Page 37 of Sweet Obsession (Savage Vow #1)

Nikolai scrambled for the door, muttering, “Touchy. You try to help one emotionally tortured couple and suddenly you’re the villain...”

The door slammed behind him.

I blinked. Then...

I laughed.

It slipped out of me like breath after drowning. An actual laugh. Light, real, absurd.

Misha stared like I’d grown a second head.

“What?” I asked, breathless.

“You’re laughing.”

“I know. It’s horrifying.”

A flicker of a smile ghosted over his mouth.

And just like that, the air shifted again.

Not back to sadness. Not quite.

But something lighter. Something real.

I stepped toward the easel, placed my hand on the untouched canvas.

My voice was quiet, but steady. “Tell Nikolai if he touches another one of my sketchbooks, I will murder him. Slowly. With pastel pencils.”

Misha smirked. “I’ll make sure he suffers.”

“And...” I hesitated, then looked back at him. “Thank you. For this.”

He didn’t say anything. He just nodded once and left me to paint.

And this time, when I dipped the brush in color, it didn’t feel like bleeding.

It felt like coming home.

About an hour later, I was still there, not painting anything specific, just movement. Light. A blur of shadows curling into something almost human.

I was so deep in the strokes I didn’t hear him approach.

Until his hand landed near mine.

“What are you doing?” I asked without looking.

“I’m watching.”

I turned my head. He was beside me now, close enough to touch. “You don’t watch. You stalk.”

He smirked faintly. “Same difference.”

I shook my head and kept painting.

He didn’t move away.

Instead, he dipped a finger into the paint and dragged a bold stroke across the bottom of the canvas.

“Hey!”

“Art is a collaborative act,” he said dryly.

“You just ruined that shadow.”

“It needed contrast.”

I looked up at him, ready to bite back, but his eyes were trained on the canvas. His jaw had softened. He wasn’t mocking me.

He was present.

He dipped his fingers into another color, blue this time and added a quick flick upward.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“No,” he admitted.

But he didn’t stop.

We painted like that for a while. Me leading. Him stubbornly adding chaotic touches.

And somehow, it worked.

Until his hand brushed mine.

I froze.

He didn’t pull away.

He looked down at our fingers, still tangled with streaks of paint. His thumb moved, just slightly, over the side of my hand.

Heat bloomed in my cheeks.

I looked away.

But he didn’t.

Then I felt it. his eyes on me, steady and unreadable.

“I...” I started, backing up.

But he reached out before I could go.

There was paint on my cheek. A long smear of black like a scar.

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t tease.

He just stepped close, lifted his thumb, and wiped it off with stunning gentleness.

My breath caught.

Not because of the touch.

But because he didn’t let go.

His palm lingered against my face. Rough and warm. Steady in a way I hadn’t known in years.

My body stiffened, ready for battle.

But all he did was look at me.

Like he was trying to memorize my face.

Like he wanted to say something he didn’t know how to speak.

And I, goddess help me, I didn’t pull away.

Then he moved, sudden and feral, scooping me up and setting me on the paint-splattered table, the wet colors smearing beneath me.

A shocked laugh burst from my lips, but it died as I saw the bulge straining his trousers, his eyes dark with hunger.

“Don’t worry, Malyshka,” he rasped, kneeling before me, his voice a deviant vow, “I’ll let you finish your painting, but first, I’m going to worship you.

” He tore my shorts off, the fabric ripping, and buried his face between my thighs, his lips parting my folds with a groan that vibrated against my clit.

“Fuck!” I screamed, my hands fisting his hair, encouraging him to devour me deeper.

His tongue was fire, relentless, sucking with a passion that drove me insane, my moans, filling the studio, loud enough to echo beyond the open window.

My body arching as he fucked me with his mouth, devouring my wetness like it was his lifeline.

He grabbed a tube of crimson paint, squeezing it over my thighs, the cold liquid dripping down my skin like blood.

“You’re my canvas,” he growled, smearing the paint across my hips, my breasts, his fingers marking me as he sucked harder, his tongue diving deeper. I wailed, my body trembling, the paint’s slick chill amplifying every lick, every graze of his teeth.

My climax coiled, sharp and inevitable.

“More!” I screamed, my nails raking his scalp, drawing blood that mingled with the paint.

“Fuck... I’m close,” I gasped, my voice breaking, but he didn’t stop, his tongue thrusting inside me, fucking every inch of my core.

The pleasure was maddening, too much, too good.

My back arched, fingers clawing at the paint-slick desk, and then I shattered, screaming, squirting, my body convulsing as release poured over his face.

He didn’t flinch. He drank it in like it was holy.

“You taste like sin,” he rasped, standing slowly, his mouth glistening, eyes burning with unhinged devotion. He sucked his fingers clean, slow and deliberate, then nodded toward the canvas with a dark smile.

“Finish your painting, Malyshka,” he said, voice low and lethal. “I’ll be waiting in the room.”

He stepped back, eyes dragging down my wrecked body.

“We’re not even close to done.”

I nodded, breathless, my body still burning, the paint streaking my skin a testament to his claim.

He kissed my cheek, soft but searing, and left, his footsteps fading.

I turned to the canvas, now a chaotic masterpiece of our chaos, but how could I paint when my core still pulsed, my thighs slick with paint and desire?

He’d set me ablaze, and only he could quench it.

Damn right, I wanted more, his body, his fire, his ruin.