Page 63 of Cruel Obsession

My phone buzzes, pulling my thoughts back from the darkness.

It’s a security alert from home—motion detected in a restricted area.

Frowning, I open the app and select the feed from the mansion’s security system. A few taps and I access the camera outside the Secret Room.

I go cold.

Mirabel.

She stands in the hallway, staring at the door like it’s a gateway to another dimension. The cleaning supplies beside her tell me she’s been working. But the intensity in her expression has nothing to do with housekeeping.

I watch as she pulls a key from her pocket.

Chto eto, blyat’, takoye?

What the fuck is she doing?

I should be furious. Should be calling the house to stop her, firing her on the spot. But something keeps me silent, watching as she unlocks the door and steps inside.

Into the one space no one enters. The one place in the world where Mishka still exists.

I switch to the interior feed. She moves through the room like someone in a museum. Her fingertips ghost over surfaces,never quite touching, as if she knows her presence is already an intrusion.

When she disappears into the bathroom, I’m ready to make the call. Except as she reappears, something in her expression makes me pause.

And then she does something that stops me cold.

She sits on the sofa. Lies back. Closes her eyes. Her cheeks flush. Her breathing changes. And I recognize the subtle shift of her body against the cushions for exactly what it is.

Desire.

My cock hardens painfully fast, blood rushing south with enough force to make me dizzy. Or maybe that’s the vodka. Or the emotional whiplash of going from grief to lust in the span of seconds.

I watch her sit up suddenly, face coloring. Watch her mouth words to herself—a self-reprimand, from the looks of it.

But she doesn’t leave. Instead, her hand drifts down her stomach, hesitating at the waistband of her skirt.

I go totally still, gripping my phone with white knuckles, breath coming faster as her hand slips beneath the fabric.

The camera angle prevents me from seeing details, but her expression tells me everything. The slight parting of her lips. The tension in her neck as her head tips back. The flush spreading down her throat.

My own hand moves without conscious thought, palm pressing against the rigid length of my shaft straining against my zipper. Just pressure at first, a useless attempt to ease the ache.

On screen, she shifts—one hand disappearing beneath her skirt while the other slides under her shirt. Even through the grainy feed, I can see her fingers moving beneath the fabric, working her breast. Her back arches slightly, pushing into her own touch.

Blyad.

I unzip my pants, freeing myself with a hiss of relief. The air in the cabin feels too hot, too close. My hand wraps around my cock—rough, demanding—matching what I imagine her rhythm to be.

She’s not gentle with herself. I can tell by the way her body moves, the increasing urgency in how her hips shift against the sofa.

I stroke myself harder, faster, imagining what she’s doing beneath that skirt. How wet she must be. Whether she’s using one finger or two. If she’s circling her clit or applying direct pressure.

Her mouth opens on what looks like a gasp. Her thighs part wider, one leg sliding off the sofa entirely, foot planted on the floor for leverage. The movement is unguarded, desperate—nothing like the careful composure she maintains in my presence.

This is Mirabel unfiltered. Raw. Chasing pleasure.

My grip tightens, pre-cum slicking my palm as I work myself with brutal strokes. The vodka has loosened something in me, stripped away the usual control that governs every action. Right now, I want nothing more than to sink into her heat.