The Maddest Obsession (Made Book 2)

by Danielle Lori

  With a rough noise, he pulled out and came all over my thigh.

  It wasn’t romantic in the least, but something about seeing him come undone brought out a tender, grateful part of me. With my legs still wrapped around him, I placed a kiss on his neck, soaking up his smell. He rested his hands on the wall on either side of me, his breathing hard, while I kissed his jawline, his cheeks, his lips.

  “If I knew I only had to fuck you to see how sweet you could actually be, I’d have done it a lot sooner.”

  Warmth ran to my face. And I knew he saw the blush when he ran a finger across my cheek.

  “Moya zvezdochka.” He murmured the two rough words against my lips.

  I stilled.

  Those words . . . I’d heard them before. More than once.

  And then the memory dropped into place.

  “You,” I breathed, eyes wide. “You were at my wedding.”

  20 years old

  “You look beautiful, stellina. Stop fretting.”

  I dropped my hands from the pins in my hair and turned away from my white-clad reflection in the mirror. “I just don’t want him to be disappointed.”

  Mamma snorted. “He wouldn’t deserve you in a gunny sack.”

  I sighed.

  She cupped my cheek, her eyes soft. “I did not wish this for you.”

  “Mamma, stop.” I pulled away from her and headed to the window. I didn’t want today—my wedding day—to be clouded in pity. For better or for worse, this was the life I’d been given, and I was going to make the best of it.

  “Mi dispiace, stellina. We only have a few more minutes . . . Do we need to have the sex talk?”

  I gave her a look.

  She chuckled. “I wasn’t sure what you’ve learned from Signora Tiller.”

  My private tutors were old enough to be WWII survivors and stuffy enough to be virgins themselves.

  I swallowed and turned back to gaze out the window with a dark secret pressing in on my chest. I’d been molested for four years of my childhood and my mother never knew. Even at eight years old, I’d known if she found out she’d try to take me and run again. I’d been terrified the next time she tried Papà would actually kill her. Now, at twenty, I couldn’t force that secret past my lips knowing how much it would upset her.

  “Ricorda, mia figlia, you do not have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. You are young—Antonio will understand.”

  “I’m not afraid of the marriage bed, Mamma. I’m not even nervous about it. I just want him to . . . like me.” Love me.

  “Oh, stellina . . .”

  My chest tightened. “Please don’t ruin this for me, Mamma.”

  “You are right, I’m sorry. I think it’s time to go downstairs. Are you ready?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

  My first wedding was a lavish affair, with white lilies and tulle bows as far as the eye could see. The guests cheered and threw rice at the bride and groom as we left the church.

  The day was beautiful.

  The mood perfect.

  I was gorgeous—everyone had said so.

  I was floating on a cloud of optimism. Right up until I’d gotten lost at the reception in my husband’s ten-thousand-square-foot home while trying to find the bathroom. Then that optimism shattered like glass at my feet. And all because of a crack in a door that should have been closed.

  Her name was Marie Ricci.

  Mid-twenties, girl-next-door looks, slightly cheap.

  I knew of her only because she’d played the part of a waitress in a B-horror movie I’d had the misfortune of seeing.

  Everything about her was ordinary, but it was impossible to overlook her while she kneeled in front of my husband’s office chair, his hand in her dark hair.

  That was the moment the first whispers of bitterness crept into my jaded soul—watching my brand-new husband get blown by an Italian actress on our wedding day.

  I drifted down the hall, my dress suddenly feeling fifty pounds heavier. I thought my husband had poor taste in sexual partners, but at least he had an amazing library. And an impressive collection of scotch. I had never had more than a sip of alcohol in my life—Papà had forbidden it—but I knew the bottle I was currently pulling the cork out of was more expensive than most people’s cars. Papà liked his liquor from so high a shelf God must have put it there Himself.

  I took a drink straight from the bottle.

