The Maddest Obsession (Made Book 2)

by Danielle Lori

I knew before I’d finished the last word my date had found the perfect moment to return. The temperature dropped ten degrees.

  Asics’ gaze flicked to a spot behind me and above my head. “Allister.”

  There was no response.

  Asics cleared his throat. Looked back at me. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around, Gianna.”

  “Maybe.” I smiled.

  When he’d drifted away, I turned to my date, whose gaze had iced over. He handed me a glass of champagne while taking a sip of his own drink and looking casually into the room.

  His voice was calm, but a sharp edge came through. “He has less than a grand to his name. Wouldn’t add him to your husband list quite yet.”

  His words hit me like a blow to the chest, and I sucked in a breath.

  “I appreciate the insight, Officer,” I said with a saccharine smile. “Here I was, just about to pencil him in.”

  Tension rolled through him, his presence becoming nearly unapproachable.

  Well, this was going splendidly.

  As the guests at our table trickled in and took their seats, I might as well have not even been sitting beside him for as much as he acknowledged me.

  If there was anything that showed how different and incompatible we were, it was him responding to a question about a new development in biocoenosis—whatever the hell that was—while the deepest thought in my head at that moment was which level of toner I wanted my stylist to use on my hair this week.

  I sipped my champagne, smiling above it on cue, while growing more and more resentful of this situation with each second that passed. I was stuck in a room full of feds, I was out of my element, and my date wouldn’t even look at me.

  The walls seemed to be closing in.

  My chest felt tight.

  I grabbed my clutch and excused myself, feeling the heat of Christian’s gaze on my back until I disappeared around the corner. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, my hand shook slightly as I turned on the faucet. I should have stood my ground and said no to this date from the beginning. Because that bubble I’d been content in for the last couple weeks was close to bursting. I could feel it in my chest, inflating to the seams with each breath.

  It was going to pop.

  And until now, I hadn’t realized how badly it was going to hurt.

  Nausea roiled in my stomach, and I breathed slowly. I really hoped I wasn’t getting sick. That was the last thing I needed right now.

  I turned the corner in the hall, coming to a stop when my eyes landed on our table. A woman sat in my seat, facing Christian. Her name was Portia. I knew that because she’d dated him years ago. She leaned into him, coyly running a finger down the stem of my champagne glass. He gave her one of those rare half-smiles, responding to something she’d said. They seemed familiar, intimate, and I knew why. He’d fucked her three times.

  “Beautiful couple, aren’t they?” A woman close to retirement age stopped beside me, wearing a modest red sheath dress and a gold flower brooch. I knew she was the company gossip by one look at her. “Over half the office had a bet going that they’d get engaged, you know.” She sighed, murmuring, “Some hussy probably came along and ruined it for everyone. Not sure when men will ever learn—those women might be good for one thing, but they’re worthless in the long run.” She trailed her fingers over the pearls on her neck. “Anyway, who are you with, dear? I didn’t see you come in.”

  They’re worthless in the long run.

  Worthless.

  Unlovable.

  Whore.

  Pop.

  The pain radiated throughout my chest, wrapping around my lungs and squeezing.

  The Christian-induced haze I’d been stuck in cleared. I couldn’t be—my gaze landed on Portia—that. I couldn’t be the classy, composed woman on his arm. And I couldn’t be the woman still obviously pining for him after he’d moved on.

  This was just sex—he’d said it himself.

  It was supposed to be easy and uncomplicated. But I’d never known uncomplicated to twist one’s heart into a knot and pull.

  He’d already won.

  My only choice was to forfeit before I lost everything.

  “Dear? Are you all right?”

  I ignored her and headed down the hall toward the exit, clipping shoulders with a guest on the way out. I mumbled an apology but didn’t slow my pace because the backs of my eyes burned and threatened to spill over.

