Page 52 of Charmingly Obsessed
I can’t stop myself. Against every instinct of self-preservation, against every warning bell clanging in my head, I look up at him. Through my lashes.
His length is slick with my saliva. Because I don’t hesitate this time. I don’t tease. I do this right. I do this well. I don’t even notice when my free hand drifts to my own stomach, pressing against the sudden, sharp ache of longing low in my belly.
Because that’s where the warmth pools, sharp and tingling, like a thousand tiny pine needles brushing against the inside of my skin.
He lets out a sharp, guttural groan that makes me falter. Then, his nostrils flare, and he drags in a ragged lungful of air.
I resist when he tries to push me away again, tries to pull me up. But his grip on my face this time is firm, almost bruising, keeping me still.
His cock twitches against my cheek, a drop of pre-come beading at the tip.
“I’m going to hell for this,” he murmurs, his voice rough, quiet, laced with a self-loathing that mirrors my own. “And you, wife… you’re coming right along with me. For what you’ve done to me. For what you do to me.”
Weeping from the slit of his cock, spilling onto my cheek. The scent is pure male, musky and sharp. The taste, when I dart my tongue out, is salt and want.
I don’t look away. I don’t say a word. I just… take him deeper.
I stroke him with my tongue, just a little. Slide my fingers along the hard, velvet length of him. It’s getting harder to take him deeper, to accommodate his thickness, but I don’t stop. I won’t stop. He’s hot and hard and fills my mouth, and I want to move, want to keep going, want to drive him over the edge.
And I want to blink less. So I don’t miss a single, fleeting second of how he looks from this angle. Raw. Undone. Utterly vulnerable.
He lifts his champagne flute to his lips, his hand surprisingly steady. There’s nothing playful in his gaze now, nothing light or teasing. Just a dark, consuming intensity. He drinks it all in one go. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a surprisingly rough, uncharacteristically unrefined gesture.
Then he jerks his arm to the side – a harsh, resigned, almost violent movement – and the crystal flute crashes to the marble floor. Shatters into a thousand glittering fragments.
The sound, sharp and explosive, should snap me out of it. Should send me scrambling back.
But instead, I tighten my grip on the waistband of his jeans, like something inside me has been set off, ignited by his recklessness, by his barely suppressed violence.
I let out a soft, broken moan when he stops me again, his hands tangling in my hair, pulling my head back.
He curses, the words filthy, shocking, and it makes me blush – not because of the weight of him still heavy on my tongue, but because of the sheer, unadulterated want in his voice.
“Mykola,” I protest, my voice muffled, but he doesn’t force me up this time.
He kisses me. Deep and dirty and desperate. His tongue tangling with mine, tasting of champagne and himself and me. Until I can’t stop myself from moaning into his mouth, a helpless, keening sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
I try to wipe the lingering slickness from my chin with the back of my hand, but he knocks it away impatiently.
“You like this?” I nuzzle against his stubbled cheek, my body pliant, pliant, like some desperate, blind creature seeking only his touch, his heat. “D-do you like it, Mykola?”
He only answers after letting me go on my knees again, after pulling back enough to look down at me, his eyes blazing.
“‘Like’ isn’t quite the fucking word, Diana,” he whispers.
His cock, engorged and heavy, bobs in front of my face again. The dark pink, almost purple head is flushed, glistening. A fresh, pearlescent drop of pre-come beads at the slit, catching the low, ambient light, before streaking slowly, tantalizingly, across my cheek.
My eyes flutter, barely open, as fresh waves of heat and shivers roll through me, colliding in a riot of sensation. My body feels like it’s simultaneously on fire and encased in ice.
I clutch at the hem of his expensive, now unbuttoned shirt, but my head moves faster than my fingers, seeking him out again. I moan, a messy, wet, uninhibited sound, and his thickness stretches my lips, fills my mouth, even more.
His fingers, tangled in my hair, shift, moving to my hand, the one still gripping his shirt. He intertwines our fingers, his grip strong, possessive, and holds my hand tightly in his.
Then, with a groan that seems ripped from the very depths of his soul, he pulls himself from my mouth.
I don’t let myself catch my breath. I only try, futilely, to wipe my chin dry with the back of my other hand.
Who would’ve thought Mykola Frez, the master of control, the king of cool composure, could be such a stubborn, thick-headed, beautifully unraveled ass?
