The Maddest Obsession (Made, #2)

by Danielle Lori

“You disappear for three years and then come back and demand things from me? You made your interest clear a long time ago, Allister. I’ll never answer to you—get used to it already.” Cold eyes pierced me with an arrow through the chest. “What part of ‘call me if you need anything’ did you not fucking understand?”

“Tell me, Officer, were you this cold to your mother?” He stopped in his tracks. The temperature in the room took a dive, and goosebumps rose on my arms. But I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I wanted to hurt him; to make him feel something for once in his life. “I feel sorry for the woman—to birth such a heartless son as you.” He turned around. If expressions could kill, I’d be dead. “Shut your goddamn mouth.”

His words were different, rougher, than they should have been. It took me a moment to understand the significance while I was trying to catch my breath. And when I did, I stared at him, panting. The bastard was Russian.

Though, as much as I wished I could blame my fuck-up on the fact trouble followed Gianna wherever she went, I knew that had nothing to do with it. When she was close, all I could focus on was that she smelled like temptation. Like something I wanted to worship and degrade at the same time.

Her pulse beat quickly, expressing her fear—but her eyes, they were filled with defiance. Triumph. “Iowa, huh?” Bitter amusement filled me. She was put on this earth to aggravate me, to humble me. I didn’t know a single damn man who wished to be humbled.

She looked bored. “Say something in Russian.” This was a moment I would love to fill her mouth with something more productive. I let her go rougher than I should have, and then hated myself for feeling a twinge of regret. Couldn’t kill her. Couldn’t even hurt her. What the hell would I even do with her? My dick immediately took over, flashing images through my mind of her naked on my bed, ass up, head-down, as she clutched the sheets and begged me for more.

That night. She said it like she was disturbed by just the memory, while, even though I hated it, that night had fueled my obsession for her for years. I’d dreamed of it, fantasized of her, and fought a physical battle with myself not to go back to New York just to see her in the flesh.

“Cut the shit. You’ve had a hard-on for pissing me off from day one.” “Sometimes an opportunity presents itself and I take it. It has nothing to do with you or my cock.” Unless it involves Gianna Marino, anyway. I’d always convinced myself I disliked Nico because he was impulsive and reckless. But I knew that was just an excuse for the real reason: he’d fucked her. If I couldn’t fuck her, nobody could fuck her. It was that simple. The idea of anyone touching her was a nauseating pill I refused to swallow.

“And if she is getting serious with him?” I’ll kill him. His eyes narrowed. “If she keeps fucking everything up, she’ll make this family look weak. She knows the consequences. If they’re involved, he’s dead and she’ll be dealt with.” “You won’t fucking touch her.” The threat escaped me, so calm and deadly it stilled the air. Two goddamn slipups in one day. I could have laughed, but I didn’t find it even slightly amusing that Ace now knew I had a weakness—he now had something to hold over my head. My entire reputation rode on me being untouchable, and this was going to fuck it all up. He watched my face, let out an amused breath. “Well, fuck me running.” And then walked out the door.

I grabbed the glass in his hand with every intention of tossing the contents in his face, though before I could, he ripped the tumbler from my grasp and threw it to the floor. I stared at my failed revenge shattered on the marble but could see nothing but rage. I wanted to hurt him as much as his words had me. I pushed him, and when he didn’t respond, I did it again. Then, I beat on his chest and tried to knee him in the groin.

“Everything about that night was forgettable. Why do you think I didn’t call you?” Sympathy filled my voice. “Seems I didn’t listen.” We both knew I was referring to what he’d said to me that night: “You won’t forget me.”

My heart beat in my ears, and I hated myself for feeling a pang of regret. His eyes were dark and terrifying; a reflection of skies lit up with smoke and fire. His lips pressed against my ear, words rough and threatening. “Run home to your husband before I make him a widower.”

My hands shook with resentment and something pent-up I couldn’t even explain. All I knew was that I couldn’t keep playing games with this man. I was going to wave the white flag to our rivalry, because in the end, I’d never win.