  “Gianna? My goodness, I thought that was you!” Samantha Delacorte’s heels clicked as she caught up to me. “I never thought I’d run into you here,” she said, walking at a fast clip beside me. Her voice lowered. “You know, considering your previous offenses . . .”

  My chest hurt, my eyes burned, and I had zero energy to spar with her right now, so I remained silent.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to catch up with you to share the big news!” She squealed and shoved a massive diamond under my nose. It looked incredibly similar to the one Vincent had offered me only three months ago, just as he’d claimed to love me. Sardonic amusement mixed with a dose of bitterness crept through my veins. If I never heard that stupid word love again, I’d be a happy woman.

  I offered a half-hearted, “Congratulations,” as I walked out the front doors and into a light rain.

  “Vincent and I are eloping in Barbados this winter.” Samantha halted at the edge of the overhang. “I’ll send you an invite!”

  “Can’t wait,” I muttered.

  I crossed my arms and headed down the sidewalk away from the hotel. The cold rain slid down my skin, bringing goosebumps to the surface. I should have worn a jacket tonight. Why couldn’t I do anything right? Self-loathing churned in my stomach.

  I didn’t get far before someone grabbed my arm from behind, pulled me around a corner, and pressed my back against an alley wall. His hands flattened on the wall on either side of me, trapping me.

  Straight lines. Broad shoulders. Blue, burning brightly.

  But I saw other things now; other memories piled up on themselves in a fight to the surface.

  “You won’t forget me.”

  Moya zvezdochka.

  They had built into something significant enough each one twisted my heart in a cruel grip.

  Attachment?

  Infatuation?

  It couldn’t be love.

  His jaw tightened. “You left.”

  “Of course, I left. I knew this wouldn’t work out from the beginning, and tonight just confirmed it.”

  “This?”

  My throat felt tight. “Us.”

  Tension gripped him tight. Rain collected on his eyelashes. Something torturous flickered through his gaze.

  “What are you saying?” The words were accented, and somehow, it tore my chest down the middle.

  “You know what I’m saying.” I swallowed. “We knew this would come to an end eventually.”

  His teeth clenched. “This might come to an end for you, but it will never be over for me.”

  My lungs hitched, and a distressed breath escaped my lips. It rained harder, pinging off a nearby dumpster and soaking my skin. I hoped it concealed the wetness pooling in my eyes.

  Why did he have to make this so hard? Was I the only one who could see we didn’t make sense?

  “Why am I the only one being practical about this?”

  “Because you’ve never been in this as deeply as me.” No emotion behind those words. Just cold hard fact. Though, a flicker of something passed through his eyes, something soft and soul-wrenching. Something I’d seen in my own before. Something unrequited.

  “When I said this was new to me, I meant I can’t fucking think when it comes to you. I shouldn’t have said what I said, malyshka. The thought of someone touching you, taking you from me . . .” His gaze flashed with darkness. “It makes me feel fucking crazy.”

  I shivered as icy rain trickled into my dress. The heat from his body touched my skin, as if I stood at the edges of a fire. I wanted to step closer, the fear I’d get b
urned pushed further and further away.

  His thumb brushed my cheek. “I promise, I won’t ever say anything like that to you again.”

  I sighed. “It’s more than that, Christian, and you know it.”

  “We’ll figure the rest out. But I’m not letting you go.” His jaw clenched, eyes fierce. “I can’t.”

  He meant what he said.

  At least, for now.

  A part of me knew this couldn’t end well.

  But the urge to give in, to close the distance between us, to feel him against me, ached. It tore at every cell in my body, leaving something desperate behind. The idea of walking away, back to the cold, colorless life I’d lived before him made me feel sick.

  A tear escaped, and he brushed it away with a thumb.

  “I don’t know what biocoenosis is,” I said softly.

  “You’re not missing out.”

  “I can’t have intellectually stimulating conversations with you.”

  “I was bored out of my mind.”

  Last-ditch effort to save myself.

  “There are plenty of women who could make you happier, Christian.”

  “You’re the only one I want.”

