The Maddest Obsession (Made 2)

I walked to the coffee shop on autopilot, and I was so distracted with thoughts of him, I ended up telling the barista the wrong order—even though I’d gotten the same drink for years. That was when I realized what a mess he was making of my life.

Five days.

It had only taken five days for me to feel like I needed to find a support group for Christian addicts. I’d had my reservations about this just sex relationship from the beginning, and I should’ve trusted my gut. I was losing all sense of control fast, and I needed to cut the cord now before I became just another mindless Christian groupie.

That evening, I paced back and forth, planning out exactly what I would say. Because I knew if I didn’t have a strong argument, he’d win, like he always did. But when a knock sounded on my door and I answered it, all the words I’d planned to say flew out of my head like a flutter of butterflies. He must have had my body trained, because just the sight of him sent my skin buzzing in anticipation.

I swallowed.

His eyes narrowed on me in suspicion. “Let me in, malyshka.”

I did, even though that hadn’t been the initial plan. He headed to my bedroom like he did every night, and I inhaled a breath to find some resolve before following him. He was already slipping off his watch when I reached him.

“We should stop having sex,” I blurted.

He didn’t even look at me while he worked on his cufflinks. “No.”

“No?”

“That’s what I said.”

I flushed. “You can’t just say no, Christian.”

“Give me one good reason why we should stop,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt, growing closer to revealing that stupid happy trail on his lower stomach.

“Because!” I sputtered. “God, would you stop taking off your clothes?”

“Because is not good enough.”

“Fine! I could name off a whole novel-sized list of reasons. My grande Caramel Mocha, for one—”

“I’ve waited all day to fuck you, Gianna. I haven’t been able to think about anything else but you. Are you done talking now?”

The heat in his eyes seeped into my bloodstream and dulled my anger.

I swallowed. “I swear, it’s like talking to a concrete wall with you.”

He ran a thumb across my cheek. “Brick wall.”

He was in nothing but a pair of briefs now, his body heat wrapping around mine and stealing my breath.

“Don’t tell me no, malyshka.” His voice was so deep and almost desperate, like he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if I denied him.

I wished I could say I held my ground.

But as soon as he kissed me, promising to fuck me missionary against my lips, it was all over.

A GROAN ESCAPED ME WHILE I worked my white skinny jeans over my hips. I let out a breath of relief once they were on, only for my mood to deflate like a popped balloon when I realized I couldn’t button them.

“No,” I moaned.

I struggled to take them off while cursing Val for getting me kicked out of yoga yesterday. I’d obviously needed the exercise. And giving up chocolate just wasn’t a realistic option.

It was October now. The leaves fell in drops of orange and red, and summer was losing its sweaty grip on New York.

I took a cab to the club, where I was supposed to be meeting Elena. She was organizing her sister’s baby shower, and I’d volunteered to help. Clearly, I’d do anything to get my mind off a dirty blue-eyed fed these days. He was so intense and consuming, I wondered how many of the women he’d been with were still pining over him. The thought brought a rush of jealous heat to my chest, even though I now knew I was different.

Last night, after the most intense session of missionary sex I’d ever had, with my head resting on his pounding heart, I’d asked, “How many women have you been with more than three times?”