The Maddest Obsession (Made Book 2)

by Danielle Lori

  I should have left, gone home and finished myself off while fantasizing about his good twin. But, as my hands traveled over skin hotter than it ever should be, that hazy rush of lust pooled in my lower stomach, pulling at my muscles and stretching me thin.

  “How many women did you kiss in Seattle?” The quiet question escaped me as I ran my fingers through the grooves in his abs.

  His eyes were steady pools of dark blue.

  He didn’t answer me, but he didn’t have to.

  He didn’t kiss.

  A heady sense of satisfaction filled me. Then why, oh why, Officer, do you kiss me?

  His gaze grew half-lidded as I pressed my fingers into his skin, scraping my nails down his chest. I shifted on his erection, slowly rocking my hips and grinding against him while we stared into each other’s eyes. A fire lit inside me, growing hotter and brighter, until I was so close to release I could taste it.

  I gasped as he slid his hand into my hair and yanked my head back, pressing the rough words against my ear. “You’ll get off with me inside you, Gianna, no sooner.”

  A shaky breath escaped me, but it came out like a needy whimper with the angle of my head.

  He cursed in Russian, tightened his grip in my hair.

  I could only stare at the roof of the car, my chest moving in and out with harsh breaths, as he pushed the straps off my shoulders and tugged my dress down to my waist. Pulled the cups of my bra down to bare my breasts. And then he just looked at me with an intensity that licked at my skin.

  When he captured a nipple in his mouth, white light shot behind my eyes. His hand released my hair to squeeze one breast while he licked and sucked the other. He switched to give them equal attention. Slapped the side of one to watch it jiggle. With a rough sound, he nipped at it like he was angry, like he was trying to imprint himself on my skin forever.

  My eyes rolled back into my head, my pulse throbbing between my legs. If he didn’t stop, I thought I could come just like this.

  He played with my breasts until I was so far gone I would do anything to feel him inside me—anything. I worked on his belt buckle, pulling him out. He was hot and heavy in my hand, and so hard I couldn’t resist pumping him in my fist once. He hissed against my throat, and before I could even get a good look at him, he gripped my hips and pushed me down until I’d sunk halfway onto his length.

  He groaned.

  I gasped.

  It hurt. It really hurt. It’d been too long for me, and the bastard was well-endowed. I panted, my thighs quivering as I tried to adjust.

  His grip tightened on my hips, and I rested my hands on top of his to try and stop him from shoving me down all the way. I shook my head, as if I’d done my best but it wasn’t going to work out in the end.

  “All of it, malyshka,” he commanded.

  The warmth in his voice drifted straight between my legs, soothing the sting and filling my stomach with heat.

  One of his hands slipped out from mine to trace my landing strip until he found my clit. He rubbed it in a circular motion, and then his mouth found my breasts again, licking and sucking. I moaned, every touch feeding the hot buzz in my core, until, slowly, I slid down, taking him all the way inside me.

  “Fuck,” he gritted, looking down at where we were connected. He gripped my hips tight enough to bruise, tension radiating from him, every muscle in his body pulled taut. “Fuck, you’re so tight, malyshka.”

  The feeling of him inside me was so intense, my body trembled. The backs of my eyes burned, and I pressed my face into his neck.

  His heartbeat raced against mine.

  He was shaking.

  “Fuck me, Gianna.” He sounded on the brink of control, like if I didn’t start moving then I was going to get fucked, hard. That quickly set me in motion; I didn’t think I could handle him unleashed yet.

  I moved slowly, rocking my hips in a circular motion, grinding my clit against him, shuddering with the intensity.

  “You’re so goddamned lucky we’re in a car right now.” He pressed the threat against my ear, his words heavy with a Russian accent that was beginning to drive me crazy. Evoking such a lack of control from the cold fed was addictive. I wanted so much more.

  His hands moved everywhere—down my spine, grabbing fistfuls of my hair to angle my head the way he wanted it, gripping my hips to grind me harder against him. He slapped my ass, nipped my neck and throat, sucked my nipples—the feeling of him inside me, the way he was everywhere, the way he was holding back and letting me grind on him, it was all too much.