  Our eyes held each other’s, some thick and unknown feeling brewing between us. Consuming, like panic, and heavy, like need.

  He leaned in, brushing his lips against mine. “Moya zvezdochka.”

  “I think I’m getting the flu,” I breathed.

  Once he realized I’d given in, he made a noise of satisfaction and kissed me deeply, slipping his tongue into my mouth.

  I sighed and shivered.

  Pulling back, he slipped his jacket off and put it on my shoulders. A memory came back, of the last time he’d done the same thing. The night he’d taken me to Ace’s after the shooting five years ago.

  I didn’t know how I’d gotten here.

  Walking down the sidewalk with this dirty fed’s jacket on my shoulders and his hand in mine.

  But now I wondered just where I’d be if he had never been around.

  I WAS SOAKING WET AND shivering when we got back to his apartment. He tugged me inside to the bathroom, where he undressed me down to the heels on my feet. The air sat heavy with some unnamed emotion between us, and somehow, both of us knew, saying a word would only congest it further.

  Love might have been an annoying, elusive word I’d never understand, but I knew right then and there, I loved the feel of his hands on me, the complete attention he gave me as he washed my body and hair, as if I was the only woman he’d ever seen. As if I was perfect.

  He slipped one of his undershirts over my head and then took me to bed, wrapping his arm around my waist. My limbs and eyes felt heavy with sleep, but the night had provoked a desperate need to feel him inside me. I shifted back against his erection, knowing he’d been hard before we even got in the shower.

  He let out a tense breath, then grabbed my hip and stopped me.

  “Go to sleep, malyshka.”

  I wanted to know why he obviously wanted me and still denied me, but soon grew too tired to press it. I twisted around and fell asleep with my face in his chest and his hand in my hair.

  The next few nights went similarly.

  He asked me to stay and make him dinner before he left in the morning. I must have been an internal misogynist because I did. It didn’t take long to realize that, even as meticulously clean and organized as it was, I loved being in his space and having something to look forward to, like cooking for him.

  What I didn’t love?

  The fact he wouldn’t sleep with me.

  Before the kissing and heavy petting could get too far, he’d pull away, and then I’d hear, “Go to sleep, malyshka. I’m tired.”

  The man wasn’t tired. He slept an average of three hours a night. I’d usually wake up in the middle of the night to find him sitting at the kitchen island on his laptop or going through paperwork. He was so sexy at three in the morning I couldn’t resist sitting on his lap and kissing his mouth and neck until he grumbled in frustration and told me to go put my ass back in his bed.

  The third night, I even crossed my arms and refused to come to bed with him. He chuckled, picked me up off the couch, and carried me to the bedroom.

  I sighed in frustration, moaning, “I feel used,” while rolling over onto my side.

  Amusement coated his tone. “How so?”

  “You eat my dinner and then don’t fuck me afterward. It’s rude, Christian.”

  He laughed. That warm, deep laugh that was too sexy to be angry with.

  He usually went to the gym and showered before I even awoke. But a couple times, I woke up to use the bathroom and found him shaving at the sink.

  “I have to pee,” I told him.

  “Then pee.” He made no move to leave.

  I hesitated.

  I wasn’t modest about my bodily functions, but as I sat on the toilet and peed in front of Christian Allister, it felt so taboo it made me squirm. And it might have turned me on a little. His humored gaze slid to me as I finished my business, a stupid flush rising to my cheeks when I realized he could probably read my twisted thoughts on my face.

  When I was done, I sat on the sink in front of him, placing my legs on either side of his. I leaned back on my hands, just looking at him and the steady strokes of the razor.

  A corner of his lips lifted.

  That was when I realized I loved to watch him shave.

  He was shirtless, only wearing a pair of white briefs. My gaze settled on his tattoos, and I ran a finger across the rose on his chest.

  “Tell me what this one means.”

  His movements stilled for a second before resuming. I wished I could be in his head at that moment. To understand why he was so conflicted about sharing things with me.

