Page 50 of Charmingly Obsessed
Frez hands me a tall, elegant flute, already filled with bubbling, pale gold liquid. Then, he drains his own glass in one long, decisive gulp.
The exquisite champagne is dry and crisp with tiny bubbles that dance on my tongue. It feels so celebratory that I down half the glass in a few nervous sips. The alcohol hits my empty stomach instantly, sending a warm, fuzzy sensation through my limbs.
He pours himself another generous glass. And downs it in one go. Again. His eyes, when they meet mine over the rim of his empty flute, are dark, intense, and filled with an expression that makes my breath catch.
I take in the dimly lit expanse of his living room, the view of the glittering city skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The eclectic mix of modern art and antique furniture. The terracotta-hued walls of what I assume is the main living space, some areas overloaded with decorative, almost chaotic hangings – tapestries, paintings, strange sculptures – others left intentionally, starkly bare. It’s a reflection of him, I realize. Complex. Contradictory.
Suddenly the main overhead lights extinguish, and the room fills with a seductive golden glow from previously unnoticed recessed lamps.
“So,” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky caress.
He sets his empty glass down beside the nearly empty bottle of champagne on the polished surface of the massive mahogany dining table. And then…
And then, he moves.
He presses me back against the soft velvet of the couch, his hands cupping my face, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones.
We collide in a storm of desperate kisses and ragged, hungry breaths. I clutch at his shirt, grasping his back, his collar, pulling at the thin fabric, needing to feel him closer, needing to anchor myself against the tidal wave of sensation.
Frez pulls away, just enough to look down at me, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing. A short, breathless laugh slips from hislips as he gently but firmly captures my wrists, then moves his hands to my shoulders, his grip strong, possessive.
“I’m going to make you come again, Diana,” he exhales, his voice raw, breathless, like he’s been running a marathon. Not just up the stairs to his penthouse. “You’re going to moan for me. You’re going to scream my name. You will.”
21
Chapter 21 Diana
Everything happens so fast, a blur of sensation and escalating need.
I can only hold onto his collar, clinging to him as the pleasure, so sharp, so sudden, so utterly overwhelming, slices through me like a white-hot dagger – from the tips of my cold toes to the sensitive base of my skull.
I’m grinding against his hand, against the insistent pressure of his fingers through the fabric of my skirt. I need him so badly, so desperately, I don’t care how it looks, how shameless I am.
The empty champagne flute slips from my nerveless fingers. Frez catches it with a lightning-fast reflex, tossing it carelessly onto the plush cushions of the couch without breaking eye contact, without missing a beat.
“Good,” he nods, then nods again, a fierce, possessive satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “Good, wife. So good.” Helaughs again, a strange, almost unhinged sound, right against my throat, his teeth grazing my sensitised skin. “I can’t… I just… can’t…”
“C-can’t what?”
It’s impossible to focus on anything but him. His mouth. His hands. His heat. I don’t want to know where we are. I don’t want to know what else exists… anywhere. I even try to lift his head with my own trembling hands, desperate to kiss him again, to lose myself completely in his taste, his scent.
Frez’s mouth finds mine, his breath hot and ragged against my lips. And I swear, I grow drunker, more intoxicated, with every unsteady, shared inhale.
“I want to do everything with you. But I can’t. Not yet. I’d come on too strong, and you’d run. But with you I wanteverything.”
His hands are everywhere. Roaming my body with a restless, urgent hunger.
A flash of white light, sharp and blinding, sears my vision as he tugs at my nipples through the fabric of my blouse, then impatiently pushes my bra aside, his fingers finding bare, aching flesh. He touches me everywhere. No hesitation. No restraint. Just… claiming.
All I can do is watch, spellbound, helpless, as his hands move over me. They’re always restless. Always searching. They drive me insane. My mind surrenders, unable to track their intentions, their trajectory.
Unpredictability, I’m rapidly learning, is woven into the very fabric of Mykola Frez’s DNA. And for someone like me, someone who craves order, control, predictability… it’s both terrifyingly intoxicating and utterly, dangerously addictive.
I don’t even realize I’ve started gasping for air, for him, don’t notice how I jolt, my whole body arching, when he lifts thehem of my skirt, his knuckles brushing against my bare thighs, pulling the fabric higher, higher…
His hands slow, then still. The soft wool of my skirt freezes at the level of my hips, exposing me to his hot, hungry gaze.
“I will—” I stammer, desperate, needy, the words tumbling out. “I will. I’ll do it. Whatever you want.”
