Page 25 of Charmingly Obsessed

He lifts his champagne flute to his lips, his hand surprisingly steady.

There’s nothing playful in his gaze now, nothing light or teasing.

Just a dark, consuming intensity. He drinks it all in one go.

Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a surprisingly rough, uncharacteristically unrefined gesture.

Then he jerks his arm to the side – a harsh, resigned, almost violent movement – and the crystal flute crashes to the marble floor. Shatters into a thousand glittering fragments.

The sound, sharp and explosive, should snap me out of it. Should send me scrambling back.

But instead, I tighten my grip on the waistband of his jeans, like something inside me has been set off, ignited by his recklessness, by his barely suppressed violence.

I let out a soft, broken moan when he stops me again, his hands tangling in my hair, pulling my head back.

He curses, the words filthy, shocking, and it makes me blush – not because of the weight of him still heavy on my tongue, but because of the sheer, unadulterated want in his voice.

“Mykola,” I protest, my voice muffled, but he doesn’t force me up this time.

He kisses me. Deep and dirty and desperate. His tongue tangling with mine, tasting of champagne and himself and me. Until I can’t stop myself from moaning into his mouth, a helpless, keening sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

I try to wipe the lingering slickness from my chin with the back of my hand, but he knocks it away impatiently.

“You like this?” I nuzzle against his stubbled cheek, my body pliant, pliant, like some desperate, blind creature seeking only his touch, his heat. “D-do you like it, Mykola?”

He only answers after letting me go on my knees again, after pulling back enough to look down at me, his eyes blazing.

“‘Like’ isn’t quite the fucking word, Diana,” he whispers.

His cock, engorged and heavy, bobs in front of my face again. The dark pink, almost purple head is flushed, glistening. A fresh, pearlescent drop of pre-come beads at the slit, catching the low, ambient light, before streaking slowly, tantalizingly, across my cheek.

My eyes flutter, barely open, as fresh waves of heat and shivers roll through me, colliding in a riot of sensation. My body feels like it’s simultaneously on fire and encased in ice.

I clutch at the hem of his expensive, now unbuttoned shirt, but my head moves faster than my fingers, seeking him out again. I moan, a messy, wet, uninhibited sound, and his thickness stretches my lips, fills my mouth, even more.

His fingers, tangled in my hair, shift, moving to my hand, the one still gripping his shirt. He intertwines our fingers, his grip strong, possessive, and holds my hand tightly in his.

Then, with a groan that seems ripped from the very depths of his soul, he pulls himself from my mouth.

I don’t let myself catch my breath. I only try, futilely, to wipe my chin dry with the back of my other hand.

Who would’ve thought Mykola Frez, the master of control, the king of cool composure, could be such a stubborn, thick-headed, beautifully unraveled ass?

“Stop. Stop stopping me!” I breathe, my chest rising and falling erratically, my body thrumming with unspent energy.

“Shh,” he hushes me, his fingertips teasing my swollen lips, a slow, torturous caress. “Four. You’ll take four more strokes. Just four. I’m sorry, sunshine. But I need this.”

I don’t even have time to process his words, to understand the desperate plea in his eyes.

When he groans, a long, low sound, rolling his hips, driving himself deep into my throat. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Each thrust a brand, a claim, a possession.

When I choke on my own broken, incoherent sounds, his cock slipping free for a torturous second before resting, heavy and slick, against my lips…

…and then he spills over me. Hot, pulsing bursts of release. Again and again and again.

I gasp for air, for him, like I’ve just surfaced from drowning in a sea of pure sensation. The thick, sticky heat lands on my forehead, my cheekbones, my nose, my lips. There’s so much of it. It drips down my chin, slow and viscous, tasting of him, of salt, of sin.

I lift my eyes to his. And he looks… he looks like he’s just inhaled an entire fucking planet. As if he’s grown too massive, too powerful, for this room, for this city. His wild, untamed energy fills the space, crackling, vibrating, threatening to consume everything in its path.

Frez wipes away the drops of his release only from my lips. With his thumb. Slowly. Deliberately. His gaze never leaving mine.

