptom of what I know is becoming an increasingly concerning obsession with every passing day. But I feel a need to see her. To know if she likes sweet or savory. If she orders a mimosa or a Bloody Mary or doesn’t drink alcohol at brunch at all. To watch her.

I wish I understood it, because it would make me feel slightly less insane. I’m not a voyeur, normally. I’m not someone who has ever become obsessed with a woman. And I’m not someone who is prone to addiction. I’ve smoked cigarettes, and I drink, and I’ve done drugs now and again, and it’s always been easy for me to pick them up and put them back down without issue. But for the first time in my life, I understand that craving for a hit.

I can’t hear what they’re talking about, but it doesn’t really matter. What I want is to watch her. And that’s exactly what I do, for the next hour and a half. I watch her order a mimosa, watch the server bring her a plate of eggs Benedict with smoked salmon, and study her face as she talks. As she laughs. I shift under the table, angling myself so that no one else out here on the patio can see that I’m rock hard just from watching this woman’s lips move.

Lips that I want so desperately around my cock.

I’m disappointed that I have to leave before her brunch is over. But I have a meeting with the FBI agent that I’m feeding information to, and I can’t push that off. The last thing I can afford to do is get on their wrong side. All it would take is one misstep, and they could bring my entire world crashing down in an instant.

I pay for the waffles I barely picked at, stow my laptop away, and leave out of the side gate so that I don’t have to walk past the table that Charlotte is at. And then I call an Uber to the South side diner where I’m supposed to meet Agent Bradley.

Adam Bradley is a massive thorn in my side. He knows the barrel they have me over, and he doesn’t seem to think that my informing on my father over the trafficking of women pays for a lifetime of other sins. If he had permission from his higher-ups, I have a feeling that he’d find some reason to throw me in prison anyway faster than I can say laundry list of felonies.

But he doesn’t have that permission, and I have no intention of giving him a reason to ask for it. It just makes me curse my father even more, because it’s his crimes that have sent me to the other side, anyway. If not for this, I would never have come this close to an FBI agent. Not in a million years.

He’s sitting in the back of the diner when I arrive, in plainclothes, wearing a baseball cap not entirely unlike the one I wore to watch Charlotte at the restaurant. I’ve taken mine off, which feels better—I’m not really a hat guy. I stroll into the diner as if I don’t have a care in the world and slide into the booth opposite him, even though my insides feel wound tighter than a violin string.

“That’s bad for your gut.” I point at the mug of black coffee in front of him. “Especially on an empty stomach,” I add, noticing that there’s nothing else there. Just the coffee, and the unpleasant expression on Bradley’s face.

“This whole job is bad for my gut.” Bradley’s frown deepens. “What do you have for me, Kariyev? Make it good.”

“Was the entire shipment of women that you managed to get out of there before my father’s buyers showed up not good enough for you? Or are you not really in this for the women, and the only joy you get out of this job is not actually helping people, but taking others down?” I raise an eyebrow. “And here I thought better of you.”

“No, you didn’t.” Bradley gives me a look that tells me that he’s not interested in my sense of humor, which isn’t a surprise. He never is. “I want information, Kariyev. Real information. Or I might have to start putting the screws to you instead, if I think you’re holding back on me.”

“You get what I know. I don’t know exactly who in my father’s employ is setting these deals up. I also don’t have client names. Not yet. And I’ve been a little preoccupied with making sure that no one who isn’t involved in this starts squealing about me, because I keep getting dragged out to the warehouses to cut pieces off of guys who don’t actually know anything. Makes it hard to spend time figuring out who does.”

“So get involved.” Bradley’s glare doesn’t diminish. “Tell your father you want a cut of the flesh trade. Tell him you want to buy a girl for yourself. I don’t fucking care how you do it, but get in there and get me names.”

“I handle the drugs.” I let out a sharp breath, pausing as the pretty waitress walks over to ask me if I want anything. On another day, I would have enjoyed the view more than I am—she’s way too pretty to be working here, with gorgeous chocolate-brown eyes and mounds of thick dark hair that are meant to have a man’s hands buried in them. It’s piled up on her head, a few pieces falling free, and her uniform is just a bit too tight on her.

Not all that long ago, I’d have left my number on the receipt. But I look at her, and all I can think is that while she’s drop-dead gorgeous, she’s not Charlotte. And Charlotte is all that I want.

Nothing is stopping Bradley, though. He’s looking at her like he wants her to melt all over his mouth, and I find it amusing. For all that he works as one of the government’s righteous avengers, he’s at heart just a dog like the rest of the male species.

Not that I’ve ever been much better. I do at least manage to keep my tongue in my mouth until I’m asked not to, though.

“I’ll have coffee,” I tell her. “Cream and sugar. And some scrambled eggs with a side of salsa, if you don’t mind.” This diner has surprisingly good salsa, and I could use some actual food. The lemon-berry waffles at Amuse-Bouche were good, but not all that filling.

“Coming right up, handsome.” She winks at me, and I search for the desire to flirt back. It should be there. It’s almost always there. But once again, all I see is the image of Charlotte’s laughing mouth, her head tossed back as she sat across the patio from me earlier without even knowing it.

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