Page 22 of Charmingly Obsessed

I stand up.

“Mykola…” Her voice is a strained whisper, her eyes half-lidded, dark with pleasure, pupils blown wide. She’s so fucking beautiful like this. Utterly undone. Mine. “I think… I think I should…”

She reaches for my belt. Her fingers, small and trembling, brush against the hard ridge of my erection through the denim. She’s intent on undoing my zipper. And I nearly fall apart completely. I don’t stop her. Not right away. I just watch her, mesmerized, while my own hands cup her face.

“A little later, sunshine,” I murmur, my eyes fluttering shut, the dizziness, the sheer sensory overload, almost overwhelming. Three fucking years of touch starvation, of self-denial. And now… now I’m splitting at the goddamn seams from too much sensation, too much her.

“I-I owe you. I have to… I need to…”

“You don’t owe me a single goddamn thing!” I nearly shout. “Owe? Fuck, Diana! Do you even want this? Truly?”

“W-what?” Her eyes widen, confusion warring with the lingering haze of arousal. “Yes! Yes, Mykola, I really, really do.”

Relief crashes through me. I drive my knuckles into the cool granite of the countertop beside her hip, needing to ground myself.

I drag my tongue along the sensitive curve of her neck, then sink my teeth, gently this time, into her sweet, fragrant skin and just… hold. I could hold her like this for a century. I could die this way – the greediest, most gluttonous bastard in the entire world. And I’d die happy.

She thinks she owes me. Jesus Christ. Like I haven’t already latched onto her, branded her as mine, after everything.

Like I haven’t made this even harder on her than it already was.

What a pathetic, idiotic fucking move – trying to keep her away from me then, and now losing my goddamn mind trying to figure out how to keep her, how to make her stay, how to convince her this isn’t just…

another game. Offering her a new job. Another manipulation.

Diana, of course, isn’t obsessed. With anything. Not like me. Not with this all-consuming, soul-deep fixation.

My muscles tense, electrify, as I cling to the fragile hope that she’s telling the truth. That she does want this. Want me. I don’t see why she’d lie. Not about this. It’s not like she’s confessing her undying love or anything. It’s just… sex. Right?

“I… I need to use the restroom,” she whispers, her cheeks flaming again.

“Of course, sunshine.” I try to sound casual, unaffected. I probably fail miserably.

She kisses me then. Unexpectedly. Softly.

Like a goodbye. Or maybe… a promise. I sink like an overloaded ship, going straight to the fucking bottom.

My jaw tightens. I devour her mouth without restraint, pouring all my desperate, unspoken need into that kiss.

Her breath quickens, hitches, becomes ragged…

I want to see her like this all the time. Every day. Every night.

I won’t survive not seeing Diana Bilova again. Not after this.

I watch her leave the kitchen, her steps a little unsteady. It’s not just my brain short-circuiting anymore; my entire goddamn fuse box has melted into a chaotic, sparking mess.

I can’t watch her go. Even though I know she’s coming back. But by the time she does, my eyes will be dry, burning. I won’t have blinked once.

Larrington sent Royce’s updated schedule while I was… otherwise occupied. The old bastard will be in Paris next month. A series of gallery openings, museum galas. The Texan rarely travels to Europe. This is an opportunity. A big one.

I pick up my phone, rolling it between my fingers, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat still thrumming through my veins.

I glance up at the empty hallway where she disappeared.

I keep rolling the phone, gnawing at the situation, at the Royce deal, at Diana, from every possible goddamn angle.

She returns, her steps smoother now, steadier. Though just once, as she passes the doorway, she braces herself lightly against the wall. She looks good in my home. My space. Then again, she looks good fucking anywhere.

“I’ll just make a quick call,” I say, forcing a casual tone, “and I’ll be right back. In the meantime… you can see just how much of a slob I actually am. Don’t judge my sock collection.”

Her smile is faint, hesitant, but her eyes are glistening slightly. With… something. Tears? Lingering arousal? Hope?

Hell. I’m going to do it. I have to.