And then he devours my mouth. A deep, restless, all-consuming kiss. Lifting me by the nape of my neck as if I weigh nothing more than a newborn kitten.

Pulling me up, up, until I’m standing before him, trembling, pliant, utterly his.

Of course, embarrassment, hot and sharp, creeps in when he finally, finally pulls back. But maybe the champagne has truly, irrevocably gone to my head. Because he still won’t let me go. His arm is a band of steel around my waist, holding me flush against him. And so… I don’t faint. Not yet.

I glance around vaguely, searching for something, anything, to wipe myself with. My spine feels like molten wax, when his mouth finds my throat again, licking, nipping, whispering something incoherent but devastatingly, deliciously good against my sensitised skin.

“W-where are the napkins? I need to… I need to wipe it off.”

At first, Frez simply ignores my request, his attention solely focused on tasting, exploring, branding every inch of my neck, my collarbones.

Then, he leans back slightly against the edge of the dining table, reaches for the nearly empty champagne bottle, and takes a long, slow swig straight from it.

He says nothing. Just watches me. His eyes dark, possessive, still blazing with that untamed fire.

With every passing second, I feel less and less like myself. More and more like… his. The perfect way to disappear – just shrink and dissolve from shame. And desire.

He… he isn’t going to get me a napkin. He isn’t going to offer me so much as a damp cloth. He wants me like this. Marked. Claimed. His.

I snatch the champagne bottle from his loosened grip and take a defiant swig myself. Just a little. Drinking too much is never a good idea for me. It usually ends in… catastrophe.

Giving my brand-new, temporary, billionaire husband a blowjob on his antique Persian rug in his opulent living room is nothing compared to how badly things can get when I really let go.

Frez unbuttons his shirt. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes never leaving mine. In their depths, I see the hell he never stops warning me about. That deep, chaotic abyss, staring back at the world, shimmering with the promise of untamed destruction. And exquisite pleasure.

He slides the soft, expensive fabric off his broad shoulders. It must have cost more than my last year’s salary. He holds it out to me. Silently.

I manage to wipe my face, my neck, just before the chaos, the beautiful, terrifying chaos that is Mykola Frez, reaches for me again with those greedy, possessive hands.

He spins me around roughly, his arm snaking across my torso, pinning my arms to my sides, forcing me forward, marching me out of the living room.

I guess this is how we walk now. His prisoner. His prize. His… wife.

“We’re going in here, in my bedroom,” he mutters darkly against my ear. “Right now. Because enough… enough is fucking enough.”

“Is this,” I let out a nervous, shaky laugh, because I’m teetering on the verge of hysteria, and that kind of fear, that kind of adrenaline, is a direct, express shortcut to recklessness, “supposed to be our wedding night ?” Nothing left to lose now.

“Looks like there are two goddamn comedians in this family now,” he says, his voice completely deadpan, devoid of humor.

His grim, serious tone, so unlike his usual charming banter, perversely turns me on even more. I cling to the insane, intoxicating hope that I’m the one making him like this. This undone. This… real.

“Wedding night,” he continues, his voice a low growl in my ear, “because you just became my wife. And because it’s night. Logical, no?”

“Mykola,” I nearly whimper, my knees threatening to buckle.

His hand, the one not pinning me against him, moves over my stomach, then lower, cupping me possessively through my skirt.

Grasping, releasing, grasping, releasing.

A silent, potent promise of what’s to come.

Then, as we round the corner into a dimly lit hallway I haven’t seen before, he lifts me slightly, effortlessly, carrying me the rest of the way.

My back is pressed tight against his hard, muscular chest. His erection is a thick, insistent pressure against my backside.

“Push.”

He nudges my head slightly with his own as we stop in front of a massive double door, set with heavy slabs of what looks like solid gray stone, inlaid into deep, rich cherry wood.

His finger slides over a nearly invisible scanner set into the wall beside the door. A faint green light blinks.

“This one doesn’t open and close automatically like the others. Our bedroom door… it locks. Manually.” He pauses, his lips brushing my earlobe. “Push it, Diana. Open it.”