Page 54 of Charmingly Obsessed
“Wedding night,” he continues, his voice a low growl in my ear, “because you just became my wife. And because it’s night. Logical, no?”
“Mykola,” I nearly whimper, my knees threatening to buckle.
His hand, the one not pinning me against him, moves over my stomach, then lower, cupping me possessively through my skirt. Grasping, releasing, grasping, releasing. A silent, potent promise of what’s to come. Then, as we round the corner into a dimly lit hallway I haven’t seen before, he lifts me slightly, effortlessly, carrying me the rest of the way.
My back is pressed tight against his hard, muscular chest. His erection is a thick, insistent pressure against my backside.
“Push.”
He nudges my head slightly with his own as we stop in front of a massive double door, set with heavy slabs of what looks like solid gray stone, inlaid into deep, rich cherry wood.
His finger slides over a nearly invisible scanner set into the wall beside the door. A faint green light blinks.
“This one doesn’t open and close automatically like the others. Our bedroom door… it locks. Manually.” He pauses, his lips brushing my earlobe. “Push it, Diana. Open it.”
22
Chapter 22 Diana
Someday, I imagine, I’ll actually get to see how breathtakingly beautiful Mykola Frez’s master bedroom is.
From this particular vantage point, however – pinned beneath the owner himself, tangled in thousand-thread-count sheets that probably cost more than my entire art school tuition – the decor is a hazy, irrelevant blur.
I lie still, frozen in a state of suspended disbelief, overwhelmed by the foreign, intoxicating softness of what’s happening between us.
I understandnow. Or at least, I’m beginning to.
Mykola Frez exists in a perpetual loop of slamming on the gas and then immediately, violently, slamming on the brakes. One moment, he’s an eruption of volcanic, all-consuming emotion, a raw, untamed force of nature. The next, he’s the gentle.
Or is it only with me that he’s like this? This unhinged, unpredictable, utterly captivating mess.
But I won’t last long like this. I can’t.
My entire system, every nerve, every carefully constructed defense, is hanging on by the last flimsy, splintered planks of a collapsing shack. Ready to crumble into dust, leaving nothing behind – not walls, not a roof, not even a foundation. Just… ruins.
We’re rubbing against each other like overeager, inexperienced teenagers. Clumsy. Desperate. Insatiable.
His hand, large and warm, traces the same possessive path again and again – from the sensitive skin of my ribs, down over the curve of my waist, to the swell of my hip, pausing for the briefest, most electrifying caress before starting its journey anew.
I’m ready to accept that he’s going to see my hips in all their womanly, un-supermodel-like glory. No amount of Pilates or kale smoothies will ever change their fundamental shape.
But everything, everything, still hinges on these damn nipples. On these damn breasts. The thought of his eyes on them, his mouth, his hands… it sends a fresh wave of panic through me.
Still. I’ll do it. For him. For this… whatever this is. I’ll take off my dress. I’ll even take off my bra. Eventually.
Frez rolls us onto our sides, his body a solid, comforting weight against mine.
We kiss like we’re lost in a shared delirium, like we’re the only two people left on the planet. Even my hair gets tangled in the moment, a curtain falling between our faces, unnoticed at first, until he impatiently brushes it away.
My hand hesitates as it skims over the hard, warm planes of his chest, his torso. It moves in fits and starts, unsure, almost… shy. Leaping from one spot of heated skin to another instead ofgliding with the smooth, confident strokes I see in movies, in my imagination. And I can’t tell a thing about the precise firmness of his muscles or the exact build of his powerful body. I just want to touch his skin. To feel him. Nothing else matters.
He starts pulling my dress up. Slowly. So goddamn slowly. So carefully.
Each tiny movement, each inch of exposed skin, sends a fresh spiral of nerves deep inside me. Damn it. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just… relax? Surrender?
My fingers dig into the sinfully soft sheets, my nails biting into the luxurious cotton. I nearly clench my teeth against the rising tide of anxiety.
Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t breathe. Let him do it. Just… endure. It’ll be over soon.
