Page 42 of Charmingly Obsessed
“We’ll talk later,” he murmurs, his breath a warm caress against my ear, his voice a low, possessive rumble that sendsshivers chasing down my spine. “About everything. And then… we’ll do a lot more than talk.”
At the grocery store, a strange sense of resignation settles over me.
We’re going back to his place after this. It’s inevitable. An unspoken agreement hangs in the air between us, thick and charged. And I need to act like a goddamn adult about it. No more running. No more hiding. Maybe a drink would help? A very, very large drink. Or three.
“Mycompetitors,” he murmurs, his voice smooth as silk, his lips brushing against my hair as we stand in the produce aisle, “are breathing down my neck constantly. Relentless. I’m afraid I’m not quite ready to make such… radical decisions about my hairstyle just yet, Diana. Though for you… I might consider a mohawk.”
I blink.
Turns out I’ve been staring, unseeing, at a pile of aggressively spiky pineapples for the past five minutes, lost in a haze of anxiety and illicit desire. I can’t help but smile.
Back at the apartment the tension ratchets up another ten notches. I quickly shut his opulent bedroom door behind me, needing a moment, a sliver of privacy to collect my scattered thoughts.
And to deal with my tights. First of all, they’re not new. They have a tiny, almost invisible run near the ankle. Second, do normal people actually plan for sex with this much advance notice? And then still have to wrestle with restrictive undergarments when the moment finally arrives? It’s awful. I already feel ridiculous enough, like an awkward teenager on her first date. These twisted, constricting strands of nylon are just making it worse. I don’t own stockings. Too… overtly sensual. So, I’ll go bare-legged. Besides, a little exposure to the elements is good for the immune system. Or so I tell myself.
In the car, we try to talk about when I’ll officially start sorting through his acquisitions, turning his hoard into a coherent collection.
The conversation is stilted. Mykola speaks oddly—his words are too careful, too measured, like a man navigating a minefield. It makes me feel awkward, too.
Am I just… sitting here, waiting for him to cut me a check in the end of the month? For services rendered? Or services… anticipated?
His apartment is warm. Inviting. Unexpectedly so.
It’s not just a space; it’s a home. The eclectic decor is deeply personal. A massive, colorful canvas and bright ceramic pots contrast with the brooding simplicity of dark wood, worn leather, and overflowing bookshelves.
His gaze, hot and possessive, lands on my bare feet.
So far, I’ve ditched the tights, smoothed down my slightly rumpled blouse, and taken a few deep, fortifying breaths. It hasn’t helped. My heart is still trying to escape my ribcage.
“Come in,” he says, his voice rough, husky. He motions towards the kitchen, a vast, open-plan space dominated by a monolithic dark stone island.
I follow him, drawn by that same invisible tether.
But it takes me a moment to realize… he hasn’t turned around. He’s walking backward. Slowly. His eyes locked on mine.
A faint, predatory smile playing on his lips.
Like he’s luring me into his den. And I’m walking willingly into the trap.
18
Chapter 18 Mykola
It would have been polite, I suppose, to offer her slippers.
The polished stone floor of my kitchen, while heated, is still stone. Cold. Impersonal.
Turns out, I’m not nearly as polite as my upbringing, or my reputation, would suggest. Not with her. Not anymore.
The pale, vulnerable image of her bare feet against the dark stone shifts something fundamental in the way I perceive the world. Or maybe just in the way I perceive her within it. There’s so much I never knew. How to exist in this raw reality. How to feel myself, truly feel myself, within its chaotic embrace.How to want someone this badly and still breathe.
Desire surges through me in relentless waves.
Each one a detonation in my chest, bursting like the sharp, unexpected taste of something exquisitely tart and impossibly sweet hitting the tongue. It’s a physical ache, a consuming fire.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t doto her. Nothing I wouldn’t dofor her.
And turns out, there’s not a shred of gentlemanly restraint left in me either. Not where Diana Bilova is concerned.
