Page 21 of Charmingly Obsessed

I t would have been polite, I suppose, to offer her slippers.

The polished stone floor of my kitchen, while heated, is still stone. Cold. Impersonal.

Turns out, I’m not nearly as polite as my upbringing, or my reputation, would suggest. Not with her. Not anymore.

The pale, vulnerable image of her bare feet against the dark stone shifts something fundamental in the way I perceive the world.

Or maybe just in the way I perceive her within it.

There’s so much I never knew. How to exist in this raw reality.

How to feel myself, truly feel myself, within its chaotic embrace.

How to want someone this badly and still breathe.

Desire surges through me in relentless waves.

Each one a detonation in my chest, bursting like the sharp, unexpected taste of something exquisitely tart and impossibly sweet hitting the tongue. It’s a physical ache, a consuming fire.

There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to her . Nothing I wouldn’t do for her .

And turns out, there’s not a shred of gentlemanly restraint left in me either. Not where Diana Bilova is concerned.

I don’t offer her a drink, though my bar is stocked with Cristal and single malts older than she is.

Don’t ask if she’s hungry, though my chef could whip up a Michelin-starred meal in under an hour.

Don’t suggest a tour of the penthouse, though the views are panoramic and the art collection curated to impress.

No. None of that polite, civilized bullshit.

Instead, I press Diana against the cold, unyielding granite of the island countertop.

And I don’t move, not an inch, once she’s finally back in my arms, her soft curves molded against my hard, aching body.

I want to start gently, but the kiss itself takes over. It’s a force of nature that pulls us into a desperate whirlpool of sensation and long-denied need.

I tease her hesitant tongue with my own, a playful exploration that quickly escalates. That’ll teach me. She mumbles something incoherent, a soft protest or maybe a plea, and I snap. Some thin thread of control I didn’t even know I possessed just… shatters.

A thrill of savage satisfaction courses through me as I pull her deeper into the kiss. I grip her soft, yielding body, my hands roaming as if with their own will, registering the feel of her beneath my palms.

Grasping her hips, pulling her flush against my hard cock. Sliding up her sides, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin there. Finding the lush swell of her breasts through the thin fabric of her blouse.

Her palm flutters nervously against my stomach. I catch it with my lips, sucking hard enough on the delicate skin of her wrist to leave a mark, a brand.

My mouth moves higher up the inside of her arm to her throat, tasting the frantic pulse there as I work to memorize her skin.

We collide in shuddering exhales, then meet again in another kiss – long, reckless, unyielding.

Devouring. The loose tendrils of her hair at her nape are damp with steam from her earlier shower, or maybe just with the heat radiating between us.

I want to taste them. To pull her so deep inside me there’s no separation. No beginning or end. Just us.

She’s flushed, her beautiful face rosy with arousal, her gaze soft and unfocused, unable to quite land on me. Lost. And mine.

I grip the edge of the countertop so hard my knuckles ache, the granite biting into my skin. Hold back. Just a little longer. Control, you son of a bitch, control . Soon enough, she’ll be looking up at me from the cool, crisp sheets of my bed…

“I don’t want this day to end,” I murmur, the words escaping me, unplanned. I’m not even sure why I say it again. It’s just… true.

Diana presses closer, her face grazing mine, her soft sigh a whisper against my cheek. A silent agreement.

My hand, seemingly with a mind of its own, skims down her side, over the curve of her hip, to her thigh. And then, it slips between her legs, under the soft fabric of her skirt, under the flimsy elastic of her panties, searching for the heat, the wetness I know I’ll find there. Finding it.

I soak in the slick, molten warmth of her with my fingers, a low groan rumbling in my chest. She’s so wet for me. So ready.

She doesn’t realize what’s happening at first, lost in the haze of our kisses. Then she shifts against my hand, a restless, almost involuntary movement. I nudge her face gently with my nose, needing to see her expression, needing to drink in the sight of her unraveling for me.

This time, she isn’t tense with fear. This time, her eyes are wide with a dawning awareness. But there’s still a tremor of fear there. Of the unknown. Of me.

“Diana,” I whisper, my voice thick, ragged. I tilt my head. “We don’t do anything here… anything at all… that we both don’t want. You just have to say the word. Just… tell me.”

“It feels good. So good. I just… I’m nervous. It’s… a lot.”

I stroke her slowly then, deliberately, holding my own ravenous greed on the tightest possible leash.

And fuck, that leash is too damn short. It’s fraying. Breaking.

“God, I need you,” I murmur against her skin, trying to press the words, the desperate truth of them, directly into her soul. “I need you, Diana. Like I need air.”

I lose control of my hand then. Completely. I pick up the pace, my fingers slicking through her wet heat, finding that tight, swollen nub, rubbing, circling, pressing.