“I’m done playing games with you.” He opened the passenger door for me like the quintessential gentleman, his words amused and cynical. “Is that what you think we do? Play games?” “I don’t care what you call it. I’m done! With this.” I gestured between us. “With you.” Like the set of the sun, his eyes filled with darkness. A merciless darkness that wrapped around my soul and pulled. The force of the snap made me fall back a step. He slammed the car door. Stalked toward me. “You’ll never be done with me.” He grasped me by the throat, pushed me back against the car, and swallowed my next breath in his mouth.

“Christian . . .” His eyes were dark enough to emanate one of my nightmares. They fell to my mouth. He braced his hands on the car on either side of me and leaned in. I was so sure he was going to kiss me, I shook with the anticipation of it, but instead of meeting my lips, he placed a single kiss on my neck. “If you ran, Gianna . . .” The words were malicious yet somehow as soft and desperate as sex in a war-torn field. He pressed his lips to my ear. “I would find you.”

Grabbing my hips, he pulled me closer to sit me on his erection. The hardness lined up with the damp material of my panties, and a wave of lust blurred my vision. I couldn’t stop myself from rocking against him. Riding him just like I did my pillow while secretly pretending it was him late at night. My eyes, half-lidded and hazy, met his.

He ran a thumb down my landing strip, voice hoarse. “I’ve wondered if this was still here.” A smile touched my lips. “You’ve been thinking about me, huh?” I’d only been teasing him by repeating something he’d once said to me and certainly didn’t expect his response. “Only when I need to come.”

A groan resounded in his chest, and then he kissed me. Slipped his tongue into my mouth. Pulled my bottom lip between his teeth. Kissing Christian Allister made me feel more alive than any drug ever could.

I tried to undo the buttons on his shirt, but he grabbed my wrists and stopped me. Something cold settled in my stomach. I worked myself free from his grip, and as if he hadn’t already denied me once, I tried again, only to get the same result. “It’s staying on,” he said harshly against my lips.

His jaw ticked. And then he pulled his dress shirt from his pants, grabbed my hand, and slid it over his stomach and up his chest. He was compromising with me, allowing me to touch him without taking off his shirt.

“How many women did you kiss in Seattle?” The quiet question escaped me as I ran my fingers through the grooves in his abs. His eyes were steady pools of dark blue. He didn’t answer me, but he didn’t have to. He didn’t kiss. A heady sense of satisfaction filled me. Then why, oh why, Officer, do you kiss me?

“All of it, malyshka,” he commanded.

“Say something in Russian.” “Ty samaya krasivaya zhenshchina kotoruyu ya kogda-libo videl.” “What did you say?” “You’re annoying.”

“You’re not on the pill.” It was more of an assumption than a question. I never had sex—why would I need to be? Pushing away from him, I pulled a bra strap back onto my shoulder as an icy trickle of panic crawled up my spine. “No.” I could only imagine if I got pregnant while my husband was on his deathbed and couldn’t conceive with a helper and a bottle of Viagra. Nothing but a whore. Whore. Whore. My lungs squeezed, tightening and tightening with a band that wouldn’t release. Tears burned the backs of my eyes. 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. Sounded good, sure—but that side of me was as rational as Gianna’s wardrobe. It had the idea she could be this pretty little fuck toy, one who’d be perfectly comfortable warming my bed all day, spreading her legs for me whenever I wanted, while keeping all her questions to herself. In reality, she’d touch my shit. Reorganize my things. Fill my apartment with sugary cereal. And most importantly, slowly dig her way into my past. And when she did that, she’d hate me more than she already did. Maybe even be disgusted. I couldn’t stomach letting her see me in that light.

Gianna hadn’t said a word to me since we left the parking garage. She couldn’t have made it clearer that the idea of being stuck with me horrified her—she’d had a full-blown panic attack, for fuck’s sake.

I would have found the will to hold myself back if I knew how she’d react. Watching tears fill her eyes was like a stab and a twist to the chest. I didn’t fucking like it.

She looked at the pill I’d handed to her in reluctance. “The last time I took one of these it screwed up my cycle for two months.” The thought that she’d had to take one before sent a bite of jealousy through me. “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. Although, I didn’t believe she’d be searching for the latter. She’d been burned enough. I hated any man who’d broken her heart, but in the end, they’d made it easy for me. I couldn’t give that to her, and neither would she expect it from me. “I live in Seattle, Gianna, not Russia.”

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. Let her have her Vincent Monroe. 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. As strong as she liked to appear, she was delicate, flimsy, breakable, and too full of curiosity for her own good. She’d want out, and I’d never let her go.

