The Maddest Obsession (Made Book 2)

by Danielle Lori

  “God, I want you,” I breathed into his mouth.

  He made a tortured noise in his throat and pulled back. A thumb ran across my cheek, his eyes conflicted. “Say it again.”

  I rocked my hips against him, desperation coating my words. “I want you so badly.”

  “Why?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  “Because . . .” I sighed, searching for the reason and then just letting my first thought escape. “Because it’s always been you.”

  I might not have ever realized it before, but as the words left my mouth, I knew I meant every one of them.

  Satisfaction, dark and lazy, flared in his eyes. His lips pressed against my ear, his voice sending a shiver down my spine.

  “You win, malyshka.”

  I didn’t even get to experience the pleasure of my rare victory over him, because with a rip of my panties, he pushed inside me so deeply it tore a gasp from my throat. I dug my nails into his shoulders.

  “Fuck, I missed this,” he breathed.

  By now, I’d gotten used to the way he fucked—so hard and unforgiving. Slightly selfish yet somehow still attentive. As he carried me to the bedroom, holding me tightly, still deep inside me, he stopped to kiss me for a full minute on the way, and I knew I loved it. The sex was fast and rough, but afterward, he made up for it with his head between my legs until I was begging him to stop.

  The next evening, while waiting to cross the street, I got a text from an unknown number.

  My dinner is late.

  Schoolgirl giddiness filled me at the fact he was texting me, even though I’d let him hold me down and screw the lights out of me last night.

  Me: I’m sorry, who is this?

  Christian: Funny.

  Me: Todd?

  Christian: I’m going to spank your ass.

  Me: Promise?

  Soon after that exchange, I found him sitting on the couch with some papers on the coffee table before him. I ran my hands down his chest, flashing him my new sparkly crimson nails.

  “What do you think?”

  “I love them, malyshka.” He grabbed my hand and kissed it.

  That was when I decided I loved having this man’s approval, no matter how confusing his position in my life may be.

  The next day, he came home, paused, then picked up the “Russian for Dummies” book sitting on the coffee table. He raised a brow at me.

  I returned the look from my spot on the couch. “How else am I going to eavesdrop on all your phone calls, malysh?”

  It was the male form of the endearment he called me. A half-smile pulled on his lips as he dropped the book back on the table.

  I stood and wrapped my arms around his waist, pressing my face against his chest. “I’ve been waiting for you to get home all day.”

  He made a noise of contentment. “What are you doing to me?” His voice was serious and slightly accented. I loved that timbre so much I rose to my toes and tried to taste it on his lips.

  As the next week passed, each day, I fell in love with something else. With his smell—the way it made my eyes half-lidded and my toes curl in satisfaction. With his hands—the way they made everything else go away. With his voice—the way it could be so rough and sweet at the same time.

  I had practically moved in. My stuff was everywhere. Three bottles of lotion sat on the coffee table, and he hadn’t complained once about how they weren’t lined up neat in a row.

  He didn’t like it, though, when I moved his stuff around. I’d hear a grumpy, “Gianna,” and something like, “There’s a reason I put my stuff where it is.” I was sure it was somewhere between crazy and nutso.

  He watched The Princess Bride with me.

  He didn’t like it.

  He played chess with me.

  I was a sore loser.

  We even played our own version of twenty questions. As long as I stayed away from his childhood and his mother, I was in the clear. Though, I’d soon find out the no-go zone was broader than that.

  “Would you visit my grave if I died?”

  His eyes grew dark. “I’d die before you were ever in a grave, malyshka.”

  I loved his possessive side.

  And I loved his dark side, too.

  WE HADN’T BEEN ANYWHERE IN public since the last failure of a dinner party. What we had—whatever we had—was working well. But of course, Christian Allister always had to go and complicate things.

  “Where are you going?” he asked as I got out of bed and stretched.

  “Church.” I yawned. “It’s been, like, a month since I’ve gone, and every time I have premarital sex with you, I swear, I can feel the fires of hell creeping up my back.”

  He chuckled and sat up on the side of bed. “I’ll come with you.”

  I froze. “What? No. Christian, you can’t come with.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . .” I sputtered. “People will think we’re together.”

  His eyes hardened. “You sleep in my bed every goddamn night, Gianna.”

  “You’re not even Catholic!”

  “I’m whatever you are.”

  I had no response for that because it was ridiculous.

  I didn’t think Nico would have a problem with me dating anyone, even though I’d never quite tested that theory out. I was technically under his protection and, therefore, rules, but I liked to think of myself as a free agent more than anything. However, I did know everyone in the Russo family had either seen or heard some squabble between Christian and me, and if we showed up at church together, I would never hear the end of it.

  “Everyone thinks we hate each other.”

  He walked toward me and trailed a thumb across my cheek. “Then let’s show them we can get on just fine.”

  I bit my lip.

  “Are you going to deny me my salvation?”

  I couldn’t stop the smile, and then shook my head and let out a frustrated groan because of it.

  We showered together, like always, but the difference was he seemed withdrawn while we got ready, almost guilty. And that started a prickle of alarm at the base of my back. I didn’t know what he was up to or why he wanted to go to church with me, but I was beginning to think it was for nefarious reasons.

