Page 71 of Charmingly Obsessed
I haven’t undressed completely in front of him yet. Not really. Not in the full, unforgiving light of day.
And the longer this particular charade drags on, the more terrifying the whole inevitable event seems.
“I sincerely hope you’re not planning to show me to Royce in my lingerie,” I say, my voice suddenly cold, sharp, defensive. “Because if that’s the desired effect you’re going for, then you definitely should have picked someone else for the role. Someone… more professionally equipped.”
He raises his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine, narrowed, glinting with something dangerous. “I specifically checked to ensure it wasn’t on the list, Diana,” he says, his voice equally cold now, deliberately, terrifyingly mimicking the sharp, icy edge of my own tone. “Because you most definitely won’t be needing any. Not with me. Do you remember how quickly you… lost it… in the kitchen this morning? A minute? Two, tops? I’m merely trying to save on unnecessary expenditures here, wife.”
I don’t look away, though my carefully constructed posture loses some of its defiant firmness.
“And I wouldn’t recommend…” His voice drops lower now, quieter, but with a layered, menacing tone that makes icy chillsrun down my shoulders, prickling my skin. “That you ever again suggest the presence of other men near you in the same sentence as the word ‘lingerie.’ Never. You’d understand me much better then, Diana. But from that particular side… I wouldn’t recommend you ever find out.”
He hands my phone back to me.
“Adjust the list as you see fit. Everything can be ordered online. I’ll send it all to Amanda in New York. She’ll handle the logistics–”
“We’ll talk tomorrow.” He interrupts with a curt, dismissive nod. “And I won’t be adjusting anything in such a clearly well-thought-out, strategically sound list. Tomorrow, we’ll go into more detail. We’ll figure everything out.”
He runs a hand down his face, a gesture of sudden, overwhelming weariness.
“Diana… Those dresses. In the guest room. The ones that didn’t quite fit you yesterday? Karina bought them. Remember Karina? From the office? She quit her position as my long-suffering executive assistant last year to head the city’s Lesbian Alliance. Apparently, she found her true calling.”
I don’t know why he’s raising a sarcastic eyebrow like that. I know perfectly well he hasn’t slept with any of his assistants. Or anyone else who works for him. Ever. Except for me. His temporary, contractual, soon-to-be ex-wife.
It shouldn’t surprise me that he so easily, so accurately, anticipated my unspoken reaction to the guest room dresses. But it still feels unsettling. To wonder what other unspoken thoughts, what other hidden insecurities, he’s picking up on with that unnerving, laser-like perception of his.
“She bought them just in case. So any unexpected overnight guests would have something appropriate to change into. Partygoers. Hangout guests. You know.”
“Okay. You… you don’t need to explain, Mykola.”
He pulls me close then, distracting me with a series of playful, nuzzling kisses against my neck, my temple, my cheek. Distracting me… because I suddenly realize that my current, extremely comfortable, borrowed Frez-branded hoodie is being stealthily inched upwards. And my panties are being tugged slowly downwards.
He’s deliberately caressing the bare, sensitive skin of my legs, his fingers tracing lazy, intoxicating circles.
“We’re both old enough now, Diana, you can surely pull them down yourself. Or… do you perhaps want to watch me do it for you?”
I remain silent. Because… God help me, I want him to do it. I want him to undress me. Slowly. Thoroughly.
“Aha.” He says softly, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest, as if he can read my every thought, every secret, shameful desire. “In that case… it would be my distinct honor, wife.”
The next morning, I wake up in a decidedly, almost miraculously, better mood. All because, apparently, I need to drink less champagne and talk more. A lot more.
Last night, after the pizza, after the lists, after the negotiations, Mykola and I talked. For hours. Until well past midnight. Curled up on his ridiculously comfortable couch under a soft cashmere throw, with the glittering city lights spread out before us like a carpet of fallen stars. I could listen to him talk endlessly, no matter where his brilliant, restless mind takes him. From quantum physics to Renaissance art to the socio-economic implications of cryptocurrency.
I can’t think about the sex though. Not yet. Because that’s still beyond my comprehension. Still too raw. Too new. Too much.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I just need to… experience it all. Lean into the chaos. And then… move on.
How do you even learn to experience things in the moment, to be truly present, when so much is happening, so fast, so intensely?
And yet… we haven’t actually done anything truly… extraordinary. Sexually, I mean. We’ve mostly just stuck to the missionary position. Basic. Vanilla. And I’ve only given him that one, slightly disastrous, champagne-fueled blowjob in the living room.
I try to open the heavy, stone-and-cherry-wood door and leave his bedroom, intending to make myself some tea, maybe explore his undoubtedly well-stocked library. But something’s wrong. The door won’t budge.
I input the code he gave me last night. My birthday. I place my finger on the scanner.
All the lights on the control panel glow red. Harshly. Angrily. Access denied.
I look around the opulent, minimalist bedroom. My phone isn’t where I left it on the nightstand.
