The Maddest Obsession (Made 2)

“Done.”

“Condoms, Christian. You have to learn how to put one on.”

“Fine.”

My eyes narrowed, because he’d given in to that way too easily.

“Anything else?”

“I don’t know what kind of kink you’re into, but there are some hard no’s for me.” I was obviously a pervert because I couldn’t think of many as I ticked them off on my fingers. “Ball-and-gag-like bondage . . . tickling—hard, hard no on that one—and, preferably, no backdoor action.”

He stood, making me look up to meet his gaze. “Is that it?”

“I think so,” I answered hesitantly, not liking the look in his eye.

“Yes to the first two, no to the last.” He fisted my shirt and dragged me closer, pressing the next words to my ear. “I’m going to ruin every part of your body for any other man, malyshka, and you’re going to thank me when I’m done.”

I was making a deal with the devil.

And I couldn’t even find the grace to save myself.

The morning after we’d returned from Chicago, I was struggling with my lock before heading to yoga. Christian just happened to be leaving his apartment at the same time. Our gazes caught. Time lagged in slow motion, touching my skin like a heat wave and leaving me hot, flustered, and out of breath. This was where I would usually have something witty to say, but, in truth, I felt . . . shy?

He’d screwed me against my door last evening after driving me home. It was hot and fast and rough. Then, afterward, he’d just kissed me. He’d kissed me for so long my brain became mush, my legs turned to Jell-O, and my heart began to burn. And then he’d left me breathless and thinking about him for a ridiculous amount of time.

Now, from only a little eye-contact, heat bloomed beneath my skin, and all the extra-special things I could be saying were stuck in my throat.

What’s happening to me?

When he left me standing there without a word, like I was the annoying neighbor nobody wanted to run into, I let out a breath, relieved.

I didn’t know what I would have said if he hadn’t.

There was a feeling in my chest, heavy, and unstable, and consuming.

It felt too close to panic.

I spent the daylight hours of the next five days shaving my legs, watching infomercials, painting my toenails—basically anything to stay busy until nine o’clock. Because that was when he would come. He’d ignore me in the hall during the day, but once the sun set, it was like I was the only woman left on the planet.

Christian had a routine.

And I’d become obsessed with watching it.

He started with his watch, unclasping it and placing it on my dresser. His cufflinks came next. He set them on the side of his Rolex, approximately an inch to the right. My favorite was the tie—with his eyes on me, he worked the knot loose, slipped it off his neck.

Then, he started on his shirt buttons, the sleeves first and then his collar. He left it on and undone while he worked on his belt, which he rolled up neatly. In truth, that was the only foreplay I needed. His shoes were the next to go—lined up beside each other. Then, he stripped, setting his clothes on the back of my divan.

I would have made fun of him just a week before. But now, I only found it so sexy I sat on the edge of my bed just to watch it.

We did this sex thing backward.

It never started with kissing.

But it always ended with it.

As soon as he was undressed, I made my way over to him. He fisted a hand in my hair while I kissed a path from his chest to his stomach to lower, taking him in my mouth.

I was just another volunteer.