I nearly smack myself in the face with my phone as I stride into my home office.

On the central, custom-built shelving unit, pride of place, “ Snowflake ” has been settled in for months.

“Snijynka.” Her painting. The one with the pink hill and the emerald sky.

The one that started it all. I chased it down for seven goddamn months after I found the way to buy it privately.

Paid an obscene amount for it through a proxy.

There are others of hers I’ve acquired since, hidden away. But this one… this one, I fucking love.

With a heart as heavy as lead, I carefully lift it from its display stand and tuck it away in a locked cabinet. Out of sight.

I scan through Royce’s schedule again on my phone. Paris. An opening at the Musée d’Orsay. But the real opening, the one that matters, is finding a way to tie me to the art world in a way that looks natural, organic, to a cynical old bastard like Royce. Not just another billionaire dabbling.

I stop in the middle of the room. I don’t want “Snowflake” lying alone in the dark, shut away. But if Diana sees it… if she sees it here, in my private office… she’ll understand everything. She’ll know. She’ll know I’m completely, irrevocably, dangerously obsessed with her.

God. I’m going to do it . I have to. And to hell with Royce. To hell with the deal. To hell with everything but her.

If this works… it works. If not… then we’ll stay… exactly where we are. Which is nowhere. And everywhere.

The office door slams against the wall as I fling it open and stride back into the main living area, my lungs suddenly full of enough oxygen to last me two hundred years. Or maybe just a couple of minutes. Depends entirely on what she says next.

“I need… to tell you something, Diana.”

Her smile, that fragile, hesitant thing, fades instantly. Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of apprehension replacing the soft glow. As if I’m about to deliver a death sentence. Or confess to being a serial killer.

Anger, sharp and defensive, shoots from my temples to my jaw. I cross my arms over my chest, a subconscious barrier.

“I need… you to accept my proposal.” I take a deep breath. “A marriage proposal, Diana. I want us to get married.”

I’m ready for anything. Rejection. Laughter. Abject horror. But if she refuses… I don’t think I’ll ever crawl out of this particular abyss. This one is too deep. Too dark.

“Married?” she repeats, her voice a soft, incredulous whisper. I take an unconscious step towards her, drawn by an invisible force.

“Yes.”

I ruthlessly cut all the emotion, all the desperation, from my voice. This is a negotiation now. Pure and simple. High stakes. I need to put myself into efficient, logical, deal-closing mode. No stammering. No begging. I’ll say whatever it takes. Do whatever it takes.

“For you to be my wife,” I continue, my voice flat, devoid of inflection.

“Of course, there are… sound business reasons for a quick marriage. I need access to a specific technology. It belongs to an eccentric individual who is… let’s say, selling for sentimental reasons rather than purely financial ones.

His name is Royce. And frankly,” I add, a touch of calculated self-deprecation, “I don’t always make the best first impression.

Especially not without a… stabilizing influence. A wife.”

Diana slowly sinks down onto the edge of the plush velvet couch.

A shadow flickers across her beautiful face, and I don’t like it.

Not at all. I try to read her, to decipher the subtle shifts in her expression, but she’s already composed herself.

Mask back in place. Only her lower lip, full and soft and still slightly swollen from my kisses, trembles almost imperceptibly.

I can’t be an idiot. I can’t lunge at her right now. Can’t kiss that tremble away. Can’t beg.

Shit. I don’t know what I’ll do if she says no. I honestly don’t.

“I can… I can help you find someone suitable. If you need to impress him… with a wife… there are agencies…”

“Only one woman is suitable.” The fury, the desperation, I’ve been trying so hard to suppress breaks through, lacing my voice with a raw, ragged edge.

I force myself to look down at the intricate pattern of the Persian rug, to focus on my breathing, to regain control.

“You, Diana. You’re suitable. He’s obsessed with art. You’re an artist. It’s… perfect.”

Diana is silent for so long the air in the room becomes thick, suffocating.

I swear my skull is rearranging itself from the sheer, unbearable tension.

“I’ll compensate you, of course,” I add. “For your trouble. Your time. Generously.”