  I came so hard spots flew behind my eyes. The fire inside me burst, spreading a warm, tingling sensation throughout my body.

  “I’ve dreamed of that sound,” he rasped, nipping at my earlobe.

  Warmth filled me like sunlight. I shouldn’t take what he said to heart—he was often rude as hell—but, God, when he was sweet, it made me feel on top of the world.

  I wanted to please him.

  I wanted to make him lose his mind.

  Reaching back, I rested my hands on his knees and rode him so he could see everything. His gaze caught fire, trailing from my parted lips, to my bouncing breasts, to where he slid in and out of me. I was so wet it was dripping down my thighs and filling the car with an obscene erotic noise.

  He suddenly stilled me. Ran his tongue across his teeth.

  “You’ve adjusted, malyshka?”

  With half-lidded eyes, I nodded.

  “Good.”

  He gripped my hips, pulled us chest-to-chest and bounced me on his erection. Hard. Up and down, not giving me a single break from the assault. My moans and whimpers trembled in my throat with the force. My fingers splayed on the window as I searched for something to hold onto that wasn’t so consuming. So devastating. So him.

  “Oh, God, oh, God.”

  When I climaxed the second time, he swallowed the noise in his mouth. And, with a punishing last thrust and a shudder, he finished inside me. Then, he softly nipped my neck in a rough sort of appreciation.

  Our heavy breaths filled the silence. I was so full of contentment, high on a languid post-coital bliss, as I rested my face in the crook of his neck. Curled my fingers in his hair.

  “Say something in Russian.”

  “Ty samaya krasivaya zhenshchina kotoruyu ya kogda-libo videl.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You’re annoying.”

  “I would hate to be Russian if it takes that many words to say something so simple,” I mused. I didn’t believe for a second that was what he’d said.

  Something thick and wet slid down my thigh. My sex-high liquefied and turned to ice in my stomach. Had I really just had unprotected sex—so unprotected, by the way his come was leaking out of me—with Allister? I did frantic mental calculations in my head, trying to calculate when I ovulated. Which was, of course, now.

  He must have felt the tension in me because his hand stopped its caress down my back. “You’re not on the pill.” It was more of an assumption than a question.

  I never had sex—why would I need to be?

  Pushing away from him, I pulled a bra strap back onto my shoulder as an icy trickle of panic crawled up my spine. “No.”

  I could only imagine if I got pregnant while my husband was on his deathbed and couldn’t conceive with a helper and a bottle of Viagra.

  Nothing but a whore.

  Whore.

  Whore.

  My lungs squeezed, tightening and tightening with a band that wouldn’t release. Tears burned the backs of my eyes.

  Two rough hands grasped my face. “Breathe.”

  His touch dimmed my papà’s voice in my mind. I was suddenly envious of Allister; my nightmares were terrified of him. I shut my eyes, focusing on the breathing techniques my therapist taught me.

  “We’ll get a Plan B.” His thumb brushed away the tear running down my cheek.

  I nodded, shaky.

  He let me go, and as he put himself back together—zipping his pants
and fixing his hair that I’d thoroughly mussed—something frigid settled in the air. It felt suspiciously like regret. His warmth disappeared, ice coming back to his eyes and shoulders.

  If he didn’t know the extent of the baggage I carried around before, he knew now. Mortification felt heavy in my chest. Maybe this had been necessary—to make it easy not to speak to him again. Simply because I’d be too humiliated to acknowledge this had ever happened.

  The panic attack soon ebbed, but it was still so cold between us. Even as he helped me adjust my dress and then used a napkin from the glovebox to wipe the come from my thighs.

  I SHUT THE CAR DOOR harder than I should have. Ran a hand through my hair to try and get rid of the soft feel of her fingers in it. Rolled my shoulders to push away the obsessive thoughts lighting up my back. Keep her. Make her want you. Make her need you.

  Fuck, I shouldn’t have done it.

  It was like trying to cure an addict by giving him the best goddamn hit of his life.

