Page 53 of Charmingly Obsessed
“Stop. Stop stopping me!” I breathe, my chest rising and falling erratically, my body thrumming with unspent energy.
“Shh,” he hushes me, his fingertips teasing my swollen lips, a slow, torturous caress. “Four. You’ll take four more strokes. Just four. I’m sorry, sunshine. But I need this.”
I don’t even have time to process his words, to understand the desperate plea in his eyes.
When he groans, a long, low sound, rolling his hips, driving himself deep into my throat. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Each thrust a brand, a claim, a possession.
When I choke on my own broken, incoherent sounds, his cock slipping free for a torturous second before resting, heavy and slick, against my lips…
…and then he spills over me. Hot, pulsing bursts of release. Again and again and again.
I gasp for air, for him, like I’ve just surfaced from drowning in a sea of pure sensation. The thick, sticky heat lands on my forehead, my cheekbones, my nose, my lips. There’s so much of it. It drips down my chin, slow and viscous, tasting of him, of salt, of sin.
I lift my eyes to his. And he looks… he looks like he’s just inhaled an entire fucking planet. As if he’s grown too massive, too powerful, for this room, for this city. His wild, untamed energy fills the space, crackling, vibrating, threatening to consume everything in its path.
Frez wipes away the drops of his release only from my lips. With his thumb. Slowly. Deliberately. His gaze never leaving mine.
And then he devours my mouth. A deep, restless, all-consuming kiss. Lifting me by the nape of my neck as if I weigh nothing more than a newborn kitten.
Pulling me up, up, until I’m standing before him, trembling, pliant, utterly his.
Of course, embarrassment, hot and sharp, creeps in when he finally, finally pulls back. But maybe the champagne has truly, irrevocably gone to my head. Because he still won’t let me go. His arm is a band of steel around my waist, holding me flush against him. And so… I don’t faint. Not yet.
I glance around vaguely, searching for something, anything, to wipe myself with. My spine feels like molten wax, whenhis mouth finds my throat again, licking, nipping, whispering something incoherent but devastatingly, deliciously good against my sensitised skin.
“W-where are the napkins? I need to… I need to wipe it off.”
At first, Frez simply ignores my request, his attention solely focused on tasting, exploring, branding every inch of my neck, my collarbones.
Then, he leans back slightly against the edge of the dining table, reaches for the nearly empty champagne bottle, and takes a long, slow swig straight from it.
He says nothing. Just watches me. His eyes dark, possessive, still blazing with that untamed fire.
With every passing second, I feel less and less like myself. More and more like… his. The perfect way to disappear – just shrink and dissolve from shame. And desire.
He… he isn’t going to get me a napkin. He isn’t going to offer me so much as a damp cloth. He wants me like this. Marked. Claimed. His.
I snatch the champagne bottle from his loosened grip and take a defiant swig myself. Just a little. Drinking too much is never a good idea for me. It usually ends in… catastrophe.
Giving my brand-new, temporary, billionaire husband a blowjob on his antique Persian rug in his opulent living room is nothing compared to how badly things can get when I really let go.
Frez unbuttons his shirt. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes never leaving mine. In their depths, I see the hell he never stops warning me about. That deep, chaotic abyss, staring back at the world, shimmering with the promise of untamed destruction. And exquisite pleasure.
He slides the soft, expensive fabric off his broad shoulders. It must have cost more than my last year’s salary. He holds it out to me. Silently.
I manage to wipe my face, my neck, just before the chaos, the beautiful, terrifying chaos that is Mykola Frez, reaches for me again with those greedy, possessive hands.
He spins me around roughly, his arm snaking across my torso, pinning my arms to my sides, forcing me forward, marching me out of the living room.
I guess this is how we walk now. His prisoner. His prize. His… wife.
“We’re going in here, in my bedroom,” he mutters darkly against my ear. “Right now. Because enough… enough is fucking enough.”
“Is this,” I let out a nervous, shaky laugh, because I’m teetering on the verge of hysteria, and that kind of fear, that kind of adrenaline, is a direct, express shortcut to recklessness, “supposed to be our weddingnight?” Nothing left to lose now.
“Looks like there are two goddamn comedians in this family now,” he says, his voice completely deadpan, devoid of humor.
His grim, serious tone, so unlike his usual charming banter, perversely turns me on even more. I cling to the insane, intoxicating hope that I’m the one making him like this. This undone. This… real.