  Sometime later, I was sitting cross-legged at the piano, playing a nursery rhyme I remembered from the lessons I’d taken as a child. I went to lift the half-empty bottle to my lips, and instead, ended up falling backward off the bench and smacking my head on the floor. Liquor spread across the oriental rug.

  “Ow,” I murmured, but when I realized I’d drunk so much it didn’t hurt at all, I laughed.

  “And they say marriage is bliss,” a deep voice drawled.

  My eyes shot to the sound. The whole room spun at the movement, and I could only see a large, black-suited silhouette in the doorway.

  I rolled my eyes and looked away from the stranger to watch the fan spin around and around. “You sound like an . . . impressionist.”

  That amused him. “I think you mean, pessimist.”

  I continued to lie in a tangle of sequins, bows, and white gossamer.

  “Does your husband know what’s become of his pretty teenage wife?”

  I shot him a glare and then blinked because there were suddenly two of him swaying back and forth. “I’m twenty, thank you very much.”

  “Ah, my mistake.”

  “And to answer your question—even though it’s none of your business—I’m sure he’s still too busy getting blown in his office to notice where I am.”

  “So, she’s already jaded,” he drawled.

  “I hope he reciprocates,” I said, slightly slurring my words. “I’m not sure what the protocol is, but I do believe men should reciprocate. Would you reciprocate?”

  “Is this the first time you’ve been drunk?”

  “What gave it away?”

  He laughed. It was a deep sound, like the first rays of warmth after a long winter. I liked it.

  “Well?” I pushed. “Would you?”

  “I’d return the favor if I was interested enough. And I’m not always interested enough.”

  I frowned. “And women are so eager to please you while getting nothing in return? I’m sorry, sir, but you don’t look all that special from here.”

  He chuckled for some reason, amused at what I’d said. “You’re drunk, sweetheart.”

  I murmured something unintelligible because, suddenly, my eyes were closing, unconsciousness pulling me under.

  “You going to sleep there?”

  “Yes, I think so. It was nice to meet you,” I mumbled. “You’re not the first man I’d volunteer to give a blowjob to, though.”

  Another chuckle, but this time it was closer. “I’ll let you know when I’m running short on volunteers, just in case you change your mind.”

  “I won’t—” My eyes fluttered when I was suddenly lifted from the floor, but I didn’t have the strength to keep them open.

  “My dress is heavy,” I complained.

  “Ah, so, it’s the dress, huh?”

  That made me smile. “You’re rude.”

  “You’re young,” he told me.

  “I don’t feel it.”

  “You look it.”

  “What did you say your name was?” I asked.

  “I didn’t.”

  I opened my eyes, suddenly curious to see what he looked like up close, but as soon as I did, the world spun so fast I feared I was going to be sick. So, I closed them again and let this stranger carry me down the hall.

  “I hope you’re not taking me somewhere to take advantage of me,” I murmured against his chest. “I’m a virgin, you know. It wouldn’t be very much fun for you.”

  “I don’t know about that,” he drawled.

  When I was set on a bed, I curl
ed up on my side, heaviness pulling on my consciousness.

  My voice was a whisper. “I’ll make him love me, you’ll see.”

  A thumb skimmed across my cheek. “If anyone can do it, it would be you . . .” His voice was soft and rough. “Moya zvezdochka.”

  And then it went black.

  MY SHOPPING CART SQUEAKED AS I pushed it down the cereal aisle, absently knocking two boxes of Count Chocula into the basket. That score would have been the highlight of my day a week ago, but now, I couldn’t find any excitement in it because my mind was still stuck on my revelation from the night before.

  “How could someone ever forget your face?” I’d asked him once.

  For some reason, he thought that was funny.

  I felt like an idiot. Though it wasn’t only that. It seemed he was always going out of his way to do nice things for me. Sure, it felt like he’d walk a mile to make me miserable as well, but ever since I’d stepped foot in New York eight years ago, he’d been picking me up off the floor—literally.

  I could still hear the words he pressed against my ear after I’d announced he’d been at my wedding.

