Page 34 of Charmingly Obsessed
The exquisite warmth coiled inside me shatters into millions of burning needles, piercing my soul with pure ecstasy. I can only moan through pressed lips, desperately trying to bite back the sound.
“Kolya,” I try to utter, my voice shaken, breathless, attempting to articulate everything I feel, everything he makes me feel. “I… it… Oh, God, Kolya…”
He can’t catch his breath either. He’s still frozen above me, inside me, his powerful body trembling with the aftershocks.
But he’s still watching me. His eyes, those incredible, turbulent blue eyes, are fixed on my face.
Frez wants to say something too. I can feel it. The words unspoken, hanging heavy in the air between us. But he can’t. Not yet.
I slowly run my palm over the strong column of his throat. A shudder runs through him as he closes his eyes. When I kiss his neck, he lifts my hand to his lips, first kissing my knuckles, then my palm. He breathes into my skin—fast, heavy, and ragged—as if pulling oxygen from my very touch.
“I was going to send them something more intense first,” he finally murmurs, his breathing evening out as he presses his forehead to mine. “Something more… me. Maybe then you would’ve kicked the goddamn door down sooner.”
“Why didn’t you just say that to me,” I ask in a small, vulnerable voice, “before the whole world knew?”
I don’t like the way I sound, hearing myself from the outside. I sound like I’m whining. Like a child.
God, he just admitted he’s obsessed with me. Or something dangerously close to it. I think I might need a few more lifetimes to… to fully process that.
“Just like that.” He sighs, the sound weary and self-deprecating. “Yeah. I was going to say it this morning.”
He turns his head away for a moment, staring out at the glittering city lights before looking back at me. His eyes are dark and serious.
“But you cut me off. Right away. Saying you were leaving. Again. And I knew…” He pauses. “I just knew you wouldn’t believe me. Not then. And then the PR agency sent over those boilerplate press release questions, and I… Why the hell should I lie to them? To anyone? Anymore?”
He snaps suddenly, his fists clenching at his sides. “I didn’t want to put pressure on you. Not in your house. Not then.”
“Yeah, sure. No pressure at all.” I can’t help the sarcasm that creeps into my voice. “Also… we got married because you needed to impress Royce. That’s the deal. Right?”
“Really?” His voice carries heavy, weary mockery.
“Well, maybe I mentioned that. Once. As a plausible cover story.” He leans forward slightly.
“I also seem to recall mentioning that I can’t fucking stop when I see you.
When I touch you. When I’m near you. Would you have agreed to marry me ‘just like that’ if I’d led with that particular truth, Diana? ”
I can only stare at him, stunned into silence.
He looks so comfortable now. So relaxed lounging on his ridiculously expensive velvet couch, still mostly naked, still glistening with our shared sweat.
It’s the complete, jarring opposite of when he suddenly takes on the appearance of a borderline madman, all sharp edges and coiled, dangerous energy. And that, that is not an exaggeration.
“Shit,” I whisper finally. “I fucked this up, didn’t I? Completely…”
He looks me over then. A slow, leisurely, possessive appraisal that makes my skin heat all over again. I realize my borrowed hoodie is bunched up around my waist and my legs are still bare. I blush, fumbling to pull the soft fabric down to cover myself.
Honestly, trying to maintain any semblance of dignity while essentially naked on his couch—after he’s just claimed me in every way imaginable and then casually dropped an “obsession” bomb—is incredibly, ridiculously difficult.
His gaze drifts to my discarded jacket—a violently pink parachute monstrosity, currently lying in a heap on his priceless Persian rug. He deliberately scrutinizes the thousand plastic rhinestones still clinging stubbornly to it.
A lazy, teasing amusement laces his voice when he finally speaks. “I have to admit, I’m surprised at how quickly you’ve… embraced a new sartorial style. Post-nuptials. Very… bold.”
