The Maddest Obsession by Danielle Lori

THE APARTMENT GODS HATED ME.

I’d been trying not to concern myself with anything Christian Allister-related since that unfortunate afternoon in the back seat of his car. A part of me was still a little humiliated he’d witnessed my breakdown, but the other part couldn’t forget he’d been the best sex of my life.

I was still married.

And I wanted to sleep with the biggest prick I’d ever met again.

Christian wasn’t going to drag me down to hell with him.

Nevertheless, over the next week, I was put within close proximity to the man more than any other neighbor I’d ever had. I’d even physically run into him once. He’d looked at me like I was a vagrant who’d just asked him for money before leaving me there without even attempting a simple apology.

One might think our frequent run-ins would bring us closer together, and, although he did finally respond to one of my cheery, “Good morning’s!” with a dry expression while telling me it was noon, we were still about as close as Cady Heron and Regina George.

Five shopping bags hung from my arm as I adjusted the floppy hat on my head and walked through the lobby, heels clicking on the modern concrete floor. I’d been out with Valentina this afternoon, purchasing a few final items to add to my fall wardrobe. I’d yet to tell her about Christian and the fact I’d had rough, unprotected sex with him in his car, and I wasn’t going to. She’d make something of it that wasn’t there.

The doors began to close, but at the last minute, a hand shot out and held them open. Christian stepped onto the elevator.

His gaze came up and caressed mine.

I tensed and moved to the side, giving him much more room than he needed. His heavy presence stretched about three feet in diameter, and, these days, I did my best to stay out of it. It was like a vortex of dirty thoughts and racing hearts. Not to mention, he was so sexy and annoying, the closer I got to him, the worse the desire became to sink my teeth into the muscle at the back of his arm.

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. It was the kind of smile seen on the bad guy’s lips after stealing the girl. Warmth rushed beneath my skin; a prickling, breathless heat traveling all the way to my toes.

“Fine. I don’t bite women in elevators.”

“Whatever makes you feel good about yourself, Officer.”

He wore a long-sleeve shirt and running pants, and the light sheen of sweat on his skin let me know he was just leaving the gym. He went every day—even the Lord’s day. It was blasphemy.

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.

I swallowed. “The sun’s still up, buddy.”

“I’ve been expecting you to file your complaint. Thing is, I get more corrupting done at night if I work out during the day. Don’t want to disappoint those good Christian women.”

The thought that he was sleeping with other women made my gut twist. Nor could I stop a rush of irritation any time Valentina even mentioned Aleksandra’s name. Her face annoyed me, and just the idea she had her French-tipped nails anywhere near Christian made my stomach burn. Gosh, maybe I was getting an ulcer. I reminded myself to make an appointment with my GP.

“I’ve yet to see you even use the gym, anyway,” he noted.

“That’s because I only run when something’s chasing me.” The doors slid open, and I stepped out, hitting him with one of my bags. “Just stay away from the pool, and everything will remain civil. Capiche?”

“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.”

“Dormiste con ella, tú cerdo!”

Slap.

Chad blocked another incoming slap to his face by grabbing his wife’s wrist. “Fue un accidente, querida!”

I scoffed.

“Un accidente? Tu polla no se deslizó dentro de ella, idiota!” Chloe slapped him with her free hand.

I jumped at the loud clap of thunder that seemed to rock the apartment building. Setting my needle and thread on the living room floor where I was sitting, I got to my feet and padded to the window. The sky was dark, though the glow of city lights caught on the menacing clouds rolling in.

Chloe and Chad were now ripping off each other’s clothes while professing their undying love for each other.

I flipped the channel.

The weatherman’s words were dubbed over in Spanish, but I didn’t even need to try and decipher what he was saying because the red cloud on his radar that was swallowing up Manhattan was clear enough.

I stood in front of the TV in an oversized t-shirt and lace boyshorts, with a cool rush of anxiety running through me. I wasn’t a fan of storms; they were unpredictable and destructive. They made me feel as small and weak as a little girl.

I hesitantly sat back down and picked up the dress I’d been hemming. Thunder rumbled across the sky, and I pricked my finger on my needle. With annoyance, I dropped my things. Took a deep breath.

It was just a little storm. No big deal.

My heart jumped at the crack of lightning right outside my window, and that was when the lights turned off. The lampposts on the street flickered and went dark.

No.

I squeezed my eyes closed, waiting for the generator to kick on. We had to have a backup generator, right? It was the twenty-first century, for goodness’ sake.

But the lights weren’t turning on.

And the dark was closing in.

In. Out.

In. Out.

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 couldn’t breathe.

Something touched me. Cold fingers running through my hair, the same way they had from ages eight to twelve.

Terror crawled up my spine.

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.”

It wasn’t until I was pressed against his warm body that I realized how badly I was shaking. It was like grabbing onto a life raft before almost drowning in the sea. He made a rough noise and picked me up. I wrapped my legs around his waist and rested my face against his neck, struggling for every breath.

