Page 46 of Charmingly Obsessed

I order myself to stand still.

An iron command, issued from a part of my brain that still, miraculously, functions on logic and self-preservation.

Stand still, you son of a bitch, while she comes to you.

She moves closer. Slowly. Tentatively. As if crossing a minefield. Her hands, those small, delicate, artist’s hands, shift uncertainly in front of her, fingers curling with a nervous tension that I can feel in my own gut.

The simple gold wedding band, the one we bought in that surreal, velvet-draped room, gleams dully in the dim, intimate light of the Parisian suite.

It sits too loose against her skin. A constant, infuriating reminder of how precarious, how…

temporary, this all is. It needs resizing.

Cut down, the excess gold melted away, then fused back together. Made permanent. Just like us.

My wife. She’s methodical, precise, almost clinical in all things… except touch. In touch, she is hesitant. Unsure. Almost fearful. Perhaps that responsibility, the responsibility of teaching her how to touch, how to be touched, should fall to me.

There’s little I despise more in this world than obligations, than responsibilities. But Diana… Diana is different.

She is diligent. Focused. And, hell, she’s so damn strong, so resilient, it feels like she’s impossible to truly ruin. And I don’t want to ruin her. God, I don’t. But maybe… just maybe… I’ll be able to stop wanting to completely, utterly consume her in about ten years. Maybe.

She stills, her breath catching, when I brush the back of my hand, ever so lightly, over her face.

Her cheek is soft, warm, flushed. From the outside, a casual observer might think this is a gentle, soothing gesture.

But in reality… in reality, I’m stopping myself.

Trying to calm the ravenous, possessive beast that’s been clawing at the inside of my ribcage since the moment she walked into my life.

There isn’t another bastard like me in the entire goddamn world.

I married her under the false, calculated pretense of logic, of business.

A means to an end. And I played the part of the noble, reluctantly pragmatic man so well.

I always did excel at playing the noble man. It’s a useful, effective mask.

It doesn’t matter how many digits flash on a computer screen, before or after the decimal point. Money isn’t real if no one believes in it. It’s just… numbers. Data. And feelings… feelings aren’t real unless they’re shown. Unless they’re acted upon.

I’ve always loved this game – the high-stakes world of finance, of corporate takeovers, of strategic manipulation. Only because I knew, with an arrogant, unshakeable certainty, how to win it.

Turns out, losing – or at least, the terrifying, exhilarating prospect of losing everything – is far more intoxicating.

I just don’t want to play anymore. Not those games.

When it comes to her. I want this to be simple.

Primitive. Black and white. Stupid and instinctual.

Want thoughts clipped short, sharp, like the satisfying thud of a rubber stamp on the marriage certificate.

Decisions made on pure impulse. Each day, each moment, lived as if it were the last.

She unfastens the zipper of my jeans. The sound is shockingly loud in the quiet room.

I keep stroking her face, tilting her chin up slightly with my thumb. Diana doesn’t resist, though her own touch, as her hands come to rest on my stomach, is hesitant, uneven.

She’s preparing herself. Adjusting. Her fingers shift, guiding my hard cock, a silent, almost imperceptible invitation. And then her gaze, those incredible blue-gray eyes, flicks up to mine.

As if she’s waiting for some damn instruction. For me to tell her what to do. And she’s not going to ask out loud. She’s afraid.

I look down at her, at her parted lips, at the dawning desire in her eyes. And at the last possible second, I move away. Just an inch. Breaking the connection.

Her expression remains unchanged.

That same infuriating, captivating mask of calm composure that makes her appear so effortlessly, so elegantly, put-together to the rest of the world.

But I always wait. I always watch. For the moment her eyes betray her. For the tiny, fleeting flicker of contradiction, of confusion, of raw emotion that cracks the carefully constructed surface.

Only then, only when I see her unravel, just a little, for me, do I feel steady beneath my own feet.

My hand skims over her soft, beautiful face again. She exhales, a soft, shaky sound of surrender. Obedient. And prepares herself again.

The moment I feel the first, feather-light graze of her lips against the head of my cock, I redirect her. Again. I trace the full, soft outline of her mouth with my fingers. Denying us both.

“Mykola?” Diana’s voice is a breathy, uncertain whisper. She hesitates.

Welcome to a game without rules, wife.

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you after this?”

She nods slowly, a few golden-brown strands of her silky hair brushing against her cheek. Her face is smooth, almost cat-like in its delicate, heart-shaped contours.

Soon, all of it will be marked by me. Bruised by my mouth. Stained by my release.

Yes, I’m going to come right on her face and watch my cum drip from her lips.

“Do you know why?”

“You… you like it… because—” she falters, her brow furrowing slightly as she struggles to piece together the right, logical, Diana-esque answer.

I turn my head slightly, exhaling sharply through my nose. I need something to anchor me. Something solid beneath my feet.

I force myself to stand still. I want to flip everything inside out. Myself. This room. Diana. The whole fucking world. I want to turn it all upside down, shake it until all the secrets, all the fears, all the insecurities, fall out.

But I have to wait. Or it will all crumble. She needs structure. Predictability. At least in fragments. At least the illusion of order. I have to give that to her. I have to be patient. But…

I’ve waited so long . Three goddamn years. Every day has been the same gray, monotonous, Diana-less hell. And it’s not just that I love her. It’s that Diana Bilova is, without a single doubt, the most fascinating, complex, infuriating, captivating creature I’ve ever known.