She gasps, her body arching against me. Overwhelmed. She’s always so surprised by everything. By her own reactions. By me. Christ. However she wants it – fast, slow, rough, tender – I’ll give it to her. I’ll give her everything.

I press my body against her side, molding to her soft curves, tilting her head back just enough with my hand tangled in her hair. I want her to see. To watch.

To see my fingers slipping inside her. Deep. Claiming.

To get used to how this is going to look. How this is going to be. Us. Together.

We breathe raggedly, out of sync, our bodies trembling. I pull out my fingers, then push back in her sweet wet pussy, rubbing, stroking her clit – she’s so warm, so incredibly slick, I can’t stop. I’ll never get enough of this. Of her.

Her damp hair sticks to her neck as I grab a fistful, tilting her head back further when she loses control, her head lolling, her eyes fluttering closed.

“Diana,” I rasp, mindless with need. “Diana…”

I watch, transfixed. Her lashes tremble, and then she shatters on my fingers.

She whimpers, soft broken sounds escaping her as her nails dig into my wrist. A shudder runs through her as she comes apart in my hand, her eyes flying open to find mine in the chaos.

A drunken, euphoric haze fills my head, making it impossible to hold her steady. I kiss her deeply and greedily, and we sway together, lost in the aftershocks.

I tug her underwear down. I need to. I need to do everything with her, explore every inch, claim every part of her. But at least this. This, I need now.

Diana squirms a little, a shy, almost embarrassed movement, but she follows the insistence of my lips, the silent command in my eyes. It’s unbearable – she’s too quiet again. Too still. It was too fast. I overwhelmed her.

Her panties, some flimsy lace thing that’s driving me insane, bunch at her knees.

I keep my hand in her hair to hold her steady and make her watch. My other hand pulls the lace down her legs as I trace a line of hot kisses from her earlobe down her cheek.

Her panties drop to the cool stone floor at her feet. A small, discarded puddle of black lace.

I push her head down slightly, forcing her to look. To see her panties on the floor of my apartment. To see how I undressed her, and how easily she unravels for me.

She makes a soft, strangled sound, a whimper of surrender, and I swallow it from her swollen, kiss-bruised lips.

“Shhh. You won’t be needing those anymore, sunshine.” My voice is raspy, like a teenager who just got his first, intoxicating taste of pussy.

It should be fucking illegal for her to be this innocent, this vulnerable, this exquisitely responsive in my presence when I’m already so far gone, so completely undone by her.

But no one warned her. No one told her what she does to me. And that, that lack of warning, that beautiful, terrifying innocence… it makes it my responsibility to punish her for it. Thoroughly. Deliciously.

I drop to my knees in a sharp, uneven motion, my body seemingly unwilling to be anywhere but at her feet, near her heat.

“No,” she breathes, her voice tight with sudden panic. “Mykola, I… you don’t have to…”

“Shhh,” I murmur again, my lips brushing against the hem of her skirt. I catch the soft fabric between my teeth for a fleeting second before letting it go. My eyes meet hers, dark with intent. “Just a little taste, Diana. Just… a little.”

“Just a little,” she echoes, her voice a dazed, breathless whisper.

Turns out, I’m not just no gentleman. I’m a goddamn liar too. Because a little will never be enough. Not with her.

I taste her arousal on my tongue, the salty, musky scent of her filling my senses.

I try to stretch the pleasure out, to savor this moment, this surrender.

Then I can’t hold back any longer. I sink my teeth, gently, into the soft, tender flesh of her inner thigh.

I barely manage to drag in a ragged breath before I’m nuzzling everywhere, pushing forward with my mouth, my tongue, grasping, tasting, devouring every delicate, quivering inch of her.

The last few functioning circuits in my brain short-circuit. Overload. My face burns. My blood roars.

The way she tenses with pleasure, her hips bucking against my mouth, before unraveling into utter chaos in my hands, under my tongue, makes me squeeze her thighs hard enough to leave bruises.

I bury my face between them, breathing her in, wanting to scream like I did in her kitchen, that animalistic sound of losing control.

I kiss her knees, her calves, the delicate skin behind her knees, all the way around.

“Your legs are cold,” I mumble, my lips pressed right against her kneecap, the words almost incoherent. Yeah, her legs are cold because it’s already fucking cold outside. My brain is no longer capable of linear thought.

It feels like the Nobel Prize committee just introduced a new, highly specialized category: “Maintaining Logical Coherence While Kneeling in Abject Worship Before Diana Bilova.” And this moment – fuck, this moment – this is my last, desperate chance to win it.

I rub her thighs with both hands, trying to warm her skin, my thumbs stroking upwards, towards the heat at her pussy.

I reach down, scoop up the discarded lace panties from the floor, and without thinking, without hesitating, slip them into the pocket of my jeans. A trophy.