Page 93 of Charmingly Obsessed
“My husband,” she says, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor of amusement in her voice, “runs very, very fast.”
“Well, obviously,” I murmur, my lips brushing against her ear. “He had to catch the sun itself, didn’t he?”
Her little game, her carefully constructed wall of cool composure, finally falters. She smiles. A small, shy, almost secret smile, glancing to the side, her cheeks flushing a delicate, beautiful pink.
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. I’m going to chew through my own goddamn face at this rate.
“So, gorgeous,” I press my advantage, my voice a low, seductive drawl. “Will you have mercy on a poor, suffering, love-struck man?”
“I can’t,” she replies, her voice still soft, but with a new, almost playful note of apology in it, as she throws a quick, sparkling glance my way. “I’m a married woman now.”
To hell with it all.
“We’ll dirty the dishes together,” I whisper loudly, leaning in so close my lips brush against her temple, “but I’ll do all the washing up. And I… And I’m going to keep my tongue on youuntil you’re begging me to stop… and then I’m going to keep going. I have… excellent stamina.”
She nearly trips, a startled, breathless laugh escaping her. She tugs at her ponytail in a gesture of pure embarrassment.
I smile against her lips as I pull her, not towards the bar, but into a small, dark, and blessedly empty service room I happen to know is just off the main lobby. Perfect. Dark and empty. I haven’t been this lucky since… well, since Diana Bilova finally, miraculously, agreed to marry me.
I distract her from the initial shock of being manhandled into a glorified broom closet the only way I know how. However it comes out. Raw. Desperate. Needy. The moment I let myself actually process the thought that I’m inside her, standing up, pressed against a cold, hard wall, right here, right now, in the middle of the fucking hotel… my carefully cultivated status as a smooth, sophisticated seducer becomes a goddamn joke. I finish inside her like a panting, overeager dog. Might as well start whimpering next. Pathetic.
And she… she kisses me so desperately, so fiercely, as if we really are pressed for time, as if this dusty, cramped, forgotten little room is all we have, all we’ll ever have.
“Everyone probably saw us come in here,” she murmurs later, her face pale, her voice shaky, as she adjusts her ridiculously chic, now slightly rumpled, tailed blazer. Like a small, ruffled bird, trying to smooth down its feathers after a storm.
“Yeah,” I whisper in her ear, my hands still tangled in her hair, my body still thrumming with the aftershocks. “Now they’ll all know just how much I fucking crave my own wife.” The words, the truth of them, make her shudder in my arms.
We leave Guy Savoy hours later, on a high, having tried everything on the ridiculously expensive, multi-course tasting menu. And now, we’re greedily, enthusiastically planningsimilar raids on all the other three-star, and even a few two-star, Michelin-rated restaurants in the city. Our tastes, it turns out, in gourmet food, as in… other things… align perfectly. We have a simple, shared philosophy: try everything once. Or twice.
Back at the hotel, I make a brief, necessary detour to see the general manager.
Because I’ve reached that grim, unfortunate moment in my life where I have to, metaphorically at least, say the words I despise most: “Call your boss.” I hate throwing my weight around like this, hate pulling the billionaire card. But my wife, my beautiful, brilliant, and still far too insecure wife, is going to be comfortable here. She is going to be treated with the respect she deserves. And that’s the only possible ending to this particular story. Let the GM figure out what the hell is going on with that bitchy, meddling, American guest relations manager, Kelly. And fix it. Permanently.
Already back in our suite, my gaze, as always, lands on the small, cluttered desk in the corner of the bedroom. And on the neat, professional-looking stack of papers she’s left there.
The top document, a single, crisp sheet of high-quality bond paper, turns red before my eyes.
A prenuptial agreement.
Of course.Fucking of course.
She’s printed it out. Marked it up in her neat, precise pencil handwriting. Added clauses. Struck out others.
Okay.Okay.We didn’t have a real wedding. We didn’t have a proper courtship. The rings are melted-down, repurposed gold from something else entirely, for all I know.
But I am not, under any circumstances, signing a goddamn prenup.
I am not reducing my marriage – least of all my marriage to Diana – to a cold, clinical, soulless piece of paper.
I already have enough fucking paperwork in my life to build a goddamn coffin out of. Hell, an entire family crypt.
Her new, encrypted phone, the one my security team provided, pings softly from the desk.
A message from Amanda.
I glance briefly at a small, charming still-life painting of a single, perfect slice of watermelon hanging on the wall opposite the desk, then back at the offending stack of legal documents.
Amanda is, apparently, offering her some… helpful filters. Suggesting various ways to restructure my chaotic, overwhelming, and frankly, unmanageable personal email inbox.
