Page 24 of Charmingly Obsessed
I don’t know how he’s doing this. I don’t know what’s happening anymore. I only exist as a collection of raw, screaming nerve endings. And God help me, I never want to know anything else again.
He keeps returning to my chest, his mouth hot and insistent through the robe, and my breasts ache with a sweet, unbearable fullness, feeling like they’re on the verge of shattering. I can’t stop the moans that rip from my throat, helpless.
Frez presses his mouth hard against mine, trying to capture my parted lips, to swallow my cries. But then he shudders, breaking away only to fold himself against me, pressing his mouth to my stomach as if he can’t hold himself up any longer. A broken sound tears from him—not a scream, or a growl, or a moan, but a desperate fusion of them all, poured directly into me. So desperate. So utterly undone.
As if he simply couldn’t hold it in any longer.
And I understand. In that moment, I understand him in a way I’ve never understood another human being.
His breathing is harsh, uneven. Loud in the sudden stillness. We stare at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills, or maybe a shared surrender. As if meeting his gaze is the only thing keeping the tension from snapping, from consuming us both completely.
“It’s exactly how I thought it would be,” he murmurs finally, his voice slow, heavy, like someone surfacing from a deep, turbulent dream. “They’re so… obvious,” he gestures vaguelytowards my chest, my nipples, “and you’re so… shy about them. Jesus, Diana. I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”
Shy? Shy doesn’t even begin to cover the chasm of insecurity I harbor about my body.
The reality of my situation crashes back in. I’m lying on the kitchen table. My kitchen table. Sprawled like a sacrifice, robe askew, with Mykola Frez looming over me.
I push myself up slightly on my elbows, glancing around. He’s pushed the mugs and pastries further back against the wall. My phone, my notebook – the one with my pathetic escape plan – are now on a nearby chair.
Outside, the day is bleeding into night.
And the sweet torture continues. His hand, so careful now, so gentle, finds my breast again, his fingers rolling one aching, hypersensitive nipple between his thumb and forefinger, even through the terrycloth.
I want to scream. Just like he did. Because it feels unbearably, exquisitely good. And because it’s unbearably, shamefully, terrifyingly intimate. He must have figured it out by now. My secrets. My shame.
That strange comment…“They’re so obvious…”He knows. My nipples. They’re… prominent. Large. Even on my otherwise average-sized breasts. They’re noticeable. Always. A constant source of self-consciousness. Something I’ve hidden my entire life.
I’m never showing them to anyone. He’s only reacting like this, so intensely, because he hasn’t seen everything. And he won’t. He can’t.
If I weren’t so devastatingly, hopelessly in love with him, maybe this wouldn’t feel like such a profound violation of my deepest insecurities. I know, rationally, my body isnormal. But knowing and feeling are two very different continents. And Iwasn’t built to keep testing that theory, to keep risking that rejection.
Frez notices the shift in me instantly. The way I tense, withdraw. His brow furrows, his own intense focus replaced by a flicker of concern. “Hey,” he whispers into my ear, his voice suddenly uncertain, almost… anxious? “You okay? Or… not? We can… we can do things differently. Anything you want.”
I can’t tear my gaze from the deep, turbulent blue of his eyes. I forget to answer. I forget to breathe.
“You can tell me anything, remember?” he murmurs, his thumb stroking my cheek. “Anything at all,sonechko.”
I wish that damn invisible make-believe fort from the bathtub was portable. I wish I could drag it around with me, a giant, fluffy shield against reality. But there’s reality. And then there are moments of weakness. Moments like this.
“It’s… very good,” I manage to whisper, the admission torn from me. It’s the truth. Terrifyingly, exquisitely good.
“I’m usually quicker about things,” he murmurs, a self-deprecating almost-smile touching his lips. He runs his nose along my temple, his fingers now teasing the corners of my mouth. “And I’d normally prefer a bed. A very, very big bed. Not a narrow kitchen table. Especially… especially for the first time with someone.”
Usually. First time with someone. The words, so casual, so normal for him, land like tiny shards of ice in my chest. A mix of ugly emotions – jealousy, inadequacy, resentment – churns inside me. Stupid. So stupid.
The ghosts of all his admirers, all the beautiful, confident women who have undoubtedly shared his bed, parade through my mind. I need to get out of the clouds. This is real life. Mykola Frez, billionaire heartthrob, wants to have sex with me. It’s not a declaration of undying love. It’s… desire. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with that. It’s just… he doesn’t know he’sholding my heart in his hands. He doesn’t know I’ve dreamed about this, about him, for years.
And if he did? I think… I hope… he would have spared me this. This exquisite torture. Maybe he is just tired of the supermodels and heiresses. Maybe he wanted something… different. Simpler. Less complicated. And besides, I dress well. Without clothes… without clothes, everything is so much worse.
“I said something wrong again, didn’t I?” he mutters, his lips moving from my face to trail a line of slow, warm kisses down my leg, stopping just below my knee. His perception is unnerving. “Your eyes… they went dull,” he comments, his voice flat, observational, like he’s cataloging my reactions. “But… you did ask me to kiss you. Right?” His hand tightens slightly on my calf, a silent question.
I nod, lowering my gaze, shame and desire warring within me. I don’t want to hesitate. Not now.
“I want you to kiss me a lot more,” I whisper.
I start to slide off the table, needing to regain some semblance of control, of dignity. Frez immediately moves, sinking onto the only free kitchen chair, pulling me down onto his lap before my feet even touch the floor. His arms wrap around me, holding me securely against his hard, warm body.
He’s smiling. Beaming. A full-wattage, million-dollar Frez smile that could melt glaciers. The kind of smile that makes everyone in its vicinity smile back reflexively.
