Page 24 of Charmingly Obsessed

E verything happens so fast, a blur of sensation and escalating need.

I can only hold onto his collar, clinging to him as the pleasure, so sharp, so sudden, so utterly overwhelming, slices through me like a white-hot dagger – from the tips of my cold toes to the sensitive base of my skull.

I’m grinding against his hand, against the insistent pressure of his fingers through the fabric of my skirt. I need him so badly, so desperately, I don’t care how it looks, how shameless I am.

The empty champagne flute slips from my nerveless fingers. Frez catches it with a lightning-fast reflex, tossing it carelessly onto the plush cushions of the couch without breaking eye contact, without missing a beat.

“Good,” he nods, then nods again, a fierce, possessive satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “Good, wife. So good.” He laughs again, a strange, almost unhinged sound, right against my throat, his teeth grazing my sensitised skin. “I can’t… I just… can’t…”

“C-can’t what?”

It’s impossible to focus on anything but him. His mouth. His hands. His heat. I don’t want to know where we are. I don’t want to know what else exists… anywhere. I even try to lift his head with my own trembling hands, desperate to kiss him again, to lose myself completely in his taste, his scent.

Frez’s mouth finds mine, his breath hot and ragged against my lips. And I swear, I grow drunker, more intoxicated, with every unsteady, shared inhale.

“I want to do everything with you. But I can’t. Not yet. I’d come on too strong, and you’d run. But with you I want everything .”

His hands are everywhere. Roaming my body with a restless, urgent hunger.

A flash of white light, sharp and blinding, sears my vision as he tugs at my nipples through the fabric of my blouse, then impatiently pushes my bra aside, his fingers finding bare, aching flesh. He touches me everywhere. No hesitation. No restraint. Just… claiming.

All I can do is watch, spellbound, helpless, as his hands move over me. They’re always restless. Always searching. They drive me insane. My mind surrenders, unable to track their intentions, their trajectory.

Unpredictability, I’m rapidly learning, is woven into the very fabric of Mykola Frez’s DNA. And for someone like me, someone who craves order, control, predictability… it’s both terrifyingly intoxicating and utterly, dangerously addictive.

I don’t even realize I’ve started gasping for air, for him, don’t notice how I jolt, my whole body arching, when he lifts the hem of my skirt, his knuckles brushing against my bare thighs, pulling the fabric higher, higher…

His hands slow, then still. The soft wool of my skirt freezes at the level of my hips, exposing me to his hot, hungry gaze.

“I will—” I stammer, desperate, needy, the words tumbling out. “I will. I’ll do it. Whatever you want.”

His fingers graze the bare, sensitive skin of my inner thighs. Instinctively, shamefully, I jerk my legs together, trying to close myself off, to hide. Frez immediately lets go of my skirt, his hands falling away. And I…

“I-I didn’t mean to—” I babble, horrified by my own reflexive rejection. “I will! I’ll do it! I swear! I just… I need a minute.” It happened automatically. Reflexively. Just give me a minute. One minute. I’ll take it off myself. I will.

“Shh, Diana,” he murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle.

He turns my face to his, but I can’t meet his eyes.

I can’t bear to see the disappointment, the frustration, the…

rejection. All I can see is the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.

“I’m just… rushing things. That’s all. My fault.

” He takes a deep, steadying breath. “It’s okay, sunshine. I… I need you to look at me.”

His eyes, when I finally force myself to meet them, are so strange. So intense. A shiver, cold and sharp, runs straight through me, from my scalp to my bare feet.

Something wild, something primal, stirs deep inside me, only to be instantly sucked into the vortex of hazy, intoxicating sensuality swirling in his half-lidded gaze. Even under the threat of imminent death, I don’t think I’d be able to look away now.

The contrast is mesmerizing. The raw, almost brutal hunger burning in the depths of his eyes, and the careful, almost reverent restraint in his touch as his fingers now gently trace the curve of my cheekbone.

“Mykola…” My voice is a broken whisper.

“What, sunshine?”

“I don’t… I don’t understand you at all,” I say, though it’s not what I meant to say. Not really.

I know Mykola Frez. Or at least, I thought I did.

Not knowing him, not being aware of his presence, his power, his charisma, is impossible.

Even if we’d only ever exchanged a handful of casual, passing remarks and polite nods in the office hallways, he’s the kind of man who lays himself bare.

Or seems to. That’s his thing. His charm. His weapon.