As long as I can remember, I swore to myself I’d never approach a woman through money. Never use my wealth as a lure, as a weapon. Not a single goddamn cent. But if she refuses me now… if she walks away… I won’t survive it. This is the only card I have left to play.

“Don’t,” she snaps, her head jerking up, her eyes flashing with an unexpected fire. “Don’t you dare. Of course, I’ll help you, Mykola. If it’s… if it’s truly necessary—”

“It is,” I whisper, the word ringing with a desperate, absolute conviction. “It is, Diana. More than you know. And you will be fully protected as my wife. Nobody will try to intimidate my wife . Full protection. You can forget about these bastards who hurt your sister.”

“Okay. H-how long will this… this arrangement… last? More than… say… three months?”

“W-what?” My own voice is barely audible. Three months? She’s putting an expiration date on… on this?

She falls silent again, her gaze dropping back to her hands, twisting in her lap.

It’ll last forever, Diana. Forever. Because I love you. Because I can’t live without you. Because you’re the fucking air I breathe.

“It’s… uncertain,” I force out, the lie thick and heavy on my tongue. The truth is too much. Too soon. “The deal… it could take time.”

Diana shifts uneasily on the couch, studying her hands as if they hold the answers to the universe.

“I… I can’t do more than three months, Mykola.”

“W-what? Why not?”

“I just… I just can’t,” she repeats, a strange, unfamiliar stubbornness in her tone, dragging the words out as if they physically pain her.

“Fine,” I manage, clearing my throat, though it feels like it’s full of broken glass. “Then… three months it is.”

My mind races. Three months. I have three months to convince her. To make her see. To make her… love me. Or at the very least… get used to me. To this. To us. It’s not enough time. It’s an eternity. It’s everything.

“You agree?” I cut through the suffocating silence, my voice not even sounding like my own. It’s thin. Reedy. Desperate.

“Yes,” Diana nods.

To hell with it all.

It’s not enough. It’s not fucking enough.

But it’s a start.

“Now,” I demand abruptly, the word exploding out of me. I start pacing the length of the living room, too much restless, frantic energy suddenly coursing through me. “We’re getting married. Now. ”

She stands slowly from the couch, her eyes wide, glancing around the opulent room as if she’s trying to orient herself on a ship in the middle of a hurricane.

“What… what are you talking about, Mykola?”

“Now. Now! Today. Tonight.”

I’ve never seen her so stunned. So utterly lost. Her beautiful face is a mask of confusion and disbelief. And God help me, I want to keep pulling new emotions from her. All of them. I’m like a fucking power plant; I need to charge myself on Diana Bilova just to function, just to feel alive.

“That’s… that’s impossible,” she laughs, a soft, shaky sound that does nothing to soothe the raging inferno inside me. “We don’t have any paperwork. Licenses. It’s… it’s already five o’clock.”

“Impossible?” I stop pacing, turning to face her, a wild, almost feral grin stretching my lips. “Diana, darling, nothing is impossible. We’ll be married in an hour and a half. Maybe two, tops. I’ll take care of everything. Consider it handled.”

Diana just stares at me, like I’m speaking in ancient Aramaic. Like I’ve sprouted a second head.

I can’t take it. The distance. The uncertainty. I close the space between us in three long strides, my hands reaching for her, gathering her close, pressing her soft, trembling body against mine.

“Mykola, you can’t just… get married like this. You… you need things. At the very least, you need a contract. Lawyers. Witnesses…”

“And here I thought,” I cut her off sharply, tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet my gaze, my eyes burning into hers, “the entire goddamn point of being Mykola Frez was that I can do whatever the hell I want. And I will, Diana. Whatever. I. Want.”

“Mykola…”

“Diana.” My voice is a low, possessive growl. “Now. Let’s go.”

She opens her eyes. And there’s something new there. Something… resolute. “Alright,” she says softly. “Okay. Let’s go.”

And the chaos inside me – the storm, the inferno, the abyss – for one brief, glorious, terrifying moment, aligns into perfect, breathtaking order.

She said yes .