“Slowly, Gianna.”

He ran a hand through my hair, down my back, and the simple act was so soothing, soon, I inhaled a steady breath. Relief hit me so strongly it brought on a wave of fresh tears. I didn’t know how long it took, but when my breathing evened out and my heart rate slowed, I was straddling Christian on his couch, my arms around his shoulders, my chest pressed to his. The panic attack had sucked the energy from me, left me feeling lethargic.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

A candle flickered on the coffee table.

“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.”

Maybe that was why I felt safe from it now.

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.”

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.

“Shame,” he said softly, but a hint of vehemence showed through. “Tell me what he did to you, malyshka.”

I swallowed. I’d never told anyone but Sydney and my therapist. Talking about it felt like reliving it, but now, there wasn’t a possibility of the memories coming back to haunt me. Not with this man nearby. They wouldn’t dare.

“He came to my room when my papà had company. He wanted to play games with me . . . wanted me to sing for him. He touched me. My face, my hair, my . . . everywhere. But only after the lights were off. I don’t think he liked to see what he was doing. Guilty conscience, I suppose.”

His posture remained unmoved but something dark rumbled beneath the surface. “Did your father know?”

“He told me my papà knew, but . . . I don’t know. Papà never let on that he did, though I’ve always wondered.”

“Why?”

I lifted a shoulder. “His favorite name for me growing up was Whore, even though I was a virgin until I got married. My mamma had an affair before I was born, and we’ll just say, I became the target of his rage. He always claimed I wasn’t his. Maybe I’m not.” My words were quiet, wistful. “When he found out my fear of the dark, he didn’t hesitate to use it against me. And here I am now, the healthiest, most put-together woman you’ll ever meet.”

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.

“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.”

I shivered. “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.”

I feigned a frown. “Bummer. I was hoping not to be mistaken for a tourist when I visit Moscow next summer.”

He didn’t believe me. “You’re not going to Moscow.”

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t get warm enough to laze around by the pool—at least, not for a little Italian girl.”

“Hmm,” I replied. “Why do you kiss me?”

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

We both knew he hadn’t answered the question. He’d known what I tasted like three years ago, if that had been the only goal.

“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.”

The lights flicked back on.

It should have broken the moment, but now, I could see the intensity in his eyes I hadn’t been able to in the dark. A possessive heat sizzling in blue flame.

We stared at each other.

My heart raced. My blood burned.

I didn’t know what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop.

Leaning in, I brought my mouth to his, pausing close enough to taste his breath. I was shaking in anticipation yet he remained still as I took a sweet pull on his lips. He didn’t kiss me back, but heat still pulsed and spread through me like fire, tightening in my breasts before descending to my toes.

He licked his lips, drawing a lazy gaze from my mouth to my eyes, as though he’d found the kiss slightly bothersome to his person. It should have been discouraging, but I was too far in to stop now.

I drew my tongue across his top lip and then nipped at the bottom. A low groan rumbled up his throat. The sound hummed between my legs, making me clutch both of my hands in his hair.

And then I licked his lips like an ice cream cone. It had no finesse, just pure, unadulterated want.

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.

He leaned back into the couch like he was settling in for the kiss. I went with him, fingers gripping the collar of his shirt, mouth pressed to his. The man really didn’t kiss—I felt it in the lazy, blasé manner his lips moved against mine. But when he was all in on a kiss, it was the deep kind I had to pull back from to take a breath.

My pulse thrummed between my legs as he tasted my mouth, sucked on my tongue, and nipped me when I kissed him softer and sweeter than he liked. He could have it his way. Kissing had always got me so hot I’d do anything after a while, and just kissing Christian was better than sex with anyone else.

My hips rolled, mocking every thrust and glide of our tongues. I moaned, pressing tighter against him, running my nails down his biceps. I’d never admit it to the man, but I was obsessed with his arms.

My breathing grew ragged as my breasts rubbed against his chest every time I swayed into a kiss. Hot pressure built inside me as I grinded against his erection. The lust inside me was burning out of control, growing more frantic with every press of our lips.

He let out a rough breath and pulled away from me, his voice harsh. “Enough, Gianna. You have to stop.”

“Why?” I nibbled at his jawline and down his neck. He grabbed my wrist before my hand could reach his belt.

“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.”

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.

I swallowed. “I must have lost my head there, Officer. I’m sure, with that face, things like this happen to you all the time.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously.

“No?” My voice was hesitant.

“No,” he snapped.

Oh.

I climbed off him, got to my feet, and headed to leave.

“Gianna, wait.”

His door lay wide open, and I walked through it into the hall.

“Gianna.” The word was harsh and vehement. Christian Allister was not happy. But there was something else in his voice. Something soft and nauseating. Something that sounded suspiciously like pity. The day I stuck around to see that on his face was the day I’d willingly roll around in my own self-loathing.

I slammed my door behind me.