  “I’m glad to see you remember, malyshka, because there is nothing I have ever forgotten about you.”

  And then he’d dropped me to my feet and walked out the door.

  I was halfway out of the store when I realized I’d only come for one thing and almost left without it.

  With a bag on each arm, I sighed and turned around.

  I needed eggs because I was teaching Elena how to make pasta dough today. And while I might have told Christian to expect my pilfering of his refrigerator the day I’d moved into his building, I wasn’t ready to face him yet.

  My body was still reeling from last night with this breathless, nervous energy he always seemed to bring out in me. I’d told Aleksandra I wasn’t interested in him and then hours later sucked his fingers on command. Maybe the model and him weren’t exclusive, but they’d seemed comfortable enough around each other for me to believe they’d slept together. That thought alone made me sick to my stomach. And I wasn’t ready to analyze why.

  “Mommy, Mommy, can I have it? Puh-lease, Mommy?”

  I paused with an egg carton in hand to look at the tiny dark-haired girl who seemed so eager to have a . . . single banana. The answer must have been yes because the girl smiled real big and hugged the fruit to her chest. I drew my eyes to the mother, who was cooing at the cutest little giggling baby.

  Warmth set in, yet a strange pressure ached in my chest.

  I stood there for too long, watching the happy trio until they disappeared around the corner.

  I swallowed, confused at the feeling that stopped me in my tracks. A feeling that bloomed like hope and, at the same time, wilted like despair.

  Somewhere between the ages of twenty and twenty-eight, I’d forgotten what longing felt like.

  “Mamma mia, Elena! Are you trying to burn the place down?” I put out the small fire on the stove by smacking it with an oven mitt. Grabbing a corner of the incinerated cloth from the gas burner, I turned around with a frown. “Towels don’t cook very well, I’m afraid.”

  She bit her lip. “I’m hopeless, aren’t I?”

  “I pride myself on being a positive person and would normally have something uplifting to say here, but . . . I think it’s time you hire a cook before you kill someone.”

  I’d gone to the bathroom for two minutes and come out to my apartment in flames, while Elena stood in front of the TV, oblivious.

  She sighed, dropping to the couch in a dramatic fashion. “If I have to have another Isabel in my house, I think I’ll scream.”

  I nodded. “Screaming certainly helps in most situations.”

  “You’re right, though. I just need to hire someone. It’s not like I have a passion for cooking—”

  “Or safety,” I parried.

  “Or, apparently, that.”

  “You know, this is justice. Women who look like Barbie dolls shouldn’t know how to cook. You’d simply leave the rest of us in the dust.”

  “Stop being ridiculous.” She flushed. “By the way, why is your TV in Spanish?”

  I sighed. “Insolent housekeepers.”

  “Have you seen my cell phone?” she asked, getting to her feet. “I’m sure Nico has texted me by now, and he hates when I don’t text him back. Especially when I’m with you. I think he thinks you’re a bad influence.”

  “Oh, I’m glad you reminded me—I almost forgot to drag out the drugs and alcohol.” I winked. “It’s kind of amazing how you ignore him, though. He’s had women fawning over him for far too long.”

  “I don’t ignore him on purpose—” She stopped to pick something small off the living room floor. “Hmm . . .” An edge of mischief played in her voice. “When did you start wearing cufflinks, Gianna?”

  I kept my expression aloof and went to take it from her hand. “I’m trying out a new look.”

  She laughed. “Sure. So . . . when was he over?”

  “Who?” I acted innocent, closing the cufflink in my palm. It burned.

  “You know who.”

  My gaze narrowed on her, though, with a sigh, I gave in. “Last night.”

  “I knew it!” Her eyes sparkled. “I knew there was something between you and Christian.”

  “If something is sex, sure.”

  “I think I would pay money for those details.”

  “How much you got on you?” I joked, just as a knock sounded at the door. With a sigh, because I already knew who it was, I went to open it.

  Nico stood there, practically glowering at me.