  “It means I turned eighteen in prison.”

  I held in my surprise that he’d answered me without a fight and focused on tracing the rose with a finger. “When did you get out?”

  “Nineteen.”

  I was only nine when he’d first gone to prison, and fourteen when he’d been released. I’d never had a picturesque childhood, but I was beginning to believe this man’s was deeper and darker than I had ever imagined.

  My fingers trailed lower to his ribs, to a tattoo I hadn’t noticed before. It was a constellation; I recognized the open-squared shape. I’d found it with a telescope before, all because of a single night on a terrace. Andromeda. It looked darker, fresher than the rest of his tattoos.

  “When did you get this one?”

  Instead of answering me, he kissed me, lightly nipping my bottom lip. Breathless heat burned beneath my skin, because that was the only answer I needed.

  “How do you know so much about the stars?” I asked.

  “I read. A lot. There wasn’t much else to do in prison.”

  “You remember everything you read, don’t you?”

  “Mostly.”

  No wonder he’d mastered English so impeccably—heck, he knew it better than me. It was surreal to think this man had gained a lot of his knowledge from books while locked up in some Russian prison. A part of me was curious about what he’d done to get imprisoned, but I’d never ask him. I’d learned a long time ago to stay out of a man’s business. If you didn’t know anything, you wouldn’t be lying if interrogated. Also, there were just some things about the men in this life a woman didn’t want to know.

  “So, when did you come to the United States?”

  “The day after I was released.”

  I kissed his chest, looked up at him, and said light-heartedly, “I’m sure immigration loved getting your application.”

  Amusement played in his eyes. “My record was clean, malyshka. I have a knack for technology. I could find out where the President is eating breakfast right now, take a picture, and anonymously post it on social media, all from my kitchen.”

  My eyes widened. “Are you telling me, as long as I’m somewhere near a camera, you could fin
d me and watch me on your computer?”

  “Yes.”

  “You haven’t done it, have you?”

  “That would be morally questionable.”

  “Yes, it would,” I said pointedly.

  A genius and a criminal rolled into one. It made a terrifying combination.

  I decided not to question him further on that topic. “Didn’t you miss your family when you moved to another country?”

  And just like that, I hit a brick wall.

  His stomach tensed subtly beneath my hands, and his tone went cold. “I have to finish getting ready for work, malyshka.”

  That was a dismissal if I’d ever heard one. Though, pleased with how far I’d gotten, I hopped down and went back to bed.

  That night, I was so far past sexually frustrated, I decided to be a bit craftier. I wore the sexiest underwear I owned, a pair of knitted thigh-high socks, and nothing else. I was in the middle of making dinner when he came home. He stilled, his eyes going dark as they traveled over me.

  He sat at the island, pulled off his tie, and narrowed his gaze.

  I’d screwed up his routine.

  The heat of his eyes followed me everywhere in the kitchen. I made sure to bend over slower and more often than necessary. If there was one battle I was going to win between us, it was this one.

  We ate in companionable silence, but I couldn’t even taste the food because just the way he looked at me sent every nerve ending tingling beneath my skin. He helped me rinse off the dishes and clean up the kitchen. Then, he held my face and kissed me softly on the lips.

  “Thank you for dinner, malyshka.”

  That was when I knew I loved his soft side.

  I sat on his lap, his hand playing with my hair, while we watched some political debate on CNN. I couldn’t even pretend to pay attention to a second of it with his hard-on pressed against my ass. A part of me knew what he was doing by denying me. I didn’t like it. Because it made my chest feel tight and heavy. And that unsettled me.

  Somewhere between the beginning and the end, my legs had straddled his, my hands were in his hair, and my lips were parting his as I flicked my tongue into his mouth.

  He groaned.

  The kiss deepened, and I grinded against his erection. I was so turned-on my vision grew hazy, my blood burned, and I was sure I was getting his pants wet by rubbing against him.