  We stepped into the church, side-by-side, with his hand on my waist. If the entire congregation didn’t turn to stare at us, at least ninety-five percent of it did. The heat of all their stares lit my skin. And then the whispering began.

  Elena’s eyes went wide as we passed. And Ace, with an arm resting on the back of the pew, only raised a brow in amusement.

  “Should we close out that bet now?” Val leaned in to ask, after we took a seat beside her and Ricardo.

  “No,” I bit out stubbornly.

  She laughed.

  Christian’s jaw tightened, though he didn’t say a word.

  During the service, he rested a hand on the bare sliver of skin between my dress and thigh-high boots.

  I thought I loved that, too.

  Afterward, the ladies stood around to gossip for a while, while the men drifted outside to do the same.

  “I’ll be outside, malyshka,” he said in my ear. And then he turned my face and kissed me on the lips. It was short and sweet but possessive, letting everyone know Christian Allister was screwing me nine ways to Sunday.

  I thought I heard someone gasp.

  “Wow,” Valentina breathed, fanning herself with her Bible and watching his retreating form. “Tell me everything.”

  My face burned while stuck in a state of disbelief that he’d actually done that. Maybe—just maybe—I could have passed off our presence here together as a generous deed of me showing a bad man the Lord, but that was completely off the table now.

  “It was supposed to be just sex,” I complained.

  Val nodded. “A lot of people bring their fuck buddies to church.”

  “Could you please control your sarcasm today?” I rubbed my temple. “I think I’m getting the flu.” It felt like
I’d been about to catch it for over a week now. Must be a persistent stomach bug.

  “Okay, let’s back it up a little. Just whose idea was this just sex relationship?”

  “His! I have no self-respect, so, of course, I agreed. But now, he’s taking me to dinner parties, making me sleep in his bed but not even having sex with me, and next,”—my voice rose—“he’s kissing me at church!”

  “Honey,” she laughed. “I’m sure you’ve just been blinded by the incredibly beautiful man he is, but I’m here to tell you, he has never wanted just sex from you. All anyone has to do is look at him when you’re in the room to know he’s obsessed with you.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he’s obviously tricked you into a relationship.”

  “He, what? He wouldn’t—” I cut myself off because, yeah, he would. “But, why?”

  “Who knows why men do things? He probably thought you would turn him down.”

  I chewed my cheek. “I would have.”

  I’d panicked when he’d proposed a relationship on the plane, and now, I knew he’d noticed. I hadn’t been ready for anything serious at the time. And I still wasn’t . . . right? Indecision slid down my spine. I didn’t want to give up what we had—in fact, the idea of ending it made me feel sick—but I was also uneasy to think about what he wanted from me in the end.

  “What should I do?” I whispered.

  “Well, he’s certainly a man capable of knocking you up.” She pursed her lips, looking at my body. “If you aren’t already.” I rolled my eyes. I’d had my period not long ago. “So, there’s that issue. And I’ll be honest and say he’s so intense he scares me a little. He wouldn’t hit you, would he?”

  “No.” I was suddenly never surer of anything.

  “Do you like him?”

  It seemed like a silly question compared to what I actually felt when I thought of him. He excited me. He fascinated me. And he seemed to make me feel happier and more alive than I’d ever been. Saying I liked him felt like a disservice, but I wasn’t sure how else to explain it.

  “Very much so.”

  “What’s he like in bed?”

  I narrowed my eyes on her.

  She laughed. “Fine. We’ll talk about those details later. Are you ready for every woman from ages thirteen to ninety-two to be drooling all over your man?”

  “As long as they keep their hands to themselves.”

  “What about him? Can you wrangle fidelity from him?”

  The thought of him sleeping with someone else made me feel nauseous. Though, somehow, I didn’t believe he would. I’d known him for a long time and had never once pegged him for a cheater.

  “I think so.”

  “So far, I’d say he’s not a bad choice. But truthfully, I’ve only been humoring you. The man has already made his decision, and that’s you, honey. Now, you just have to make the best of it.”

  I chewed my lip on the short drive home, debating what I should say to him. I debated how I felt about his manipulation and if I was even upset about it. I wasn’t sure what to feel, and that annoyed me.

  As soon as his apartment door closed behind us, I blurted, “What do you want from me, Christian?”

  He turned to me, eyes dark. “Everything.”

  A shiver trailed down my spine. “This was never about sex.”

  He reached for his belt and unfastened it, sardonic amusement passing through his gaze. “No.”

  “You played me,” I accused.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you feel bad?”

  “No.”

  I watched warily as he slid his belt out of the loops. Unease played down my back.

  “What are you doing with your belt?”

  An amused half-smile. “Debating if I need to whip you into submission.”

  “Ha ha.” My voice was uncertain. “But really?”

  “I’m getting undressed and then taking you to bed.”

  “I’m not finished talking.” I crossed my arms. “You tricked me.”

  “Do I make you unhappy?”

  I swallowed, shifting to another foot. “No.”

  “Then, shut up and come to bed with me.”

  My eyes narrowed. “I don’t trust you.”

