Page 54 of Charmingly Obsessed

S o what if I’m a little drunk? Or very drunk? Actually, I’ve never felt more lucid in my entire goddamn life.

French police – more like the Ministry of Perpetual Buzzkills, am I right? All I did was stick half my head out the window of a moving vehicle to serenade the beautiful Parisian night.

And my voice isn’t even that loud. It’s more…

enthusiastic. But no. After their stern, finger-wagging little lecture on public decorum and vehicular safety, Kolya and I had to abandon the warm, leathery cocoon of the Mercedes and a very amused-looking Hugo right then and there.

And walk the last few blocks back to the hotel. On foot. Like commoners.

Mykola’s coat, the one he’s now draped dramatically over my shoulders, is the furriest, softest thing I’ve ever touched.

I study the impossibly plush fabric with intense, drunken focus. This can’t be right. I remember his coat from earlier being smooth, sleek cashmere. Has it… spontaneously grown a new, more luxurious pelt in the last hour?

“Just one more block, sunshine,” a warm, deep, impossibly sexy voice rumbles against my ear, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps down my spine.

God, Frez’s voice is so nice. I try to match his long, confident strides – watch out for the treacherous, uneven cobblestones – but this six-foot-plus killjoy clamps me securely to his side with an arm of solid, unyielding steel. And then he snorts. A soft, suppressed sound of pure amusement.

He’s one of them, isn’t he? A secret agent for the French Ministry of Boredom. I’m surrounded by humorless, overly cautious nerds.

There’s a strange, unfamiliar sound scraping across my eardrum, like a rusty, unoiled saw. Oh, wait. That’s me. Laughing. Loudly.

At least I got the buzzkill next to me to crack a smile. A small victory for the forces of chaos and champagne.

For some reason, in the brightly lit hotel lobby, my husband pulls all of me into the magical warmth of his enormous furry coat.

Well, not all of me . I’m not the demon from that Gogol’s Christmas Eve story, the one who gets stuffed into a sack.

You can’t just stuff me in a sack. Just my face. And now my nose tickles. Intolerably.

“I demand,” I announce, my voice muffled against the plush fur, “a-a-a separate seat. In first class. For my… dignity.” The private elevator is shooting upwards now – zoom!

Higher and higher! I help the elevator along with my hands, making whooshing sounds, but Kolya, the eternal spoilsport, seems to want to slow down our glorious ascent to the heavens. Or at least, to the penthouse suite.

“Ugh,” I huff, wriggling slightly in his unyielding grip. “Now I get it. Now I finally understand why you were still single at thirty-seven, Mykola Frez.”

Fine. I’ll tilt my head to the side. If he keeps pressing those soft, tender, possessive kisses to my neck, I suppose I won’t file an official complaint with the CIA. Or the Ministry of Boredom.

Kolya fumbles with the key card for our suite.

Aha! There’s no escaping my embrace now, you magnificent bastard!

I wrap myself around him the moment the door closes behind us. Mostly. Well, almost. I try. He’s very large.

He just stares down at me, unblinking, his eyes like… like something out of deep, dark, beautiful space. Endless. And suddenly, the simple, involuntary act of blinking feels… terrifying. Like I might miss something. Something vital.

I cup his handsome, bruised face in my hands, and he leans in, pressing his forehead against mine.

“Kolya,” I whisper, my voice suddenly serious, the champagne-fueled bravado momentarily deserting me. “Are we… are we going to be together? Like, really, truly together?”

“We already are, Diana,” he says. “We’ll be together forever and ever. I promise.”

“That’s not how it works,” I mumble, a wave of disappointment, of cold, sober reality, washing over me. He gently holds my face in his large, warm hands. “I’ll… I’ll just let you down. Eventually.”

He says something then. Answers me. But what does it matter what he says?

I already know what he’s going to say. That he’s madly obsessed with me.

That I’m his sunshine, his little thief, his whatever.

Blah, blah, blah. That he fell for me three years ago and waited, pining, like some tragic hero from a romance novel.

Frez is just… sentimental like that. Underneath all the ruthless billionaire swagger.

You probably have to be this drunk to take this whole relentless, overwhelming love bombardment seriously. I stare up at the ornate, gilded ceiling light. Maybe… maybe I’m always drunk. Because I just keep believing him. I just keep letting myself hope.

“Diana,” he calls to me, his voice firm now, cutting through my hazy thoughts. “Are you listening to me? Do you hear what I’m saying?”

