Page 51 of Charmingly Obsessed
His fingers graze the bare, sensitive skin of my inner thighs. Instinctively, shamefully, I jerk my legs together, trying to close myself off, to hide. Frez immediately lets go of my skirt, his hands falling away. And I…
“I-I didn’t mean to—” I babble, horrified by my own reflexive rejection. “I will! I’ll do it! I swear! I just… I need a minute.” It happened automatically. Reflexively.Just give me a minute. One minute. I’ll take it off myself. I will.
“Shh, Diana,” he murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle. He turns my face to his, but I can’t meet his eyes. I can’t bear to see the disappointment, the frustration, the… rejection. All I can see is the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “I’m just… rushing things. That’s all. My fault.” He takes a deep, steadying breath. “It’s okay, sunshine. I… I need you to look at me.”
His eyes, when I finally force myself to meet them, are so strange. So intense. A shiver, cold and sharp, runs straight through me, from my scalp to my bare feet.
Something wild, something primal, stirs deep inside me, only to be instantly sucked into the vortex of hazy, intoxicating sensuality swirling in his half-lidded gaze. Even under the threat of imminent death, I don’t think I’d be able to look away now.
The contrast is mesmerizing. The raw, almost brutal hunger burning in the depths of his eyes, and the careful, almost reverent restraint in his touch as his fingers now gently trace the curve of my cheekbone.
“Mykola…” My voice is a broken whisper.
“What, sunshine?”
“I don’t… I don’t understand you at all,” I say, though it’s not what I meant to say. Not really.
I know Mykola Frez. Or at least, I thought I did. Not knowing him, not being aware of his presence, his power, his charisma, is impossible. Even if we’d only ever exchanged a handful of casual, passing remarks and polite nods in the office hallways, he’s the kind of man who lays himself bare. Or seems to. That’s his thing. His charm. His weapon.
But right now… he knows exactly what I mean.
Mykola Frez isn’t exactly what he seems.Not by a long shot.
Some vital part of him, some core truth, is so carefully, so deeply hidden, that its very secrecy makes it feel alien. Foreign. Dangerous.
“Of course you understand me.” He leans closer, his forehead resting against mine. “You know me, Diana. You know me so well it’s almost… unnerving.”
He pulls back slightly, pushing himself away from the couch, from me. He moves to the ornate antique dining table and pours himself another generous flute of champagne. He’s collected again. Composed. Relaxed. Almost… deliberately so. As if flipping a switch.
His sculpted arm, all lean muscle and tanned skin, stretches along his torso with an effortless, almost feline grace as he raises the glass. He downs the champagne in one long, smooth gulp, his eyes never leaving mine, holding me captive with their unwavering intensity.
The moment is lost. Shattered.
I’ve ruined everything. With my hesitation. My stupid, ingrained insecurities. My questions. My fear.
I’ll fix it. The thought is a desperate resolve. Right now. Right this second.
“You need it too,” I hear myself say, my voice surprisingly steady. “The… release. I’ll do it right this time. I’ll do everything right. For you.”
As I start to slide off the couch, intending to sink to my knees before him, to offer myself in the only way I know how to bridge this sudden, terrifying chasm between us, he moves. Fast. He’s there, lifting me, pulling me back against him.
“Diana.” His voice is a low warning. “Don’t.”
But I’m already unfastening the button of his jeans, my fingers fumbling with the zipper. Maybe Frez goes still because he’s surprised by my boldness, by my sudden, desperate initiative. But he did the same thing to me, touched me with such shocking intimacy, just a few short hours ago. Turnabout is fair play. Right?
His erection, thick and hard, presses against my seeking lips as I blindly tug the denim fabric away.
I sway slightly as he yanks me back up, hard, his grip like iron on my arms. I let out a weak, protesting cry. Not because his grip is painful – though it is – but because I didn’t expect this. This unfiltered, almost violent fury radiating from him.
“What the hell are you doing?” His voice fractures over each word, sharp and dangerous. “How could you even— Don’t you dare— Get up, Diana. Now.”
“Why? You just… You should get pleasure too. Don’t you… don’t you want this?” And by the way, my traitorous brain chimes in, my face is the most attractive part of me. It really can look beautiful under the right lighting. If he’d just let me…
“Should,” he repeats, his tone strange, unreadable. He nods slightly to the side, a jerky, uncontrolled movement. “Should. How did you even think—”
I ignore him. I drop to my knees again, determined.
Whatever he was about to say gets caught in his throat, choked off by a sharp, indrawn breath. I doubt I’d be ableto speak anyway. Not with the heavy, musky heat of his cock already pressed against my tongue. Not with the way I instinctively glide deeper, teasing, tasting, pressing further…