  A bell dinged above my head as I entered the drugstore. It took longer than it should have to find the right aisle because images of Gianna still consumed my mind. Her soft eyes, lips parted, the flare of her hips, her sweet thighs as she shuddered while trying to take all of me.

  My heart rate sped up, heat running to my groin.

  I was already hard for her again.

  It hadn’t been my plan to fuck her, but once I had my hands on her I couldn’t stop. You’d think it would have given me some relief, but all it seemed to have done was provide me with more images, noises, and real-estate to obsess over.

  My eyes coasted over the emergency contraceptives, and I grabbed one to read the information on the back. My hand was shaking. Fucking ridiculous. You’d think I’d just lost my virginity.

  Didn’t know if I could have stopped myself from coming in her if I’d wanted to. And hadn’t particularly wanted to.

  An obsessive part of me—the one thoroughly fixated on Gianna’s every move—didn’t give a shit about consequences. Knocking her up would make its fucking day. It would finally give me a reason to throw my plans in the trash and make her mine.

  Sounded good, sure—but that side of me was as rational as Gianna’s wardrobe. It had the idea she could be this pretty little fuck toy, one who’d be perfectly comfortable warming my bed all day, spreading her legs for me whenever I wanted, while keeping all her questions to herself.

  In reality, she’d touch my shit. Reorganize my things. Fill my apartment with sugary cereal. And most importantly, slowly dig her way into my past. And when she did that, she’d hate me more than she already did. Maybe even be disgusted. I couldn’t stomach letting her see me in that light.

  Gianna wasn’t for me.

  As much as I hated it, she belonged with someone without any skeletons in his closet. Someone like Vincent Monroe.

  My chest burned, rejecting the thought.

  Maybe I’d take her out to eat first and hold on to the morning-after pill for a while, give the slight possibility a greater chance.

  I ran a hand across my jaw.

  Jesus. No.

  In the end, I grabbed the generic brand.

  My Cherie Amour played on the staticky radio, practically mocking me with its romantic lyrics as I set the item on the counter. The teenage cashier wearing a bored expression and chewing gum looked from my purchase to me, pausing on my neck, where I knew there were a few marks from Gianna’s sharp-ass nails.

  The teenager met my eyes.

  Popped a bubble.

  Beep.

  Gianna hadn’t said a word to me since we left the parking garage. She couldn’t have made it clearer that the idea of being stuck with me horrified her—she’d had a full-blown panic attack, for fuck’s sake.

  I would have found the will to hold myself back if I knew how she’d react. Watching tears fill her eyes was like a stab and a twist to the chest. I didn’t fucking like it.

  Gianna wasn’t in the passenger seat when I headed outside—she was across the street, handing money to a homeless man who looked like he’d just been released from the state penitentiary.

  Panic bled into my veins. All I could think about was if she’d walked up to me when I was a teen living on the streets. I would have taken advantage of it so fast.

  “Gianna,” I snapped.

  She tossed me a look over her shoulder.

  “Car. Now.”

  Her gaze flared with annoyance.

  The rain had stopped, but her dress hadn’t dried enough to be decent. Thankfully, she’d had enough sense to put my jacket on and button it before getting out of the car, unlike earlier at the club. I was still agitated about that little scene, aggravated she’d so visibly regretted sleeping with me, and frustrated I couldn’t take her home and fuck her again and again, until she was so thoroughly out of my system I’d forget her goddamn name.

  She said some parting word to the man—probably about what an asshole I was—and then drifted back to me.

  “He was hungry,” she explained when she reached me.

  “He’s heading toward the liquor store as we speak,” I said dryly.

  “So, what if he is? Everybody needs something to get them through life.”

  “Right. Must have forgotten I was talking to Miss Blow International.”

  She rolled her eyes and disappeared into the passenger seat. When I sat beside her, I said, “You’re going to tell me why you used a few weeks ago eventually.”

  The slightest amount of tension rolled through her, but she tried to mask it by looking at her nails. “Please hold your breath.”