  I grinned. “Oh, you made it just in time for the party! I was just about to let the male hooker out of the closet.”

  He rolled his eyes and walked past me toward his wife, who stood by the couch looking guilty.

  “Been calling you for an hour, Elena.”

  She chewed her cheek. “I might have misplaced my phone.”

  “Missed you,” he rasped against her hair, pulling her close.

  Feeling like I was intruding on something, I went to clean up the kitchen.

  “What’s for dinner?” Nico asked a few moments later, while Elena searched the place for her phone.

  “Fried towel served with a side of half-cooked pasta.”

  “Huh.” He rubbed his jaw and sat at the kitchen island, amusement playing in his eyes.

  I turned the burner on to finish cooking the pasta and started chopping the tomatoes for the sauce.

  “My wife likes you,” he said, voice low.

  “Not surprising,” I said. “I’m a very likeable person.”

  “She might have been brought up in this life, but she didn’t grow up like you and I, Gianna. She’s not . . .”

  Damaged? Desensitized? Unsympathetic? Was there a word for all of them?

  “Cold?”

  He nodded, like he couldn’t find the right word either. “I’m asking you to remember that when you spend time with her.”

  “You’re asking me? Why, Ace, did you hit your head on the overhang on the way in?”

  “Sometimes feels like it,” I thought I heard him say, as he glanced at Elena with a volatile and vulnerable look in his eyes. I suddenly feared for anyone who dared to touch a hair on her head.

  And then that feeling came back—that confusing feeling that had eluded me for eight years. Longing. Longing to be the subject of a look that intense. A look full of something so raw and vehement it could make anyone a believer.

  That night, after the three of us had watched Channel 7 in Spanish and ate dinner in silence, I lay in bed unable to sleep. I was . . . perturbed. I was alive. My skin lit up like the noises and lights at a carnival.

  The cards I’d been dealt would never line up just right for love, but if there was anything close to what it would feel like to be the subject of that look, I knew where to find it.

  A ray of light from the crack in the bathroom door fanned across the room, spotlig
hting the cufflink I’d set on my vanity.

  He only had sex with the same woman three times.

  I still had one more time, didn’t I?

  I got to my feet, grabbed the cufflink, and headed to the front door. I was only wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of thigh-high socks, but my destination was just on the other side of the hall.

  Instead of knocking, I tried the handle. It was unlocked. I heard his voice, deep and rich and Russian, before I pushed it all the way open.

  He leaned against the kitchen counter, his phone to his ear. His gaze lifted to me and narrowed, before dropping, touching the curves of my body and settling on my bare thighs. I inhaled a cold breath while my skin burned hot. I’d never known another man who could throw me off-balance with a single look. I’d resented it for so long—because it was him who made me feel this way—but now, due to a temporary bout of insanity, I was sure, I only wanted more of it.

  He responded to something on the phone in his heathen language, his eyes following me as I walked toward him and set his cufflink on the kitchen island. And then I stepped closer. Close enough I had to look up to meet his gaze.

  “I changed my mind,” I whispered.

  He raised a brow.

  Stretching up on my toes, I skimmed my lips across his ear, and breathed, “I volunteer.”

  I watched his face as he searched for the meaning behind those two words, from a conversation we’d had eight years ago. The moment I saw dark understanding flicker across his expression, I dropped to my knees at his feet. Heat flared in his gaze.

  I rubbed my cheek against his length that already seemed to be hard and thick. He ran a hand across his mouth, rumbling out some rough Russian words. The bastard wasn’t even giving me his full attention, but, apparently, my body didn’t need it, because anticipation still danced down my spine at the idea of what I would do.

  I could feel his gaze on me as I worked on his belt buckle. The gentle clang of it falling open sent a shiver through me. As soon as I had his pants undone, I wrapped my hand around his shaft and licked him from base to tip. He pulled in a strained breath, but he didn’t let it out. He didn’t make a sound as he watched me with eyes that had grown dark and hazy.