Page 25 of Charmingly Obsessed
I can’t help it. A tiny, hesitant smile touches my own lips.
“I think,” he says, his voice laced with satisfaction, his eyes sparkling, “I’m officially forbidding this day from ever ending.”
“You can’t do that,” I say, the grin widening a fraction.
“Oh, I absolutely can. If we hop on my jet in, say, an hour, we could chase the sunset. Fly west. Gain at least five more hours of today.”
“Five hours isn’t that much in the grand scheme of things.”
“It’s an eternity when I’m with you,” he exhales against my skin, his voice suddenly serious, intense. “I’m like a beggar with you, Diana. Starving. And beggars can’t be choosers.”
Before I can ask what he means by that, he kisses me. Short, firm, possessive. Then he pulls back slightly, studying my face as if checking the result of his experiment. His fingers gently trace the outline of my lips, where his mouth just was.
“I’m going to kiss you. A lot,” he promises, his voice hoarse, raw with intent. “My lady’s wish is my command. Constantly. Until neither of us can think straight.”
His voice, that rough, intoxicating sound, turns my thoughts to molten lava. My resolve to maintain distance, to protect myself, is melting away with every word.
I won’t last much longer like this. And stopping? It’s no longer an option. It hasn’t been for a while.
“I don’t want this day to end either,” I whisper.
“Shit,” he breathes, his gaze devouring my face, memorizing every line, every flicker of emotion. “Diana. Tell me. Everything you think. Everything you want. Always. All of it. Can we agree on that? No more secrets. No more holding back.”
“That’s… impossible,” I answer, a sad smile playing on my lips. “And what if what I want makes you run away?”
Frez presses his lips together, tilting his head, a flicker of that dangerous, challenging glint returning to his eyes. “Unfortunately for you, sonechko,” he murmurs, his voice a low, confident rumble, “you’re about to learn something fundamental about me. I never back down from a challenge. Especially not one that looks, and tastes, as good as you.”
11
Chapter 11 Diana
He leaves late, once the city outside my kitchen window is lit up for the night. Even after he’s gone, the apartment still hums with him: his scent, his heat, his raw energy.
We kissed in the stairwell, a frantic, breathless collision of mouths and searching hands, because the moment he stepped out my door, he hauled me with him, unwilling to break contact.
I slam the door shut the instant he’s gone, leaning back against it, my heart still jackhammering against my ribs. Because I know if I watch him walk down those stairs, if he looks back just once with those turbulent blue eyes… I might do something stupid. Like beg him to stay.
We agreed he’d pick me up tomorrow. The meeting. The thugs. The transfer of my life into their grubby hands. But I’ll wait in the car.
That was the concession Frez made after a tense, rapid-fire phone call with someone named Kulak – a name that dripped with underworld authority, a man Frez is clearly far closer to than anyone in the polished corporate world would ever suspect.
After that call, Frez transformed into a focused, almost unnervinglystablewhirlwind, just stating it was “no big deal” if I remained in his car. The guarantor of tomorrow’s deal would be Kulak, the notorious pakhan of Kyiv’s bratva, known as a high-flying vulture in the criminal swamp.
I don’t have the mental bandwidth to dissect the implications. The fact that Frez is planning to use his own money to settle Anya’s debt makes my stomach churn. The fact that he’s wading deeper into this cesspool, even though he’s unknowingly been connected to its periphery through my family for years, terrifies me. Kozar. Malasenco. Names with the weight of tombstones.
Doesn’t matter. The plan remains. Tomorrow, after this… transaction… I move in with Serafima Pylypivna. First thing, six AM. Escape. Disappear.
Right now, I just need to sleep. To silence the ghosts of the past. And the far more potent, far more dangerous ghosts of Mykola Frez’s kisses.
In the morning, the moving truck I’d optimistically booked is a no-show.
Of course, I never confirmed the reservation yesterday, what with being… otherwise occupied. Now I’m probably on the hook for a hefty cancellation fee for ignoring all their calls.
I have a perfect, rage-fueled excuse I can’t possibly give them:You don’t understand! I was being ravished on my kitchen table by a devastatingly handsome, slightly unhinged billionaire! Priorities!
Serafima Pylypivna’s apartment is a surprise. Not far from the city center, nestled in a Stalin-era behemoth that looksdeceptively ordinary from the outside. Inside, it’s a testament to a bygone era of grandeur – high ceilings, sprawling rooms, the faint scent of old books and beeswax. Now home to aging Soviet intellectuals, the building is slowly succumbing to elegant decay, but its bones are magnificent.
And Serafima Pylypivna herself? She’s a legend.
