Page 59 of Cruel Obsession

The bathroom door stands partially open. I nudge it wider, revealing a space that’s beautiful but far simpler than the marble monstrosity attached to his bedroom. A bath. A shower stall. A pedestal sink. Masculine toiletries arranged with that same careful precision he applies to everything else in his world.

I step inside, drawn by an impulse I don’t examine too closely. The shower stall is spotless, tiles gleaming.

My fingers trace the edge of the sink, then drift to the shower door. I pull it open slightly; the scent of his soap intensifies—and the scent ofhim. The kind of scent that clings to skin long after the water stops running.

Heat unfurls low in my belly, unexpected and unwanted.

I imagine him here, standing beneath the spray. Water cascading over those broad shoulders, sliding down the ink thatcovers his chest and throat. Hands braced against the tile, head bowed under the pressure, muscles flexing beneath tattooed skin. Vulnerable in a way he never allows himself to be anywhere else.

My breathing quickens. The bathroom suddenly feels too small, too warm. I back out, returning to the main room, but the images follow me—vivid and intrusive and impossible to shake.

I should leave. Now. Lock the door. Pretend I was never here.

Instead, I sink onto the sofa, telling myself I just need a moment to collect myself. To process this space and what it means. But my body knows the truth—the heat building between my thighs, the flush spreading across my skin, the way my nipples tighten against the fabric of my bra.

This room holds him in ways the rest of the mansion doesn’t. His essence saturates the air, the furniture, everything. And being surrounded by it—byhim—ignites something I can’t control.

I lie back against the cushions, eyes closing. Just for a second.

The scent of him is everywhere. On the throw pillow beneath my head. In the air I breathe. It seeps into my lungs, my bloodstream, firing synapses I didn’t know existed.

My mind conjures him without permission—stepping out of that shower, water still beading on his skin. The way his eyes would darken if he found me here. The controlled violence in how he’d move, crossing the room in three strides, yanking me up by my wrist.

What are you doing in my space, Mirabel?

His hands wouldn’t be gentle. They never are. He’d grip my jaw, force my face up to meet his gaze, and I’d see that dangerous hunger burning behind the ice of his eyes.

Heat pools between my legs, slick and insistent. My thighs press together, seeking friction, seeking relief from the ache that’s building to unbearable levels.

“Stop,” I whisper to myself, but my hand has already begun its descent.

I should feel shame. Should be horrified at what I’m about to do. But the want obliterates everything else—every rule, every boundary, every shred of professionalism I’ve tried to maintain.

My fingers slip beneath the waistband of my skirt, finding heat and wetness that shocks me with its intensity. I’m soaked. Aching. My body responding to nothing more than thoughts of him, the memory of his naked form in his bedroom doorway, the fantasy of what he’d do if he caught me here.

He’d punish me. I know he would. The thought sends a fresh wave of arousal through me, my fingers circling my clit with increasing urgency.

I imagine him here, standing over me. Watching with that predatory stillness that makes my stomach lurch. His voice would be low, dangerous:You couldn’t help yourself, could you? Couldn’t stay away from what isn’t yours.

My back arches off the sofa. One hand works between my legs while the other slides beneath my shirt, finding my breast, pinching my nipple the way I imagine he would—rough enough to make me gasp.

In my mind, he’s unbuckling his belt. The leather sliding through the loops with that serpentine hiss. His eyes never leaving mine as he commands:Touch yourself. Show me what you do when you think of me.

Would he take me over this couch? Bend me forward with my ass in the air and fuck me from behind? He’d be merciless; brutal, even. Leaving his mark on my flesh.

My fingers move faster, two of them sliding inside while my thumb presses against my clit. The dual sensation makes my legs tremble, toes curling against the sofa cushions.

He’d command me, and I’d obey him. God help me, I’d do anything he asked. Spread myself open for his gaze. Let him watch me fall apart. Let him see exactly how much power he has over me.

The fantasy shifts. Now he’s kneeling between my thighs, replacing my fingers with his mouth. That talented tongue I’ve only imagined, circling and sucking and driving me to the edge of sanity. His hands would grip my hips, holding me in place when I try to writhe away from the intensity.

Come for me, Mirabel.

Let me taste it.

The orgasm crashes through me without warning. My body goes rigid, inner walls clenching around my fingers as waves of pleasure roll through me. I bite down on my lip to trap the sound trying to escape—his name forming on my lips.

The release seems endless, my body wringing every last drop of sensation from the moment. When it finally subsides, I’m left gasping, legs shaking, a fine sheen of sweat cooling on my skin.