Ugh. Monsieur Thunderstorm is about to break into a hundred thousand volts of pure, concentrated, masculine intensity, all aimed directly at me.

Fine. I surrender.

I brush my lips against his, softly, tentatively.

I run my tongue, just once, along the seam of his mouth.

Then I nuzzle my nose against his chin, his stubble a pleasant, scratchy abrasion against my skin.

And Frez… Frez kisses me deeper. Stretching each touch, each caress, like he’s trying to make time itself longer, more elastic.

A thief of time! A thief of kisses! And time, by the way, is just another dimension of space.

According to Einstein. That’s why he wants to stretch it.

Frez is a smart one, honestly. He knows the planet moves forward, relentlessly, so time only flows in one direction.

You can’t go back to the past. The planet isn’t even there anymore!

“But I want to go back to the past,” I assure him, my voice muffled against his lips. “I really want to. Then… then you’d love me for real. The real me. Not this… this mess.”

He kisses me again and again. That’s how it all started, wasn’t it? One kiss and my whole world flipped upside down. I was shocked, terrified, and utterly captivated. Despite all the cruel things he said that first day, Frez still wormed his way under my skin.

“I do love you for real, Diana!”

God, why is he shouting? But it’s a good thing Frez is so chatty, so expressive. So… loud. I have no idea how we’d communicate otherwise. I’m such a sluggish little fish. Not a goldfish. More of a… sprat. A small, insignificant, and probably very confused sprat.

“And I love you, Kolya,” I sigh, the words slipping out, easy and true and terrifying. “But that doesn’t matter.”

Actually, I’m the only one who’s truly, properly drunk here. And I’m the only one who’s allowed to laugh, loudly and uninhibitedly.

I shove the sadist playfully in the chest, but he catches me too quickly. Not fair! Where’s my magnificent, ridiculous, bright pink parachute jacket when I need it?

“Doesn’t matter?” he murmurs into my lips, his voice a low, fervent prayer. “Just… just the whole world to me. My entire goddamn universe. You and me, Diana. We’ll move mountains together. I’ll move mountains for you. Even if you don’t love me back. But if you do…”

We slam into the suite door and he lifts me in one motion, his hands strong on my thighs. A giddy laugh escapes me and my eyes flutter shut—my god, this is happening. The anxious knot inside me is finally, finally going to unravel. I need this so badly.

Our lips keep missing in our haste, our desperation. I try to hold onto the nape of his neck more gently, to guide him.

“We’re going inside,” he mumbles against my skin. “Right now.” I moan and giggle at the same time, a sound that’s probably half-insane, half-ecstatic.

Turns out, we do make it inside. I pounce on Koly the second the door closes behind us, and now he’s the one pressed against the door, his back to the cool, polished wood. I trace his lips with my fingers, just like he always does to me. I want to do everything like him. But I don’t know how .

His whole face seems to twitch, to tighten. The sharp, aristocratic angles of his cheekbones cut even deeper, more defined, beneath his tanned skin.

“I like having sex with you,” I tell him quietly, resting my forehead against his nose, my voice suddenly, surprisingly serious. “You’re… you’re very good at it.”

I can’t keep telling the story, though, because he keeps distracting me. And somehow, in a blur of movement and sensation, he’s lifting me higher, almost tossing me up in the air!

Turns out, I’m not even wearing my coat anymore! When did that happen? My nipples are hard, aching, because Kolya is tugging at them with his lips, through the thin fabric of my blouse. I really should stop moaning. I really, really should. It’s unladylike.

“I’m going to hell for this too,” he breathes, his voice heavy, ragged.

We both fumble to get my tights off.

Kolya pushes into me against the door. I smile against his lips—slow, triumphant, and utterly shameless. His breath comes in loud, shattered gasps as he whispers a desperate, ragged litany against my skin: that he loves me, over and over. It’s so good, so overwhelming, I feel like crying.

Our moans melt into a single sound of shared release as I finally force out the words, telling him never to stop.

And then… I find myself staring up at the ceiling above our enormous, ridiculously comfortable bed.

A plain, almost boring rectangle of white.

But then it’s replaced by Kolya’s face. His hair is a wild, sexy mess.

He looks… desperate. Utterly, completely undone.

His lips are swollen, bruised from our kisses.

He’s just as naked as I am. Well, how am I not supposed to giggle at that?

He lets out a long, weary, utterly contented sigh.

“Drink some water, Diana,” he says. “And I’m not asking. I’ll make you do it in a few minutes if you keep being stubborn. Hydration is key.”