She slowly stirred, rolling her head to look at me with hypnotic, dark eyes. They grew half-lidded as sleep pulled her back under. Jesus. Today was one of the days it hurt to look at her. A protective urge welled in my chest. Ironic, because it was me she should be fucking running from.

“Though, just a tip for the next unlucky woman you screw, I would have preferred a box of chocolates over your shitty Plan B pill.” She slammed the door behind her.

“And you even baked for me.” I bristled. “Well, I didn’t know it was you I was baking for, if it’s any consolation.” He looked at the dessert in my hands as though he’d never tried sugar before. He nodded toward it. “Chocolate?” “Arsenic.” “My favorite.” He took the plate from my hand and slammed the door. I sighed. My neighbors sucked.

“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. “Close, but no cigarette,” I told him, breathless at the playfulness, before we split off in separate directions. His eyes lit with amusement. “No cigar

Irritation unfurled in my chest. My hand twitched but I wouldn’t let myself react. I hadn’t had to throw a punch in years, and I wouldn’t start now—over a woman, no less. “If I wanted her, I’d have her already.”

“What a shame, though. A whole lot of men would have paid to see Gianna in that get-up of hers.” He tsked in feigned disappointment, and anger burned my throat. 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. Ace wiped at the blood on his bottom lip, his eyes lit with amusement. “I guess this makes us even, Allister.”

Who knew what his excuse was—a stray eyelash on her cheek, a hair out of place, her soft skin was distracting—whatever the fuck it was, he was going to touch her. 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.

Gianna and I exchanged a look before I stepped onto the elevator. Hers said, Stay out of my business. Before I could stop it, mine said, I’ve been inside that little body and I’ll goddamn say who can touch it. Her eyes flashed. Then, she lifted a finger and flipped me off.

“Of course,” he said dryly. “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.”

I flew out my door and banged on the one right across from it. I didn’t want him to see me like this, but I also didn’t want to die. And I was sure I would if I had to be alone in this darkness any longer. The door opened. A candle glowed from somewhere inside, casting his form in shadow. His presence, however, was like a light in the dark. “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.”

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.” I didn’t even blink that he knew. Of course, he did. Give the man two sticks and tell him to make a boat with them, and he could. I couldn’t deny him an answer. Not now, without an ounce of fight in me. With my body against his, and his smell everywhere. Not in the dark, with his arms around me and his voice in my ear. “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.

He wasn’t amused at my sarcasm. “Look at me, Gianna.” I did. “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.” Is that what you did? I wanted to ask, but somehow knew it wouldn’t be well received.

“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

I looked at him, confused. “But I don’t want you to.” He made a frustrated noise in his throat. “This wasn’t what this was about, Gianna.” I blinked, and then the heat inside me dimmed and went cold. The man’s hands weren’t even on me—hadn’t been on me the entire time I’d practically mauled him. It seemed like I was always touching him. What’s wrong with me? He’d listened to my sob story and I’d reacted like a clingy virgin falling for her first lover. Humiliation settled inside me. And then I remembered Aleksandra. The man had a girlfriend and I was throwing myself at him. No wonder he wanted me to stop.

“Did someone blackmail you to take me home?” I asked. “Can’t I do something nice for someone?” “For me?” I raised a brow, forcing amusement. “Please.” His jaw ticked. He shook his head, his gaze dropping to the ground. When it came back up to me, it was so heavy and humorless it pinned me to my spot. “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.” “Savior complex?” I joked to lighten the mood. “No.” It was a harsh word. My throat burned, making my voice bitter. “Why are you telling me this?” Why are you making me feel this way? “You hate me for that night.”

His eyes lifted to mine, and they were filled with fire: violence, confliction, and a flash of possession. “Ask me why I kiss you.” I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. I shook my head. Because I was suddenly terrified of the answer. With his handsome, aristocratic face, he looked like a pissed-off prince who was darkly amused to be denied what he wanted. “I thought you were braver than this, Gianna.” I wasn’t. I’m not.

“Remember that the next time you offer me your body, malyshka,” he bit out. “Because next time, I’ll take it. Regardless if there are still tears on your face. Fuck, I won’t care if you cry the whole way through it.”