Page 38 of King of Obsession

I pictured the smirk likely tugging at the corner of his lips—smug and knowing. My fists clenched onto the blanket over me, imagining my hands around his corded neck, squeezing the air out of his freakin’ muscled chest.

‘Suit yourself,’ he growled. ‘But you’ll be by my side soon enough, bella.’

What an ass,I thought to myself, but the ache in my lower back and the constant shifting to find some semblance of comfort wore me down.

In time, however, the couch transformed into a small boat in a sea of restlessness, each toss and turn a wave threatening to capsize me into wakefulness.

After many long minutes, pride lost out to exhaustion.

Exasperation became my north star, guiding me to rise in defeat. The floorboards were cool under my feet as I tiptoed toward the inevitable—my bed.

I saw him lever one of his leonine eyes open and use his free arm reach to rearrange the duvet for me.

‘Don’t you dare say it,’ I warned with a growl.

‘Wouldn’t dare it,’ he rasped, but I tagged the smug look on his face.

I climbed in with my pajamas and thick socks, his brow cocked, ‘Quite the ensemble.’

‘Thank fuck they’re not for your benefit.’

‘Still, they’re -,’ his lips curled, ‘sensuale.’

His voice was a timbred rumble in the dimness, laced with that damnable cocksure attitude.

I grabbed the sheets at the foot of the mattress and pulled them over me. ‘Just shut up. For a man who says little during the day, you’re hella chatty at night,’ I muttered.

‘That’s because we’re in bed, and I’m always filthy when horizontal,’ came the raw, graveled drawl.

I hissed, and he chuckled, his chest rumbling.

‘Go to fuckin’ sleep,’ I shot back, tugging the blanket to my chin despite the heat.

‘Damn, she’s just as dirty as I am.’

This man was undaunted by my iciness, which only heated me more.

The sheets rustled as I adjusted myself, my back turned to him.

The room’s silence was punctuated by the rhythmic pulse of cricket song outside and the occasional hoot of an owl.

I wriggled, trying to find my spot.

‘Uncomfortable?’ His voice was softer now, above a whisper.

I remained mute, bristling because he was in my usual spot.

Instead, he shifted, and the mattress dipped with his movement.

The bed realigned under his weight as he moved flat on his back.

I shivered.

In this small space, every inch counted, and our arrangement now required a closeness that set my nerves aflame.

‘Slide over,’ he murmured, his arm lifting, making room in the only way the cramped quarters allowed.

It was a gesture that called for compromise, a silent agreement that we were two beings trying to rest in a shared patch of night.

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