Page 45 of Charmingly Obsessed
Chapter 19 Mykola
Istand up.
“Mykola…” Her voice is a strained whisper, her eyes half-lidded, dark with pleasure, pupils blown wide. She’s so fucking beautiful like this. Utterly undone. Mine. “I think… I think I should…”
She reaches for my belt. Her fingers, small and trembling, brush against the hard ridge of my erection through the denim. She’s intent on undoing my zipper. And I nearly fall apart completely. I don’t stop her. Not right away. I just watch her, mesmerized, while my own hands cup her face.
“A little later, sunshine,” I murmur, my eyes fluttering shut, the dizziness, the sheer sensory overload, almost overwhelming. Three fucking years of touch starvation, of self-denial. And now… now I’m splitting at the goddamn seams from too much sensation, too much her.
“I-I owe you. I have to… I need to…”
“You don’t owe me a single goddamn thing!” I nearly shout. “Owe? Fuck, Diana! Do you even want this? Truly?”
“W-what?” Her eyes widen, confusion warring with the lingering haze of arousal. “Yes! Yes, Mykola, I really, really do.”
Relief crashes through me. I drive my knuckles into the cool granite of the countertop beside her hip, needing to ground myself.
I drag my tongue along the sensitive curve of her neck, then sink my teeth, gently this time, into her sweet, fragrant skin and just… hold. I could hold her like this for a century. I could die this way – the greediest, most gluttonous bastard in the entire world. And I’d die happy.
She thinks she owes me. Jesus Christ. Like I haven’t already latched onto her, branded her as mine, after everything. Like I haven’t made this even harder on her than it already was. What a pathetic, idiotic fucking move – trying to keep her away from me then, and now losing my goddamn mind trying to figure out how to keep her, how to make her stay, how to convince her this isn’t just… another game. Offering her a new job. Another manipulation.
Diana, of course, isn’t obsessed. With anything. Not like me. Not with this all-consuming, soul-deep fixation.
My muscles tense, electrify, as I cling to the fragile hope that she’s telling the truth. That she does want this. Want me. I don’t see why she’d lie. Not about this. It’s not like she’s confessing her undying love or anything. It’s just… sex. Right?
“I… I need to use the restroom,” she whispers, her cheeks flaming again.
“Of course, sunshine.” I try to sound casual, unaffected. I probably fail miserably.
She kisses me then. Unexpectedly. Softly. Like a goodbye. Or maybe… a promise. I sink like an overloaded ship, going straightto the fucking bottom. My jaw tightens. I devour her mouth without restraint, pouring all my desperate, unspoken need into that kiss. Her breath quickens, hitches, becomes ragged…
I want to see her like this all the time. Every day. Every night.
I won’t survive not seeing Diana Bilova again. Not after this.
I watch her leave the kitchen, her steps a little unsteady. It’s not just my brain short-circuiting anymore; my entire goddamn fuse box has melted into a chaotic, sparking mess.
I can’t watch her go. Even though I know she’s coming back. But by the time she does, my eyes will be dry, burning. I won’t have blinked once.
Larrington sent Royce’s updated schedule while I was… otherwise occupied. The old bastard will be in Paris next month. A series of gallery openings, museum galas. The Texan rarely travels to Europe. This is an opportunity. A big one.
I pick up my phone, rolling it between my fingers, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat still thrumming through my veins.
I glance up at the empty hallway where she disappeared.
I keep rolling the phone, gnawing at the situation, at the Royce deal, at Diana, from every possible goddamn angle.
She returns, her steps smoother now, steadier. Though just once, as she passes the doorway, she braces herself lightly against the wall. She looks good in my home. My space. Then again, she looks good fucking anywhere.
“I’ll just make a quick call,” I say, forcing a casual tone, “and I’ll be right back. In the meantime… you can see just how much of a slob I actually am. Don’t judge my sock collection.”
Her smile is faint, hesitant, but her eyes are glistening slightly. With… something. Tears? Lingering arousal? Hope?
Hell.I’m going to do it.I have to.
I nearly smack myself in the face with my phone as I stride into my home office.
On the central, custom-built shelving unit, pride of place, “Snowflake” has been settled in for months.“Snijynka.”Her painting. The one with the pink hill and the emerald sky. The one that started it all. I chased it down for seven goddamn months after I found the way to buy it privately. Paid an obscene amount for it through a proxy. There are others of hers I’ve acquired since, hidden away. But this one… this one, I fucking love.
