Page 22 of Charmingly Obsessed
He leans back slightly, a glint of amusement – and something else, something darker – in his eyes. “If I told you, you’d run screaming for the hills.” He pauses, his gaze sweeping over me, lingering. “And honestly? After four of your pastries, my sprint time might be slightly compromised. I might only be able to chase you for… fifty-nine seconds.” He squints theatrically.
“I’m a decent runner,” I say, trying to play along, keep it light, but my voice trembles slightly.
His gaze sharpens instantly, the playful facade dropping away.
The air crackles. He leans forward again, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur that sends shivers down my spine. “Is that right? Because that sounds dangerously like an invitation, Diana.”
My eyes dart down to my teacup, unable to hold his intense stare.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I see his hand slide across the table. Tanned, strong fingers lightly brush against mine, then deliberately, carefully, trace the lines of my knuckles. My breath hitches.
I don’t register the exact moment he leans closer, until his cheek brushes against mine, the faint stubble rasping against myskin. A low hum fills my ears, pure static electricity, anticipation coiling tight and hot in my belly.
His voice is a low crackle directly against my ear, intimate, possessive.
“Because I would catch you,” he whispers, his breath hot, sending sparks down my neck. “Run you ragged. Make you gasp for air. Then I’d let you go… just so I could chase you all over again. Hunt you down. Until you were breathless, trembling, begging me to stop.” His lips brush the sensitive shell of my ear. “And I’d agree, but only on the condition that surrender means you belong entirely to the victor. To me.”
A sharp, shaky gasp escapes me. I try to disguise it as an exhale, but it’s useless.
His hand tightens around mine, warm, strong, claiming.
He pulls back just enough for our eyes to meet. His are dark, turbulent, pupils blown wide. “I’m going straight to hell for this, aren’t I?” His voice is unsteady, thick with something desperate.
And then his mouth crashes down on mine.
It’s not a gentle exploration. It’s combustion. Raw need meeting desperate hunger. He echoes the shaky sound I made, only his is deeper, rougher, a groan ripped from his chest as he claims my lips.
Somehow, I end up on his lap, pulled tight against his hard body, the worn kitchen chair groaning beneath our combined weight.
Our hands collide, fumbling, frantic in their need to touch, to hold on. His intensity is a tidal wave, swamping my senses, obliterating thought. I cling to his shoulders, searching for an anchor, terrified by the feeling of weightlessness, of spinning out of control, plummeting towards something unknown and dangerous.
He takes my mouth, steals my breath, devours my protests. Over and over. I don’t know when my fingers tangled in thedamp strands of his hair at his nape. I don’t know when his lips left mine to trace frantic, fevered paths across my cheekbones, my jaw, my eyelids – mapping me, claiming me.
He deepens the kiss again, slow now, deliberate, drawing out the torture, the pleasure, until I’m trembling.
He pauses, his lips hovering millimeters from mine, his breath mingling with mine.
“You’re kissing me back,” he murmurs, the words rough, laced with wonder and disbelief. “You’re actually kissing me back, Diana.”
It’s an absurd observation. As if I have a choice. As if my body hasn’t been screaming for this since the moment he walked back into my life.
His hand slides from my waist, moving behind me, bracing himself against the edge of the kitchen table.
Every ounce of my self-control is focused on not letting my own hands wander below his collarbone, not exploring the hard, warm skin I glimpsed earlier. The thought terrifies me – the potential for losing myself completely, for ruining whatever fragile, dangerous thing this is.
Suddenly, his mouth is at my neck. Hot, open-mouthed kisses that feel like they’re branding me.
He nips, laves, sucks lightly at the sensitive skin just below my ear, sending jolts of pure electricity straight to my core. He’s unleashed and chaotic, obliterating everything in his path. My breath stutters, breaks, coming in short, sharp gasps. Each inhale feels like fire searing its way through my lungs.
He chases those gasps, capturing them with his mouth, swallowing my sounds with a fierce determination that borders on desperation.
I whimper, blindly reaching for his hand, needing contact, needing grounding.
And then the world tilts again. One moment I’m on his lap, the next I’m being lifted, shifted, and then I’m sprawled on my back across the sturdy wooden kitchen table, the cool surface a shock against my robe-clad skin.
He follows me down, looming over me, caging me in with his strong arms braced on either side of my head.
I finally get a clear look at his face. And my heart twists with a painful, terrifying hope. He doesn’t look like the controlled finance mogul. He looks… undone. Every sharp, aristocratic feature is drawn taut, etched with need. His eyes – those incredible blue eyes – are unfocused, dilated, like he’s drowning, lost in the same turbulent current that’s pulling me under.
