Page 11 of Charmingly Obsessed

H is 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 that matches 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 only in 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.

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 vaguely towards 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 is normal . But knowing and feeling are two very different continents.

And I wasn’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’s holding 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.

I can’t help it. A tiny, hesitant smile touches my own lips.

“I think,” he says, his voice laced with satisfaction, his eyes sparkling, “I’m officially forbidding this day from ever ending.”

“You can’t do that,” I say, the grin widening a fraction.

“Oh, I absolutely can. If we hop on my jet in, say, an hour, we could chase the sunset. Fly west. Gain at least five more hours of today.”

“Five hours isn’t that much in the grand scheme of things.”

“It’s an eternity when I’m with you,” he exhales against my skin, his voice suddenly serious, intense. “I’m like a beggar with you, Diana. Starving. And beggars can’t be choosers.”

Before I can ask what he means by that, he kisses me. Short, firm, possessive. Then he pulls back slightly, studying my face as if checking the result of his experiment. His fingers gently trace the outline of my lips, where his mouth just was.

“I’m going to kiss you. A lot,” he promises, his voice hoarse, raw with intent. “My lady’s wish is my command. Constantly. Until neither of us can think straight.”

His voice, that rough, intoxicating sound, turns my thoughts to molten lava. My resolve to maintain distance, to protect myself, is melting away with every word.

I won’t last much longer like this. And stopping? It’s no longer an option. It hasn’t been for a while.

“I don’t want this day to end either,” I whisper.

“Shit,” he breathes, his gaze devouring my face, memorizing every line, every flicker of emotion. “Diana. Tell me. Everything you think. Everything you want. Always. All of it. Can we agree on that? No more secrets. No more holding back.”

“That’s… impossible,” I answer, a sad smile playing on my lips. “And what if what I want makes you run away?”

Frez presses his lips together, tilting his head, a flicker of that dangerous, challenging glint returning to his eyes.

“Unfortunately for you, sonechko,” he murmurs, his voice a low, confident rumble, “you’re about to learn something fundamental about me.

I never back down from a challenge. Especially not one that looks, and tastes, as good as you. ”