I open my mouth to explain, to defend my temporary lapse in fashion judgment. But instead of telling him about the boutique, about the emergency coat purchase, about my torn trench, I just start laughing. A real laugh. Shaky at first, then stronger. Louder. Almost happy?
Frez grins, that devastating, full-wattage smile that could melt polar ice caps.
He pulls me down onto the soft, hairy carpet with him. We land in a tangle of limbs and flushed, breathless laughter.
Then he takes my hideous pink jacket from me, holding it up for inspection.
“Better admit it.” I try to sound serious though my lips are still twitching. “You liked it. You wanted it for yourself. The rhinestones really bring out the blue in your eyes.”
“I wasn’t raised that way, sunshine. I fully intend to add to my wife’s wardrobe, not deplete it.” His voice drops to a low, suggestive murmur. “Though I am going to declare a permanent ban on certain obstacles.” He playfully bites my chin. “Like panties, for example. Consider them retired.”
The carpet is surprisingly soft, almost sinfully plush beneath my bare skin.
He orders us Italian food from some ridiculously expensive place that probably delivers via armed motorcade. And then he proceeds to be surprisingly, endearingly surprised that I actually like pizza. Pepperoni, no less.
He’s a calculating bastard, though. Even in this. He perfectly estimates the delivery time. And a lot of expensive, antique Persian rug fuzz gets thoroughly embedded in my hair. Because he, it turns out, very much enjoys being on top.
I don’t know where this sudden, ravenous appetite came from – the sex, the emotional upheaval, the sheer relief – but the food settles in my stomach like a comforting anchor.
I start avoiding my husband’s intense, unwavering gaze though.
Because it’s suddenly, abundantly clear that he’s not obsessed with me.
He’s obsessed with every single bite of greasy, cheesy, pepperoni-laden pizza that goes into my mouth.
He’s watching me eat with a focused, almost predatory intensity that’s both unnerving and incredibly hot.
“Stop it.” I whisper finally, pushing the empty pizza box away. I move the stack of paper napkins to another spot on the low coffee table, needing to break the spell.
He looks like he’s about to say something important, but then he changes his mind. A flicker of uncertainty crosses his face.
“What were you going to say?”
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, inserting a straw into my now-empty milkshake cup. I pretend to search for a non-existent last drop.
“Something smart. And supposedly beautiful. Poetic, even. But you, my dear wife, are impossible to seduce with mere words. You get so flustered. So adorably embarrassed.” He sighs dramatically. “And I don’t want this to stop. Ever.”
“I’m not always embarrassed.” I protest, though my cheeks are probably flaming again. “I just… I can’t always express an emotion exactly. Directly. The way it feels inside.”
“Many artists become artists precisely for that reason, Diana. To find a way to express the things that simple words can’t touch. You still have very expressive eyes, you know.”
“You don’t know how expressive they are. You can’t possibly know how many emotions I go through in a single minute, and then try to compare that to what little actually shows on the outside.”
“I’d like to know, though. One day. I’d like to know all of it.
” He looks up at me then, his expression suddenly serious, vulnerable.
“You drive me crazy. In all the best and worst possible ways. I’d like to find words for this, for us, that aren’t ripped straight from some cheesy, over-the-top melodrama. ”
I can’t help but smile. Then laugh. Especially when he dramatically clutches his chest, feigning a heart attack.
“She’s laughing. She’s laughing, and I…”
“Kolya,” I interrupt gently, a genuine smile spreading across my face, “your heart’s not on that side.”
“Ah.” He blinks, then grins. “I now have two, apparently. One for the modest, talented artist. And the other, much larger and significantly more problematic one, for my passionate, insatiable little thief.”
“I want to know too,” I say, my voice suddenly serious, quiet. “About you. The real you. All of it. Even though you always say it doesn’t matter.”
His gaze fixes on me, sharp, focused, fully present.
It’s like he’s calculating something again, weighing options, assessing risks. Then, just as quickly, it fades.
The intensity recedes.
And it’s as if that tense, vulnerable moment never happened.