The Maddest Obsession (Made, #2)

by Danielle Lori

“What did yo...

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Lolol

Something thick and wet slid down my thigh. My sex-high liquefied and turned to ice in my stomach. Had I really just had unprotected sex—so unprotected, by the way his come was leaking out of me—with Allister? I did frantic mental calculations in my head, trying to calculate when I ovulated. Which was, of course, now.

Two rough hands grasped my face. “Breathe.”

I SHUT THE CAR DOOR harder than I should have. Ran a hand through my hair to try and get rid of the soft feel of her fingers in it. Rolled my shoulders to push away the obsessive thoughts lighting up my back. Keep her. Make her want you. Make her need you. Fuck, I shouldn’t have done it. It was like trying to cure an addict by giving him the best goddamn hit of his life.

An obsessive part of me—the one thoroughly fixated on Gianna’s every move—didn’t give a shit about consequences. Knocking her up would make its fucking day. It would finally give me a reason to throw my plans in the trash and make her mine.

“Then don’t take it.” She scoffed. “I’m not shipping my child to Russia every summer, Allister.” She wouldn’t be sending him or her anywhere. She’d be in my home, in my bed. I’d give her anything she wanted—anything but my past and some silly notion of love.

I let out a breath. Swept my gaze over her face. Long eyelashes, smooth cheekbones, pouty mouth—the top lip that was slightly bigger than the bottom—the tiny scar on her chin. She was so goddamn beautiful I couldn’t even stand to look at her some days. Because I didn’t know what to do with her—to make her scream my name or to punish her for making me feel this way. I needed to back off completely. To leave her alone and let her live her life.

Because if I touched her again, the deeper this obsession would spread, and I knew where it would end. I’d find some way to keep her.

I looked around my apartment, at the shelf crammed with books and knickknacks, the paintings—from a cheap Marilyn Monroe portrait to an authentic Picasso—my Singer sewing machine and bags of fabric and thread, the haphazard stacks of magazines with circled fashion ideas in ballpoint bell, and way too many decorative pillows. If I was being conservative, I’d say it was cluttered. If I were Allister, I’d say it was a nightmare.

I spent the next week packing my precious possessions into boxes, though, admittedly, grew distracted more than once while blowing the dust off my old books and magazines. I’d often end up on my divan, burying my face in some long-forgotten fashion journal or a novel with enough drama to put Jersey Shore to shame.

He wasn’t looking at the camera but at some point in the distance. He appeared handsome and elusive, like some carnal fantasy you could only dream about but never touch. She wore her usual smolder—slightly pursed lips and cat eyes—and, with skyscraper-long legs and stilettos, she was only a couple of inches shorter than him. They probably had all kinds of crazy positions to try out without such a large height difference.

The dirty fed’s narrowed gaze fell from mine to the plate I cradled with two hands. Well played, Ace, well played. Was Allister supposed to be my babysitter until he returned to Seattle? It seemed I was everyone’s joke, but I wasn’t going to let this sour my mood. I was almost a single woman, after all.

“Just fuck her and give her some dessert. Is that all there is to it?” “Pretty much.” “And to think I’ve been doing it wrong all these years.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, musing, “You seem to have a vested interest in the women I’m with.”

He looked at the dessert in my hands as though he’d never tried sugar before. He nodded toward it. “Chocolate?” “Arsenic.” “My favorite.”

I frowned, looking down at my itty-bitty white bikini. “Is it not obvious?” “With you, nothing is.” “I can’t tell if that was a dumb-brunette joke or if I’m so unpredictable it excites you.”

He bit out a curse. His arm wrapped around my waist, he lifted me off the floor, and then he was carrying me back to my apartment like a sack of groceries. “Hey,” I complained, though it was half-hearted because the heat coming through his cotton shirt scalded my skin.

“You look like a traffic cone,” he told me. As we passed a potted tree in the lobby, I pushed him into it. He hadn’t been expecting it—he actually took a step to the side. Satisfaction filled me at the giant leaf that had the audacity to smack him in the head. He shot me an annoyed glance.

I rolled my eyes. “Gosh, you’re so stuffy. I bet you’ve never done anything silly in your life. You really need to loosen—” He shoved me into a towel cart. It was half-hearted because I was able to catch myself before I hit it.

Lmaoooooo

I refused to stay in a hotel because I refused to let Gianna know how deeply she was under my skin. I couldn’t even look at the woman, let alone be near her, without fighting the urge to do things I probably shouldn’t. Like tie her to my bed and make her come, over, and over again, just so I could watch the fire go soft in her eyes.

It was an arrangement I was seriously considering. Aleksandra was beautiful, traditional, and composed. She wouldn’t challenge me, ask me questions about my past, or dig her way into my business. She’d make the quintessential housewife. It would be a good match, even if I had to think about Gianna when I fucked her.

A corner of his lips lifted. “Never thought a woman could come between us, Allister. Say, you wouldn’t know anything about my surveillance camera in and outside the club being wiped clean last Sunday, would you?” “Must have been a power outage.” “Must have been,” he drawled.