  My curiosity grew tenfold. It was inevitable now that I’d find out.

  She looked at the pill I’d handed to her in reluctance. “The last time I took one of these it screwed up my cycle for two months.”

  The thought that she’d had to take one before sent a bite of jealousy through me.

  “Then don’t take it.”

  She scoffed. “I’m not shipping my child to Russia every summer, Allister.”

  She wouldn’t be sending him or her anywhere. She’d be in my home, in my bed. I’d give her anything she wanted—anything but my past and some silly notion of love. Although, I didn’t believe she’d be searching for the latter. She’d been burned enough. I hated any man who’d broken her heart, but in the end, they’d made it easy for me. I couldn’t give that to her, and neither would she expect it from me.

  “I live in Seattle, Gianna, not Russia.”

  She raised a brow. “Seattle is home now, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re returning soon, then?” There was relief in her voice, and I goddamn hated it.

  “A few weeks.”

  She nodded. Put the pill on her tongue and swallowed it dry.

  She always had something to say, yet she remained silent for the rest of the ride. The tension had always been there between us—sexual, loathing, and otherwise—though now we’d slept together, it seemed I was out of her system and mind.

  My chest tightened in frustration.

  I reached her apartment and looked over to see she’d fallen asleep. Her head was resting on the window, her breaths slow and even. She’d always been able to sleep at the drop of a hat, and deeply, too. I knew I wouldn’t get any shut-eye for at least a week, not with the feeling of her hands on me still searing like burns.

  I let out a breath.

  Swept my gaze over her face. Long eyelashes, smooth cheekbones, pouty mouth—the top lip that was slightly bigger than the bottom—the tiny scar on her chin. She was so goddamn beautiful I couldn’t even stand to look at her some days. Because I didn’t know what to do with her—to make her scream my name or to punish her for making me feel this way.

  I needed to back off completely. To leave her alone and let her live her life.

  Let her have her Vincent Monroe.

  Because if I touched her again, the deeper this obsession would spread, and I knew where it would end. I’d find
some way to keep her. As strong as she liked to appear, she was delicate, flimsy, breakable, and too full of curiosity for her own good. She’d want out, and I’d never let her go.

  Yet, the more I told myself I couldn’t have her, the more I wanted her.

  And I wanted her so badly a cold sweat broke out beneath my skin, a tremble starting in my hands.

  “Gianna.”

  She slowly stirred, rolling her head to look at me with hypnotic, dark eyes. They grew half-lidded as sleep pulled her back under. Jesus. Today was one of the days it hurt to look at her. A protective urge welled in my chest. Ironic, because it was me she should be fucking running from.

  My grip tightened on the steering wheel. “If you expected to be carried inside, you should have fucked someone a little more gentlemanly.”

  Her eyes opened and narrowed on me. She started to shrug off my jacket.

  “Keep it.”

  There was no way I was letting her walk up to her apartment without it.

  “And you say you aren’t a gentleman.” She let out a sarcastic breath as she stepped out of the car. “Though, just a tip for the next unlucky woman you screw, I would have preferred a box of chocolates over your shitty Plan B pill.” She slammed the door behind her.

  HAVING SEX WITH YOUR MORTAL enemy was exhausting. Weight pulled on my muscles as I walked down the hall toward my apartment. I unlocked the door and kicked off my heels, though just as I reached for the light switch, a cold awareness touched my skin, and I froze.

  “Well, well, well . . . you show up at the party in one man’s jacket and come home in another’s?”

  My gaze drifted to Richard II, proud manager of The Playhouse, which featured the sleaziest strippers in New York. It was the only reliable place to get a fifty-dollar blowie in town.

  He was one stepson I would never have to worry about falling into bed with, and it wasn’t because he was twenty years older than me. He was merely off-putting in every way.

  “Yes, well, us women can’t make ourselves too available, now, can we?”

  The curtains were open, filling the room with natural light, yet he’d managed to find the darkest corner, where he leaned against the wall. I imagined he’d skittered there like a roach. The bugs were odious little bottom-feeders, but always easy to squish.