But right now… he knows exactly what I mean.

Mykola Frez isn’t exactly what he seems. Not by a long shot.

Some vital part of him, some core truth, is so carefully, so deeply hidden, that its very secrecy makes it feel alien. Foreign. Dangerous.

“Of course you understand me.” He leans closer, his forehead resting against mine. “You know me, Diana. You know me so well it’s almost… unnerving.”

He pulls back slightly, pushing himself away from the couch, from me. He moves to the ornate antique dining table and pours himself another generous flute of champagne. He’s collected again. Composed. Relaxed. Almost… deliberately so. As if flipping a switch.

His sculpted arm, all lean muscle and tanned skin, stretches along his torso with an effortless, almost feline grace as he raises the glass. He downs the champagne in one long, smooth gulp, his eyes never leaving mine, holding me captive with their unwavering intensity.

The moment is lost. Shattered.

I’ve ruined everything. With my hesitation. My stupid, ingrained insecurities. My questions. My fear.

I’ll fix it. The thought is a desperate resolve. Right now. Right this second.

“You need it too,” I hear myself say, my voice surprisingly steady. “The… release. I’ll do it right this time. I’ll do everything right. For you.”

As I start to slide off the couch, intending to sink to my knees before him, to offer myself in the only way I know how to bridge this sudden, terrifying chasm between us, he moves. Fast. He’s there, lifting me, pulling me back against him.

“Diana.” His voice is a low warning. “Don’t.”

But I’m already unfastening the button of his jeans, my fingers fumbling with the zipper.

Maybe Frez goes still because he’s surprised by my boldness, by my sudden, desperate initiative.

But he did the same thing to me, touched me with such shocking intimacy, just a few short hours ago. Turnabout is fair play. Right?

His erection, thick and hard, presses against my seeking lips as I blindly tug the denim fabric away.

I sway slightly as he yanks me back up, hard, his grip like iron on my arms. I let out a weak, protesting cry. Not because his grip is painful – though it is – but because I didn’t expect this. This unfiltered, almost violent fury radiating from him.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice fractures over each word, sharp and dangerous. “How could you even— Don’t you dare— Get up, Diana. Now.”

“Why? You just… You should get pleasure too. Don’t you… don’t you want this?” And by the way, my traitorous brain chimes in, my face is the most attractive part of me. It really can look beautiful under the right lighting. If he’d just let me…

“Should,” he repeats, his tone strange, unreadable. He nods slightly to the side, a jerky, uncontrolled movement. “Should. How did you even think—”

I ignore him. I drop to my knees again, determined.

Whatever he was about to say gets caught in his throat, choked off by a sharp, indrawn breath. I doubt I’d be able to speak anyway. Not with the heavy, musky heat of his cock already pressed against my tongue. Not with the way I instinctively glide deeper, teasing, tasting, pressing further…

I can’t stop myself. Against every instinct of self-preservation, against every warning bell clanging in my head, I look up at him. Through my lashes.

His length is slick with my saliva. Because I don’t hesitate this time. I don’t tease. I do this right. I do this well. I don’t even notice when my free hand drifts to my own stomach, pressing against the sudden, sharp ache of longing low in my belly.

Because that’s where the warmth pools, sharp and tingling, like a thousand tiny pine needles brushing against the inside of my skin.

He lets out a sharp, guttural groan that makes me falter. Then, his nostrils flare, and he drags in a ragged lungful of air.

I resist when he tries to push me away again, tries to pull me up. But his grip on my face this time is firm, almost bruising, keeping me still.

His cock twitches against my cheek, a drop of pre-come beading at the tip.

“I’m going to hell for this,” he murmurs, his voice rough, quiet, laced with a self-loathing that mirrors my own. “And you, wife… you’re coming right along with me. For what you’ve done to me. For what you do to me.”

Weeping from the slit of his cock, spilling onto my cheek. The scent is pure male, musky and sharp. The taste, when I dart my tongue out, is salt and want.

I don’t look away. I don’t say a word. I just… take him deeper.

I stroke him with my tongue, just a little.

Slide my fingers along the hard, velvet length of him.

It’s getting harder to take him deeper, to accommodate his thickness, but I don’t stop.

I won’t stop. He’s hot and hard and fills my mouth, and I want to move, want to keep going, want to drive him over the edge.

And I want to blink less. So I don’t miss a single, fleeting second of how he looks from this angle. Raw. Undone. Utterly vulnerable.