  “I can fix that.”

  “Don’t trick me again.”

  “I won’t.” Something elusive passed through his gaze. “Come on, before I change my mind and decide to put my belt to good use.”

  There were things to discuss. Important things I should have demanded an answer to—like what this relationship was, and where it could even go. But instead, I followed him to his bed, where we spent the next hours saying everything with our bodies and nothing with our mouths.

  Our next public appearance was Friday. This time, when I came out in some ridiculously flashy dress, he pressed me against my door and kissed me deeply, like he needed to brand himself into my skin, until I was rubbing my hand against his erection and begging him to fuck me. He let out a frustrated breath and a, “Can’t,” followed by something about business at the club.

  That morning, while still lying in bed, I’d teased him about the domed church on his side, telling him I hadn’t known he was religious. Something cold settled in him after that. He’d gotten up and said he was going to the gym. I didn’t hear from him again until I got his text telling me to be ready to go at nine.

  Christian knew everything about me, whereas he left me with only small morsels of himself. What I hated most about it, though, was I felt like a coward, merely tiptoeing the edges of his past for fear of him pushing me away. It seemed each day I spent with him, the closer I grew to losing my grasp on control, while his grip only grew tighter.

  After kissing me senseless, he was distant during the ride to the club. Distant when he collected me from Nico’s office, where I’d been watching TV with Elena, and distant on the way home.

  I was going to confront him. The words I was going to say were on the tip of my tongue. But then I stepped into his room to get undressed, and everything changed. The door shut with a quiet click behind me. I stilled, the hair on the back of my neck rising. The air pulsed with something heavy and electric that seeped through my chest and jump-started my heart.

  The heat of his body brushed my back. His voice was whisper-soft in my ear as he gripped my hair in a fist, gently tugging my head back. “Who does this belong to, malyshka?”

  My breath came out unsteady, my pulse slightly cold at the tension in his voice. There wasn’t a part of me that wanted to deny him at this point.

  “You.”

  A rumble of approval against my neck. His thumb brushed across my mouth. “This?”

  “You,” I breathed.

  His hand seared through my dress as he slid it down my stomach and cupped me between the legs. “And this?”

  My skin buzzed with heat and breathlessness. I inhaled. “You. It belongs to you.”

  He didn’t bother to take any of our clothes off before his body covered mine on the bed and he pushed deep inside of me. It was rough though constrained, with his mouth on mine, with his foreign words in my ear, with him holding me down as if I might want to escape. It was like he was trying to prove something to me, like this was all I needed.

  And for a moment, I almost believed it.

  “YOU DO KNOW I’M NOT a personal therapist, don’t you?”

  “Didn’t you take an oath to help others in need?”

  Sasha Taylor Ph.D.’s lips quirked. “I don’t believe you’re exactly in need, but I’ll admit, I’m too intrigued to turn you away.”

  I sat back in my chair, resting an ankle on my knee. “I want to know what my diagnosis is.”

  She didn’t have my file; she didn’t need it. She’d thought about me enough over the years—had tried to solve me like an unfinished puzzle.

  She touched her pen to her chin, tilted her head. “Well, it’s been a while since we last spoke, but going off what I’ve learned about you from
our previous meetings, I’d say you’re somewhere on the low end of the OCD spectrum. I believe your behaviors to be more habits than compulsions.” She paused, leaving her indecision and unsaid words to hang in the air like fumes.

  My unwavering gaze insisted she continue.

  She swallowed. “I also highly suspect you’re affected by an antisocial personality disorder. Including but not limited to manipulation, exploitation, and, possibly, a lack of empathy for others.”

  I’d always found mental disorders and their diagnoses boring, but I knew enough to know antisocial personality disorder was just another term for sociopathy.

  A corner of my lips lifted. “Sounds serious. Should I be concerned?”

  She fidgeted, averting her gaze and crossing her legs. “I’ve often wondered how you passed your psychological evaluation in the hiring process.”

  “I guess diagnoses are a matter of opinion, aren’t they?”

  “Indeed,” she said breathlessly. “I know you didn’t come here today for my expertise on your mental status, so what brought you to my door?”

  I looked out the window, running a hand across my jaw.

  Her thoughtful gaze settled on my face. “Let me guess, you’re here because you’ve finally obtained what you’ve always wanted, and now you don’t know how to control it?”

  My eyes met hers. “I can control it just fine.”

  I’d never told a more ridiculous lie.

  “Maybe it, sure. But not how you feel about it.”

  My jaw tightened.

  “This ‘addictive personality’ of yours . . . it’s merely a medical condition you’ve built up in your head to explain why you’ve always wanted it. To help you understand the reason it appeals to you, and therefore, help you control your reaction to it. But in reality, it’s a normal human emotion. Maybe stronger for you because you haven’t experienced it in a long time, or maybe you’ve never felt it.”

  “You’re losing me, Sasha.”

  Her lips lifted. “No, I’m not.”

  She clicked her pen. Once, twice, three times. “My guess is, now that you have it, you’re afraid you’ll lose it. Maybe you don’t feel like you even deserve her, though that’s a trivial point because, in the end, you don’t care.”