I turned to leave, but . . . fuck it. “One last thing.” “Yeah?” When I turned to face him, I punched the smirk right off the fucker’s face.

She wore a short little romper—one of those things she’d have to take all the way off to use the bathroom. So impractical. So her. Her dark hair trailed down her back, the longest strands stopping at a point just before the curve of her ass. It was another obsession of mine. Always wavy and uninhibited, just like her.

Fuck, she was pretty. With soft eyes, pouty lips, and a body sex doll companies tried to replicate.

Why did the most perfect woman from here to Seattle have to be this one?

Reverse psychology and all that. But no, she reserved those smiles for scrawny pool boys. Pool boys with a death wish.

Over my goddamn body. As I walked past the front counter, I grabbed his wrist before his hand could make contact with a strand of her hair, shooting him a touch-her-and-I’ll-kill-you look. He paled. I let him go and continued to the elevator.

We both stared at the doors as they closed, my wish heavy in the air that somebody else would step on. Nobody did. Like I said, the apartment gods hated me. “I don’t bite,” he said, sounding annoyed. “Liar.” His gaze flicked to me, and then a slow smile pulled on the corner of his mouth.

“Fine. I don’t bite women in elevators.” “Whatever makes you feel good about yourself, Officer.”

Standing slightly behind him, I took advantage of the view. I swore the man was made of nothing but broad shoulders and smooth muscle, the defined lines visible through his shirt. The sliver of a white Calvin Klein band showing above the waistband of his pants was enough to send my thoughts straight to the gutter.

“Wouldn’t dare to ruin your day of lounging on a chaise with your pool boy on call.” “Careful, Christian.” I pouted. “Keep saying sweet things to me, and I might think you like me.”

The floorboards creaked behind me. “I’m not going to hurt you, little girl.” My lungs iced over. There’s nobody there. There’s nobody there. There’s nobody there. “I just want to play with you.” Fear wrapped around my throat and cut off my breath. A tear escaped my closed eyes, running down my cheek. “Sing me a song, bella.”

“I’m going to die,” I choked out, not able to drag a deep enough breath into my lungs. “Never, malyshka.” It was soft and vehement. “Come here.”

“What are you afraid of?” “Everything,” I whispered, trailing my finger across the starched collar of his dress shirt. “You’re not afraid of me.” We were so close his cheek brushed my tear-streaked one when he rasped, “And, baby, I’m worse than the dark.”

“And, baby, I’m worse than the dark.”

BABY?!?!?!

He was so warm and solid, and he smelled so irresistible, I couldn’t stop myself from dragging my face down his neck and making a soft noise of approval. Maybe I was courting the devil, though no one had ever warned me the devil would feel so good.

Tension rolled through him. His fingers laced through my hair at the small of my back, his voice hoarse. “Tell me who hurt you, Gianna.”

“A family friend,” I said. “Is he still alive?” “No. He died when I was fourteen. Natural causes, unfortunately—no torture involved.” My fingers played with the ends of his hair above his collar. “Shame,” he said softly, but a hint of vehemence showed through. “Tell me what he did to you, malyshka.”

“We have a saying in Russia. S volkámi zhit’, po-vólch’i vyt’. Say it.” I butchered it. A corner of his lips lifted, but he walked me through it until it sounded somewhat intelligible. “It means, to live with wolves, you have to howl like a wolf.”

“You’ve got to learn how to howl, malyshka. To tell your demons to fuck off. We all know you have it in you; you tell me to enough. And unlike your demons”—his voice darkened—“I can actually bite you.”

Hotttttt

“I think you just wanted me to speak your heathen language.” He didn’t agree, but the thumb he ran across a tear-track on my cheek said more than words ever could. “Worst Russian I’ve ever heard.”

Lolololol

“Why do you kiss me?” His gaze dropped to my lips, his jaw ticking in thought. “I wanted to know what you tasted like.”

“What do I taste like?” His eyes drifted back up to mine. They were so deep and serious they held me captive. His next two words tugged at my heart, even though I didn’t know the meaning. “Kak moya.”

LIKE MINE. DEAD.

He made a noise of anger, grabbed the back of my neck, parted my lips with his, and slipped his tongue inside. Lust exploded behind my eyes, blurring my vision. “Is this what you wanted, malyshka?” His tone was heated, coated in a rough accent. God, yes. I could only nod.

I’d never admit it to the man, but I was obsessed with his arms.

“Because another moment of this, and I’m not going to be able to.” I looked at him, confused. “But I don’t want you to.”

Sunlight splayed through the trees onto the cemetery floor, silhouetting each shade of black. Black hearts, black suits, black dresses. Polished shoes and Glocks. The Cosa Nostra had come to pay their respects in a sea of black.

“I had every intention of coming back for you three years ago, Gianna.”

“I was in Moscow those two weeks. But if I had known, I would’ve stopped it. Your marriage.” He looked around the cemetery, at the tent where my husband’s casket lay. “All of this.” My lungs felt tight. “It wasn’t your responsibility to save me.” His gaze was steady. “Nonetheless, I would have.”