Page 23 of Charmingly Obsessed
He presses his forehead to mine, his breathing harsh, ragged.
“I can’t stop. When I see you… touch you… I just… can’t. I try, Diana. God, I try. But I can’t stop.”
10
Chapter 10 Diana
His voice is a hoarse, broken thing against my lips, heavy with something that sounds almost like guilt.
And in that broken confession, a desperate hope ignites within me. He feels this. He truly feels this. It’s not pity, not obligation, not some twisted game. This primal, consuming hunger… it’s for me.
“Kiss me,” I plead. “Kiss me again, Mykola. Please.”
His eyes flare with a renewed fire. He grips my face, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones with a desperate tenderness that belies the fierce possessiveness in his gaze. A strange impulse shoots through me, coiling low in my belly, something wild and terrifyingly liberating spilling across my skin in waves of electric shivers.
And then he’s kissing me. Forcing me to meet his hunger with my own. Forcing me to gasp for air in a ragged rhythm thatmatches his. Forcing my vocal cords to strain with soft, broken sounds I don’t recognize, don’t understand, but can’t suppress.
Forcing me… because I follow his lead blindly, desperately, as if the world itself would dim and fade if I didn’t.
His hands, those large, capable hands, begin to wander. Over the soft fabric of my robe, tracing the curve of my waist, then inching higher.
Any second now, I tell myself,I’ll explain. I’ll stop him. Any second. But then his palms cup my breasts through the thick terrycloth, thumbs brushing, teasing, awakening my nipples into tight, aching points.
Heat spreads through my body like a thousand tiny needles. Prickling, pulsing, sometimes a faint ache, sometimes an overwhelming surge that threatens to pull me under.
I try to pull away, breathy moans escaping me, the intensity too much, too soon, too… everything. I don’t know how to process this. Nothing makes sense.
He presses his lips to the damp skin of my throat, stealing my feverish heat, breathing it back into me tenfold. And his hands… oh God, his hands.
They knead my breasts relentlessly through the robe, his fingers finding my already-hard nipples, pinching and rolling them with a rough, insistent rhythm that’s both agonizing and electrifying.
My nipples swell further, aching, throbbing, more sensitive than I ever thought possible. I don’t want them to. I don’t want this vulnerability.
My breath comes in gasping cries as he lowers his head, his mouth finding one straining peak through the fabric.
He tugs, sucks, his tongue laving the thin barrier of cloth, sending jolts of pure sensation straight to my core. The motion repeats, a relentless, intoxicating rhythm, shifting onlyin chaotic bursts of intensity – sometimes meticulous, almost tender, then rough and demanding, like a man drunk on desire.
And then he’s pushing the robe up. His knuckles brush my bare stomach. The movement, so deliberate, so intentional, slices through the sensual haze. Any second now.I’ll tell him. Any second.
Ice floods my veins. The familiar, sickening cocktail of shame and humiliation burns through me, sharp and acrid.
A fleeting, bitter resentment for my own body, for its betrayals, for its perceived imperfections, surfaces.
I shove at his hands, my own trembling. “Don’t.” The word is a choked whisper. “D-don’t. Please. I can’t do… it naked.”
He freezes instantly. His hands, which were so greedily sliding along my waist, now soothe over my thighs, where the hem of my robe barely brushes mid-thigh.
He exhales a deep, shuddering kiss against the curve of my neck, his breath hot, making my skin burn despite the sudden chill of fear. But… his restless fingers twitch, brushing the hem again.
This time, I shove his hands away harder. Too forcefully. Too aggressively. Panic claws at me. I hate this. I hate feeling exposed, vulnerable. I hate the shame that always lurks, ready to pounce. I hate that I asked him to stop. And in this moment, a fierce, consuming self-loathing rises up.
“Sorry,” he blurts against my lips, pulling back slightly, his eyes wide, searching mine. I can’t hide the fear, the sudden wildness in my own gaze. “Okay. It’s okay, sunshine. We won’t. Of course.”
I want to tell him. I want to explain that I never undress for anyone. That this – this beautiful, breathtaking, terrifying inferno he’s ignited – needs to stop. Right now. Before he sees too much. Before the shame consumes me.
But instead of words, his mouth crashes down on mine again, silencing my unspoken fears.
Sharp, fevered, frantic kisses seize my lips, then trail down my throat, across my collarbones, over the swell of my breasts – only this time through the fabric. Everywhere. I lose the ability to think, to do anything but feel.
