Page 49 of His Darkest Obsession

And just how much Ilikedit.

16

INDIGO

I’m still sittingagainst the window in my wedding dress by the time the sun starts sinking in the distant sky.

On my bed, a pile of neatly folded clothes sits there, having been brought up not long after Anatoly left.

My heartbeat hasn’t returned to a semblance of normalcy yet. And my knees still feel like they’re made of rubber when I try to stand.

I’ve been sitting against the window for six fucking hours.

Six hours since he left me moaning and crying out from a pleasure that I haven’t dared to indulge myself in.

Six hours since he stared up at me like I’m a goddess to whom he kneels in supplication at the altar.

Six hours since he almostwon.

Six hours and I still can’t stop thinking about how fucking goodhe made me feel.

And how much I want him to do it again.

I spare a look outside and see stars beginning to wink into existence in the darkening sky. I’ll have to go downstairs to join him for dinner soon, and I get the feeling that if I stay in this wedding dress, he’sdefinitelygoing to win.

Fuck that.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself up to shaky knees and take one hesitant step after another until I stand in front of my bed and look down at the pile of clothes. The maid sorted them by formality. There are a number of elaborate and elegant evening gowns and cocktail dresses. But there are also plenty of casual wear. Blouses. T-shirts. Even a few pairs of comfy sweatpants.

It’s like Anatoly wasn’t sure what he wants to dress me up in, so he decided that he might as well give me all the fucking options.

Slowly, I shimmy out of my wedding dress, pick up a cream-colored T-shirt, and put it on.

It fits perfectly, because of course it fucking does.

I almost start wonderinghowthis is possiblebefore I remember that Anatoly literally had a team of seamstresses take my every measurement yesterday.

Jesus, six hours later and I still can’t think right.

Amazing what your brain can forget after a dangerous bratva pakhan just ate you out against the glass window.

Glancing down at the pile again, I choose the sweatpants over the other elegant clothes. I want something where I can feel likemeagain. But the whole time I’m putting them on, my mind can’t stop wondering whathe’sgoing to wear to dinner.

And how he’ll react when he sees me like this.

Silence swallowsus in the large dining room. Crystal chandeliers refract light across polished silverware and porcelain plates while staff move between us like ghosts, placing one steaming dish after another on the table before disappearing.

Anatoly sits at the opposite end—thank God—and unfolds his napkin with practiced grace. If he’s disappointed in the choice of clothing I’ve picked for dinner, he’s doing a damn good job of not showing it.

In fact, he hasn’t looked at me once since I sat down.

And he certainly doesn’t acknowledge what just happened upstairs six hours ago.

I should stop looking at him, but I can’t stop myself from studying his every motion with utter fascination.

His hair is back to being perfectly styled without a single strand out of place. His blue eyes watch intently as a staff pours him a glass of wine. And when it reaches the height he wants, he gives a lazy flick with his large hand, picks up the glass, and takes a slow sip.

The wine glass returns to the table, and his tongue darts out to lick away a drop of red clinging to his lips.