Page 90 of Charmingly Obsessed
I must be pulling her head up higher, towards me, because she flinches slightly as the hot, sticky warmth of my cum coats her closed eyes. But I can’t be sure.
I can’t be sure of anything.
I can’t be sure when I take the discarded, ridiculously expensive linen napkin from the nightstand and gently wipe her face clean, though I deliberately don’t let her wipe it all away.
I can’t be sure when my hands grip the soft, yielding flesh of her thighs, my fingers digging in, leaving marks, like an animal’s claws.
I can’t be sure when I press her against my chest so tightly, so possessively, that she exhales in a soft, shuddering gasp.
“If you want something, Diana,” I murmur against her hair, my voice steady now, despite the violent trembling that still wracks my body, “you say it. If you don’t want something, you say it. But if you wantmeto do somethingto you… again…”I pause, letting the words hang in the air, heavy with promise, with threat. “You’ll have to beg.”
“Alright,” she tries to sound firm, her voice a little shaky. “Alright.”
I fuck her until dawn. And I make love to her, too.
I switch between them, between the raw, brutal claiming and the slow, tender worship, just to burn myself out, to exhaust this relentless, three-year-old ache, by morning.
I’ve always liked sex. But the past three years… they turned me into a goddamn recluse. A monk. Because emotions, I discovered, are far more potent, far more addictive, than any casual, meaningless fuck. The thought of sluggishly, dutifully dragging myself to bed with someone who wasn’t her… it repulsed me. But I’ve had a damn good, and very reliable,mistressall these years – forty-degrees to dive into.Vodka.
35
Chapter 35 Mykola
Ifinally kill the lamp, letting the pale, creeping light of morning claim the room.
Diana watches me, her beautiful face half-buried in the plush, rumpled pillow. She looks paler than usual in the pre-dawn light. Her lips are swollen, bruised from my kisses. Her glorious, golden-brown curls spill over the pristine white sheets like treasures.
And she’s biting her finger. A small, almost subconscious gesture. Seems like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
“Tastes good?” I ask, my voice a low, gravelly rasp.
She flinches, startled, then offers a small, hesitant, utterly enchanting smile. She rubs her chin against the pillow. Lucky fucking pillow.
“Do you smoke?” she asks, her own voice hoarse from our… exertions. She clears her throat.
Not really. But kind of. I smoked a little, on and off, over the past year. When the… longing… became unbearable. Now? Now, I don’t know.
“I don’t reach for cigarettes after, sunshine,” I say, a teasing note creeping back into my voice. “Just gum. Spearmint. Want me to blow some bubbles at you?” I glance pointedly at her legs, at that still wet space between her thighs, raising a suggestive eyebrow. She flushes, a beautiful, rosy blush that spreads from her cheeks all the way down to her chest.
She always lifts her chin, just a fraction, when she’s embarrassed. Adorable.
“Mykola.” Her voice is a soft, scandalized admonishment. She’s clearly still uneasy with me strolling around the room naked.
Diana, Diana… you’re going to have to get used to it.
“How did you ever end up in the clutches of such a shameless, unrepentant scoundrel?” I click my tongue in mock sympathy and then, with a sudden, lithe movement, leap onto the bed from the other side, landing softly beside her.
She smiles, a small, restrained, but genuine smile. But even that, from her, is something. A victory. When the touches stop, when the intensity recedes, she sometimes… shuts down. Closes up. Like a locked, priceless, and utterly impenetrable treasure chest.
“Willingly,” she says finally, her voice firm, certain. And the word, the simple, beautiful, perfectword, sends a jolt of triumph straight through me.
I tug up the oversized, borrowed t-shirt she’s now wearing – one of mine, of course – and press my lips to the soft, pale curve of her waist. I move up and down, trailing a line of hot, open-mouthed kisses along her back, marking her, tasting her. Goosebumps ripple over her skin. I count her freckles with my tongue, giving myself a little leeway, a little reward.
I breathe her in, closing my eyes. She’s here. She’s real. Sometimes, she even laughs. And when I take her, when I push her, just a little, she unravels.
And stares at me like… like that.
“Mykola,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, pulling me from my reverie. “Why… why do you really need Royce’s technology? What is it?”