And to understand her, to truly know her, without breaking her… I have to wait . The one thing in this world I do worst .

“Do you ever just… do what you want, Diana?” My whisper makes her shudder, a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor that runs through her entire body.

I clench my teeth against a surge of raw, possessive need and lift her chin with my fingers, forcing her to meet my gaze.

“Yes,” she whispers back, her eyes wide, honest. “Yes. I like everything… everything you do to me.”

Her lips, full and soft and still slightly swollen, part slightly.

The faint, pearlescent smear of her lip gloss, from our earlier gallery outing, glistens at the edges.

“How about,” I murmur, my voice a low, seductive purr, “you do it all yourself this time? Everything you want. To me.”

Her throat moves as she swallows, a delicate, vulnerable movement that makes my own cock twitch.

I gather her soft, silky hair at her nape, feeling the tension coil and tighten within her. Because I want to kiss every last shred of hesitation from her lips. I want to devour her. But I need to wait.

Every moment with her, a beautiful, torturous mirage.

“Okay,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible. A surrender. A promise.

I no longer feel my own hand against her skin, though she moves more intently now, her small, clever hands finding my cock again.

And I hold still. Waiting.

What a fucking fool I was. Back then. Imagined it all – the proper courtship, the big wedding, the white veil.

Just like my parents. At first, I just prayed she’d at least talk to me.

Then, that she’d kiss me. Then, that she’d tell me things.

Her secrets. Her dreams. Then, that she’d moan my name.

Then, that she’d marry me. More and more and more. Deeper and deeper.

But marriage alone… it isn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

Diana grips my belt with one hand, a stray, golden curl falling over her cheek. I brush it away, then squeeze her palm in mine. Just like last time. The time I want to repeat every single goddamn day for the rest of my miserable, beautiful life.

She wraps her lips around the head of my cock and begins to suck with a sweet, studious concentration. Reverently and slow.

“You’re good at this,” I force out, my voice thick, strained.

She falters for a second, blinking hard, her focus blurring. Then she doubles down, her movements more confident now, more determined.

I stroke the back of her hand. My thumb brushes over the rough, puckered skin of her burn scar. The texture is unchanged. Unhealed. Just like the goddamn burn inside my own chest. The one she inflicted on me three years ago, without ever even knowing it.

I feel nothing, tactically. I’m paralyzed by emotion. Numb. Except…

Only at the tip, at the head of my cock, does the pleasure finally flare up, searing hot, sharp as a brand, when her warm, wet tongue finally, finally drags its full, glorious length along me.

And rea l pleasure, I’m rapidly rediscovering, is just like pain. Sharp and merciless and all-consuming.

I can only watch. And fear. What comes next. Because for the first time in a very, very long time, I honestly don’t know.

She trusts me. At least, a little. And I’m holding on to that fragile trust with everything I have.

I will reshape myself, remold myself, into someone made only for her.

Someone who can let her unfold slowly, shyly, like a rare, delicate bud opening its petals to the sun.

Without tearing her apart in my haste, in my greed.

“Diana,” I whisper, my voice hoarse, raw. “You’re… you’re fucking perfect.”

Her long, dark lashes tremble against her cheek. The visible tension in the graceful column of her throat, as she swallows, pierces straight through my heart. No. I can’t take this. No, no, no…

She feels me, her attention utterly focused, absorbed, her movements skillful.

A cascade of ragged, breathless moans breaks from her lips as she slides them away from my cock and angles my straining length towards her beautiful, flushed face.

And I come. Silently. A hot, violent, uncontrollable flood of pure, white-hot electricity coursing through my veins.

Covering her entire face. Her cheeks. Her nose. Her lips.

I must be pulling her head up higher, towards me, because she flinches slightly as the hot, sticky warmth of my cum coats her closed eyes. But I can’t be sure.

I can’t be sure of anything.

I can’t be sure when I take the discarded, ridiculously expensive linen napkin from the nightstand and gently wipe her face clean, though I deliberately don’t let her wipe it all away.

I can’t be sure when my hands grip the soft, yielding flesh of her thighs, my fingers digging in, leaving marks, like an animal’s claws.

I can’t be sure when I press her against my chest so tightly, so possessively, that she exhales in a soft, shuddering gasp.

“If you want something, Diana,” I murmur against her hair, my voice steady now, despite the violent trembling that still wracks my body, “you say it. If you don’t want something, you say it.

But if you want me to do something to you …

again…” I pause, letting the words hang in the air, heavy with promise, with threat. “You’ll have to beg.”

“Alright,” she tries to sound firm, her voice a little shaky. “Alright.”

I fuck her until dawn. And I make love to her, too.

I switch between them, between the raw, brutal claiming and the slow, tender worship, just to burn myself out, to exhaust this relentless, three-year-old ache, by morning.

I’ve always liked sex. But the past three years…

they turned me into a goddamn recluse. A monk.

Because emotions, I discovered, are far more potent, far more addictive, than any casual, meaningless fuck.

The thought of sluggishly, dutifully dragging myself to bed with someone who wasn’t her…

it repulsed me. But I’ve had a damn good, and very reliable, mistress all these years – forty-degrees to dive into. Vodka.