“Fine,” I wave a dismissive, boneless hand at him. “Go on, husband. Fetch the glass. Your queen is thirsty.”

But I can move on my own!

I crawl, with what I imagine is a great deal of feline grace, but is probably more like a drunken baby animal, across the vast expanse of the bed.

Good Lord, this isn’t a bed. It’s a goddamn airstrip.

What kind of miserable, sexless marriages was this thing designed for?

Then again… with a little creativity, a little imagination, maybe for very happy ones too.

I pounce on him just as he’s reaching for the carafe of water on the nightstand. His hands, strong and sure, catch my waist.

“You need a pass,” I inform him, my voice very serious, official. “An automated, pre-approved, all-access pass. I can fill out all the necessary paperwork for you. I’m very good at paperwork.”

“What pass?” He raises a questioning eyebrow, his eyes half-closing, as if to avoid seeing… too much of me. Too much of my drunken, naked absurdity.

“To hell, of course.” I tap an admonishing finger against his ridiculously sculpted chest. “If you plan to visit so often, I can certainly help you streamline the paperwork.”

“Oh, you’ll help, alright,” he mutters, saying something else I don’t quite catch. Something that sounds suspiciously like, “You’re the one dragging me there.”

I stroke his broad shoulders, then let my fingers trail down to his chest. He’s like… marble. Warm, living, breathing marble.

“You’re burning up,” I laugh.

“Not nearly as much as you, wife.” He always says “wife” in such a pleasant, satisfying voice. Soft. Possessive. Like a secret that’s finally been let out into the world.

“I barely drank anything, husband,” I remind him primly.

“You really didn’t,” he agrees, his voice laced with an amusement that’s so fond, so tender, it makes my heart ache.

I feel like I should be self-conscious about him staring so intensely at my naked body, at my… flaws. But I’ll think about that later. Right now… he’s already touching me again. Slowly. Deliberately. Stretching time out again, that clever, manipulative thief.

“I hate,” I say suddenly, the words surprising even me, “that everything got so… awkward. Earlier. With the undressing. And, you know… with my chest.” I shift against him, the movement restless, uncomfortable. “Sometimes, I just… I freeze up. I can’t help it.”

“Oh, yes, a pair of perky, sinful breasts with absolutely perfect puffy nipples are a true tragedy, Diana,” he sighs dramatically, covering his eyes with his palm for a moment, before wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.

“A cross to bear. Especially when a poor, unsuspecting, and very appreciative man finally gets to see them.”

“You don’t get it!” I protest, pushing playfully at his shoulder.

“I doubt that. But I believe you.” He’s serious now, his gaze soft and tender. “In fifteen years, I’m sure you’ll finally explain it all to me in excruciating detail. Now, come here, my beautiful and complicated snijynka.”

Ugh. Snijynka. Snowflake. That nickname.

We roll over in a tangle of limbs and laughter, landing with Kolya looking down at me. But his attention isn’t on me; it’s on a stray curl that has fallen across my face. He twists it around his finger with a small, thoughtful smile.

“I need you to focus, Diana.” His voice becomes serious again, that authoritative CEO tone returning. “Answer me clearly. Where exactly is this ‘there’ you wanted to go back to? The place where I supposedly loved you… ‘for real’?”

“The past,” I whisper, avoiding his intense, searching gaze.

His fingers brush my cheek, light as air. “Diana… what did I do to deserve this lack of trust? Why won’t you explain things to me?” His voice is low, laced with a raw pain that makes my own heart ache. “I love you, snijynka ,” he murmurs, kissing my cheek. “The you that’s right here, right now.”

“Maybe I just want to stretch time, too,” I whisper back drunkly.

A shiver runs down my spine as our lips meet again.

“In the world of big money,” he whispers against my hair in a hypnotic rumble, “there’s only one thing everyone—and I mean everyone —truly wants to buy. But it’s not for sale. No one can sell you time .”

“And yet everyone tries,” I murmur, my gaze drifting around the opulent, unfamiliar room as if searching for an escape route. “I think I’m sobering up… and falling asleep.”

His strong hands tighten around my wrists. I look at him one last time with half-closed eyes, unable to miss the tension in his clenched jaw.

“I’d give away everything to buy just one more hour right now,” he says, his voice a low, rough whisper against my skin. “Just one more hour of you like this.”

“I’m right here,” I mumble, my eyelids growing heavy. “Not going anywhere, Mykola. I…”