Page 80 of Charmingly Obsessed
Hippolyt clutches his head, staggering backward in disbelief. “Are you completely, certifiably insane?!” he shouts furiously.
Nadya’s voice, bright with champagne-fueled amusement, calls out from behind me. “You should really read the news more often, honey!”
I turn around aghast as she gives a drunken, unapologetic shrug. A second later, a triumphant whoop is followed by an explosion of confetti and glitter from a party popper.
“Hippolyt, I am so sorry,” I say, trying to nudge Frez back, but he stands like a stone wall. His arms are crossed, his expression thunderous. “Please, let us…”
He just shakes his head furiously, his face contorted in pain and outrage. He points an accusatory, trembling finger at Frez. “You’re a lunatic! A dangerous, violent lunatic! Stay right there! Don’t you move!”
“I’m standing,” Frez replies, his voice impassive, almost bored.
“Well, I’m leaving,” Hippolyt mutters, still shaking his head as he starts to stumble blindly down the stairs. “You just stay right there, you crazy bastard! Don’t you follow me!”
“I’m standing!” my magnificent, terrifying, and completely unhinged husband yells after him, his voice ringing with a strange, gleeful satisfaction. “And you… you just go!”
Bewildered, I glance back to find Serafima Pylypivna leaning casually against the far wall, meticulously wiping her enormous glasses with her festive paisley silk shawl. Upon closer inspection, I notice the word SUPREME embroidered in bold, ironic, blood-red letters across one corner.
Aza’s frightened, luminous little eyes gleam in the dim light nearby.
“All because of that damn Swiss raisin cake,” our hostess murmurs, more to herself than to anyone else.
I roll my eyes as Frez, with a final, satisfied glance down the empty stairwell, turns and deliberately locks the apartment door, securing every single bolt with a series of loud, decisive clicks.
“Yahoo!” Nadya cheers, lifting her makeshift tinsel crown high into the air like a conquering hero. You’d think she was fifteen again, not a twenty-one-year-old with a bicycle and a worrying champagne habit. “I was rooting for you two crazy kids all along! Knew you’d make it! Besides,” she adds, her voice suddenly mournful again, “you’ve got tons of money.”
“Your enthusiastic support is much appreciated, Nadya,” Frez replies, his voice that deep, velvety, irresistible baritone again. Serafima Pylypivna snorts. Loudly.
“Mykola,” I say hesitantly, when the others finally begin to disperse, Nadya to her nap on the couch, Serafima to… wherever it is formidable, eccentric Ukrainian landladies go after successfully orchestrating social chaos. He takes my hands in his, his grip surprisingly gentle, squeezing them reassuringly. “He… he didn’t actually do anything wrong, you know. Hippolyt. It was just… an awkward hug.”
Frez exhales slowly, rubbing his bruised forehead with the back of his hand. And thank God, his beautiful, aristocratic nose appears to be, miraculously, still intact. Mostly.
“I’ll send him an apology tomorrow,” he admits, with a grimace that’s almost… boyish. “And perhaps… a very large, very expensive fruit basket. That was definitely too much. Even for me.” He pauses, his eyes finding mine, dark and intense. “But at least now he knows, Diana. Unequivocally. That we’re together. That you’re… mine.”
“You… you just won that argument with him, didn’t you? And it probably stung his fragile male pride. Terribly.”
“Let him get himself a wife,” Frez says, a note of vengeful, almost gleeful satisfaction in his voice as we finally head towards the sanctuary of my bedroom. “Then he’ll learn what real disappointment, what real matrimonial torment, feels like. Especially all in one evening.”
The bed in Serafima’s guest room is too narrow for two. Especially for two people of our… disparate sizes. But we don’t notice the discomfort. We don’t notice anything at all. Except each other.
We stay silent for a long time, our eyes locked, as he thrusts into me, slow and deep and unwavering.
Sweat drips down his face, plastering stray strands of his sandy hair to his temples. Every now and then, he uses his nose to gently push damp tendrils of my hair away from my forehead, his touch surprisingly tender.
His gaze never wavers. It’s like he’s trying to burn a hole right through my chest, straight into my soul, with the sheer intensity of his stare.
I lose my goddamn mind when he picks up the pace, deepening each movement, each thrust a brand, a claim, a possession. His palm presses against the back of my head, forcing my face into his shoulder, and I bite down – on him, on myself, on the overwhelming, shattering pleasure. I’ll be shocked about that later. Mortified, probably. But right now… right now, there is only this. Only him.
“You like it, wife,” Mykola gasps, his voice raw, ragged against my ear. “You fucking like it.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A fact.
Instead of answering, I dig my nails into the hard, corded muscle of his biceps, holding on for dear life.
Now he moves even harder. Faster. Deeper. A relentless, intoxicating rhythm that pushes me closer and closer to the edge.
I bury my face in the warm, sweat-slicked hollow of his shoulder while he breathes into my hair, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps, sometimes letting out a low, muffled, almost animalistic groan that vibrates through my entire body.
“I want you in every way, Diana,” he mutters, his voice fast, almost delirious now, as if my bones, my will, my very essence, have melted beneath him, into him. “I’ll take you however I want. Whenever I want. I promise you that. Do you have any fucking idea how good you feel? How tight? How wet?”
He starts to slow down then, but his thrusts somehow grow even deeper, more deliberate, each one a slow, torturous exploration that makes me cry out his name. He keeps asking the same question, over and over. “Is this good? Do you like this? Tell me, Diana. Tell me what you want.” I shake my head, too afraid to unclench my fingers from his arms, too lost to open my eyes, to speak.
