Page 36 of Charmingly Obsessed

T he tray, laden with what I can only assume is Frez’s attempt at a romantic breakfast-in-bed, appears first.

Then he comes into view, his face scrubbed clean of battle grime but still bearing the faint, purplish evidence of a broken nose. His sandy hair is damp from a shower, clinging to his temples. He looks… domesticated. Almost.

And with every deliberate, impossibly graceful step he takes towards the bed where I’m currently hiding beneath a mountain of expensive duvet, my laughter grows.

It starts as a small, quiet tremor in my chest, then bubbles up, quiet but uncontrollable, escaping my lips in soft, helpless giggles.

“Oh, so you haven’t even taken a single bite yet, and you’re already laughing at my culinary prowess? Harsh, wife. Very harsh.”

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t stop. The sheer absurdity of it all – the fight, the courthouse, the wedding, the mind-blowing sex, and now this, a billionaire with a broken nose serving me breakfast in his palatial bed – it’s all just… too much.

I keep laughing, and Mykola, with a predatory glint in his eye, pushes me gently onto my back, his body following mine down onto the mattress.

He steals every last bit of laughter from my lips with a kiss.

A deep, thorough, possessive kiss that tastes of coffee and mint and him.

Some rich man, huh? Stealing a woman’s laughter.

I don’t even try to catch my breath when he finally lifts his head.

He just looks down at me, his eyes filled with an amused, almost tender persistence.

His hands, large and warm, settle on my waist, gripping me through the soft cashmere of the hoodie.

“My hands are cold,” he murmurs, his thumbs stroking circles against my skin, sending shivers chasing down my spine.

“I’ll warm them up,” I whisper back, surprising myself with my own boldness. I pull his hands towards me, sandwiching them between my own, rubbing them with an exaggerated, playful determination.

He presses me deeper into the mattress, our faces now impossibly close, his breath warm against my cheek. “I know you’re scared, Diana. Still. But you shouldn’t be. Not with me. Never with me.”

His hands slip beneath the hem of the hoodie, his fingers splaying against my bare skin. Moving higher than they did yesterday in the kitchen, higher than they wandered last night in the intoxicating darkness.

Slow, unhurried, almost reverent touches spread across my ribs, the sensitive skin of my stomach, the underside of my breasts. Chaotic. Effortless. Unplanned.

“I’m just… used to it,” I whisper. “To being scared. It’s… it’s always been this way. With… with everything. Now it… it always is this way, and I’ve never… I’ve never…”

“You’ve never been married before either, right?” His nose grazes the sensitive shell of my ear, his breath a warm caress. “And now you are. To me.”

His thumbs brush over my nipples, which are already tight, aching, straining against the soft cashmere.

His palms trace agonizingly gentle, almost torturous circles around them. The contrast between the unexpected roughness of his calloused fingertips and the exquisite tenderness of his touch sends a deep, molten ache through my veins.

Overwhelmed by a fierce surge of sensation, I instinctively press closer to his tense body. His voice is a low, husky rumble against my skin as he teases, “What a diligent, insatiable little thief I have here.”

I jerk when he unexpectedly gives my breasts a firm, possessive squeeze. Before I can even register annoyance, he laughs against my ear—a warm, pleased, utterly masculine sound. Then his hand drifts lower, spreading heat down my back to study the curve of my spine and the swell of my ass.

Mykola pulls his hands out from under my hoodie, his fingers tangling in my hair, tilting my head back. He kisses my nose. Softly. Playfully. “Time to eat, wife.” He sits me up, adjusting my position against the mountain of pillows, settling the heavy silver tray more comfortably across my lap.

I try to push down the wave of embarrassment that washes over me.

It’s uncomfortable how much he fusses, how much he sees .

I’m glad he hasn’t seen my actual passport and doesn’t suspect I’m thirty-three—such a disgrace.

This ridiculous, childish inability to accept kindness is exactly why I avoid relationships, because my own awkward and insecure behavior is inevitable.

Oh god. There’s actual, visible flour toasted into the omelet. And it’s… slightly burnt on one side.

“It’s delicious,” I say, forcing a bright, convincing smile, bravely taking a bite. He even added spinach.

“Doubt it’s very good,” he sighs, though his eyes are still twinkling with that possessive amusement. “But thanks for humoring me. Probably nothing compared to what you make. You’re practically a professional chef, aren’t you? With those pastries…”

“No.” I shake my head after finally managing to swallow the slightly rubbery, spinach-and-flour-infused bite of omelet. “I just… I bake to relax. To cope. I only really work with dough. And I do love making crepes.”

“And does it help? The baking? The relaxing?”

“Yes,” I nod, then again, a little more emphatically.

Then, on a sudden, impulsive whim, I lean over and kiss his cheek, a quick, light brush of my lips against his stubbled skin.

In thanks for breakfast. For… everything.

He lazily, possessively, runs his hand along my bare leg, from my ankle all the way up to mid-thigh, his touch sending another jolt of illicit heat through me.

“You’ll have to teach me, then. I think… I think I need to learn how to relax too. Urgently.”

He definitely has the opposite kind of neuroses from me – his are all sharp edges and coiled, restless energy.

But of course, I’ll teach him. Or try to.

It’ll probably be a complete, unmitigated disaster.

But with him, I’m rapidly discovering, even disasters are…

strangely, exhilaratingly funny. Everything seems funny to me now.

Like I’ve caught whatever contagious, slightly unhinged madness he’s got.

“So,” I begin, taking another, slightly less terrifying bite of omelet. “Today’s New Year’s Eve, and…”

“Yes, obviously it’s New Year’s Eve. We’ve officially been married for one whole, glorious, life-altering day. Champagne is definitely in order. Again.”

“I meant… Serafima Pylypivna’s New Year’s celebration,” I clarify, feeling my cheeks heat again. “A-are you… are you coming? Tonight?”

I fight the sudden, desperate urge to chew on my fingernails and just stare at him instead, waiting.

“Ah.” He hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough.

A small, almost apologetic smile touches his lips.

“I have… urgent business. Tonight, unfortunately. A prior commitment I can’t break.

But I’ll send you and Grandma Serafima some…

appropriate treats. So you don’t miss my brilliant, sparkling presence too much. ”

Grandma Serafima? He’s clearly trying to gauge whether I’m upset. Disappointed. But I can’t bring myself to show that kind of emotion openly. Not to him. Not yet. Of course, I’m upset. Of course, I’m disappointed.

But I just nod, forcing another polite, brittle smile.