Page 84 of Charmingly Obsessed
Despite its obvious opulence, its undeniable value, it’s something I could actually wear every day. It’s not flashy. It’s… unique. Complex. A little bit strange.
“I spotted it… about a year ago,” he says, his voice still hoarse, his gaze fixed on the pendant in my hands. “When I was picking out… the wedding gift for Kulak.” He clears his throat. “It would’ve been foolishly, insanely presumptuous of me to actually buy it back then… but I… I placed a hold on it. And I… I kept renewing the hold. Every month.”
“You couldn’t have. No, you’re making it up,” I shake my head, a disbelieving laugh escaping me, waiting for him to admit he’s joking, that this is just another one of his elaborate, charming exaggerations.
“I couldn’t,” he agrees softly, his eyes finally lifting to meet mine, filled with a raw, almost painful sincerity. “Not without you, Diana. I couldn’t do… anything. Not really. Not at all.”
“Mykola, what are you saying?” I stammer, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs, a wild, impossible hope unfurling in my chest. “A year ago?”
Instead of answering, he brushes my hair aside from my neck and kisses the exact spot where the delicate, white gold chain would rest.
His lips trail upward, hot and seeking, along the sensitive column of my throat. His hands cradle my face, tilting it back. And then he presses me down, gently but inexorably, onto the plush, silken expanse of the enormous bed.
I never knew a quickie, an impromptu, mid-afternoon tumble, could feel like this.
We find each other with our mouths, our hands, frantic, hungry, desperate. And then he’s inside me, thrusting deep, his teeth clenched, a guttural groan rumbling in his chest.
The bed is a mess in seconds. We crumple half the ridiculously expensive, high-thread-count sheets. Pillows, plump and useless, tumble to the floor.
With a voice that doesn’t even sound like my own, a raw, breathy, shameless sound, I beg him for something – for more, for deeper, for harder – and he nods, a fierce, triumphant grin on his face, peppering my face, my throat, my collarbones with hot, open-mouthed kisses.
I’m shocked, thrilled, when he suddenly grips the fabric of my skirt between his legs, tearing it slightly to gain better access. And it all ends in a few frantic, glorious, mind-shattering moments.
His lips, his mouth, even find my nipples through the thin fabric of my blouse, his teeth grazing, his tongue laving, sending fresh waves of exquisite pleasure crashing through me.
Afterward, I foolishly, almost primly, smooth down my ruined dress while standing beside the bed, even though I should probably be heading to the bathroom to… freshen up.
I catch his thoughtful, almost predatory gaze lingering on me. He’s still lying on the bed, propped up on one elbow, watching me. Like a well-fed, momentarily sated panther.
“I made a few… minor adjustments to your schedule for tomorrow,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady, decisive, as I head towards the antique writing desk in the corner of the room, needing to regain some semblance of control, of professionalism. “All approved by Amanda, of course. And… and let me know what you plan to wear each day this week, so I can schedule the necessary dry cleaning. You don’t have nearly enough suits with you for two full weeks of meetings and social engagements. Also,” I add, my back still to him, “I’llneed to borrow your laptop for a few hours this evening, since I don’t have my own.” I left my two favorite, and most essential, work machines – my powerful MacBook Pro and my enormous Wacom drawing tablet, which alone weighs about four kilos and is the size of a small suitcase – back with Serafima Pylypivna. They’re too bulky, too precious, to risk traveling with.
“Let Amanda order you one,” he says, a faint frown in his voice. “A new laptop. The best one. Better yet, let the hotel concierge handle it. Just… just make a list of what you need, Diana, and tell Amanda to arrange it.”
“Amanda doesn’t have a Hermione Granger-style time-turner in her desk drawer, Mykola,” I remark, a hint of mild amusement, and perhaps a touch of exasperation, creeping into my tone. “And I need a laptop tonight. I’ll handle the… organizational and logistical aspects of our Parisian sojourn myself. For the next few weeks, at least.”
“Diana.” He’s sitting up now. I can feel the shift in the energy of the room. He arches a disapproving eyebrow, his voice laced with a clear, almost cold authority that makes me bristle. “That’s not even up for discussion. And you shouldn’t have bothered with my schedule either. I’m serious.”
“Amanda is busy—” I start, turning to face him, ready to argue, to defend my competence, but he cuts me off. Which surprises me slightly. He usually lets me finish, even when he disagrees.
“Then we’ll get Amanda an assistant,” he says, his voice flat, decisive. “It’s about time, anyway.” He stands up from the bed, completely, gloriously naked, and gives me an audacious, head-to-toe once-over that makes my skin heat all over again. “I’ll order you a new laptop right now. From the concierge. It’ll be here within the hour. And you,” he adds, his voice dropping, becoming a low growl, “are not my fucking staff, Diana. You’re my wife.”
He leaves the suite then, clearly irritated, probably to go terrorize some poor, unsuspecting hotel employee into procuring a top-of-the-line laptop at a moment’s notice.
While I remain standing, like a chastised, ridiculously overpaid statue, adding a few final, defiant touches to the room. His room. Our room.
Of course, I’m not his staff. I know that. I’m just… taking a rational, logical approach to planning a series of inevitable, and rather complex, tasks. With a realistic, practical assessment of everyone’s current workload – his, Amanda’s, and my own.
I can only imagine the current, chaotic state of his personal inbox.
And he’s just made Amanda’s life significantly, almost exponentially, harder for the next month. Finding a suitable, competent, and sufficiently discreet junior assistant for working with a man like Mykola Frez will take a considerable amount of time, effort, and probably a blood sacrifice or two.
For some reason, I assume it’s him, returning with my new laptop, when there’s a soft, discreet knock at the suite door a few minutes later. But it’s not.
It’s the guest relations manager. Tall, willowy, impeccably dressed, and impossibly blond. Kelly. Like the hotel’s general manager, she’s also American. She talked so much, so effusively, during our chaotic morning check-in that her syrupy, cloyingly sweet voice is still ringing in my ears like a particularly persistent, and slightly off-key, bell.
She wants to show me something. Something… special. Just for me.
I slip on my sensible, comfortable flats and head out into the hallway as I am, still in my slightly rumpled, slightly torn, post-coital dress. Good thing I rarely wear long, flowing gowns that might trip me up.
