Page 44 of Charmingly Obsessed
Her damp hair sticks to her neck as I grab a fistful, tilting her head back further when she loses control, her head lolling, her eyes fluttering closed.
“Diana,” I rasp, mindless with need. “Diana…”
I watch, transfixed. Her lashes tremble, and then she shatters on my fingers.
She whimpers, soft broken sounds escaping her as her nails dig into my wrist. A shudder runs through her as she comes apart in my hand, her eyes flying open to find mine in the chaos.
A drunken, euphoric haze fills my head, making it impossible to hold her steady. I kiss her deeply and greedily, and we sway together, lost in the aftershocks.
I tug her underwear down. I need to. I need to do everything with her, explore every inch, claim every part of her. But at least this. This, I need now.
Diana squirms a little, a shy, almost embarrassed movement, but she follows the insistence of my lips, the silent command in my eyes. It’s unbearable – she’s too quiet again. Too still. It was too fast. I overwhelmed her.
Her panties, some flimsy lace thing that’s driving me insane, bunch at her knees.
I keep my hand in her hair to hold her steady and make her watch. My other hand pulls the lace down her legs as I trace a line of hot kisses from her earlobe down her cheek.
Her panties drop to the cool stone floor at her feet. A small, discarded puddle of black lace.
I push her head down slightly, forcing her to look. To see her panties on the floor of my apartment. To see how I undressed her, and how easily she unravels for me.
She makes a soft, strangled sound, a whimper of surrender, and I swallow it from her swollen, kiss-bruised lips.
“Shhh. You won’t be needing those anymore, sunshine.” My voice is raspy, like a teenager who just got his first, intoxicating taste of pussy.
It should be fucking illegal for her to be this innocent, this vulnerable, this exquisitely responsive in my presence when I’m already so far gone, so completely undone by her.
But no one warned her. No one told her what she does to me. And that, that lack of warning, that beautiful, terrifying innocence… it makes it my responsibility to punish her for it. Thoroughly. Deliciously.
I drop to my knees in a sharp, uneven motion, my body seemingly unwilling to be anywhere but at her feet, near her heat.
“No,” she breathes, her voice tight with sudden panic. “Mykola, I… you don’t have to…”
“Shhh,” I murmur again, my lips brushing against the hem of her skirt. I catch the soft fabric between my teeth for a fleeting second before letting it go. My eyes meet hers, dark with intent. “Just a little taste, Diana. Just… a little.”
“Just a little,” she echoes, her voice a dazed, breathless whisper.
Turns out, I’m not just no gentleman. I’m a goddamn liar too. Because a little will never be enough. Not with her.
I taste her arousal on my tongue, the salty, musky scent of her filling my senses. I try to stretch the pleasure out, to savor this moment, this surrender. Then I can’t hold back any longer. I sink my teeth, gently, into the soft, tender flesh of her inner thigh. I barely manage to drag in a ragged breath before I’m nuzzling everywhere, pushing forward with my mouth, my tongue, grasping, tasting, devouring every delicate, quivering inch of her.
The last few functioning circuits in my brain short-circuit. Overload. My face burns. My blood roars.
The way she tenses with pleasure, her hips bucking against my mouth, before unraveling into utter chaos in my hands, under my tongue, makes me squeeze her thighs hard enough to leave bruises.
I bury my face between them, breathing her in, wanting to scream like I did in her kitchen, that animalistic sound of losing control.
I kiss her knees, her calves, the delicate skin behind her knees, all the way around.
“Your legs are cold,” I mumble, my lips pressed right against her kneecap, the words almost incoherent. Yeah, her legs are cold because it’s already fucking cold outside. My brain is no longer capable of linear thought.
It feels like the Nobel Prize committee just introduced a new, highly specialized category: “Maintaining Logical Coherence While Kneeling in Abject Worship Before Diana Bilova.” And this moment – fuck, this moment – this is my last, desperate chance to win it.
I rub her thighs with both hands, trying to warm her skin, my thumbs stroking upwards, towards the heat at her pussy.
I reach down, scoop up the discarded lace panties from the floor, and without thinking, without hesitating, slip them into the pocket of my jeans. A trophy.
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