Page 72 of The Obsession
“Are you kidding me?” she says, following me into the kitchen. “You’ve taken care of all my needs since I moved in here.”
I pause when she says that, glancing at her over my shoulder and cocking an eyebrow. “All of your needs?” I repeat, smirking. “Not even close, cupcake.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever said the nickname out loud.
“Cupcake?” she echoes.
“Yeah.Mia tortina(My little cake). You smell like one. I noticed it the first time I met you.”
“I do?” she asks, almost shyly, and I immediately want to kick myself for voicing that out loud.
You smell good enough to ruin me, sweetheart, but I swallow those words back because I’ve already said way more than I’m comfortable with.
I move to the kettle and flick the switch, the low hum filling the kitchen. Steam curls from the spout, and my thoughts drift straight to her before I can stop them.
The way her golden hair slips over her shoulder when she moves.
The way she scrunches her nose when she’s concentrating.
The soft curves of her body that a man like me could spend years learning by heart.
My chest tightens, and I drag my attention back to the kettle.
If she knew half the things she did to me just by breathing, she’d run for the hills.
The kettle clicks off. I shake my head, trying to clear it, and pour the water into her mug with deliberate care. I turn, dropping the teabag into the cup, dipping it slowly, in and out … in and out, steady, controlled.
Her eyes widen, and her stance shifts slightly as a faint blush rises over her cheeks.
I lean back against the counter, letting my gaze settle on her. Not rushing, and for once, not hiding. Just letting her feel the weight of my attention.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs a little breathless.
“Only because it’s hard not to,” I admit. My voice comes out rougher than I intend, and the truth of it pulses through every word. Because she’s so fucking beautiful that sometimes, if I stare at her for too long, my chest starts to ache.
She swallows thickly and glances back down at the mug in my hand. The pink in her cheeks deepens, and the air thickens between us; it’s charged in a way I can feel deep in my bones.
Does she feel it too?
Fuck, I hope so.
For a moment, it’s just us, the heat, the tension, and all the things neither of us are saying.
And for the first time, I let myself admit it … I want her more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time, and I’m done pretending otherwise.
I take a step towards her, then another. When I’m only a few feet away, I hear her breath hitch in her throat. And if I’m being honest, she looks quietly terrified. That’s enough to stop me cold.
Whatever I thought I was about to do or say dies on my tongue.
I swallow hard and offer her the mug instead. She hesitates, but when her gaze drops to my hand, her breath catches again, sharper this time. Her eyes widen, and I realise she’s finally noticed my beat-up knuckles.
The bruising. The split skin. The places where the blood didn’t quite wash off.
Her fingers don’t touch mine when she takes the mug out of my hand, but they hover close. Close enough that I feel her warmth. Close enough that I see the worry flicker across her face like a shadow she can’t hide.
“You’re hurt,” she whispers.
The words land heavily, as if she feels it more than I do. For a second, the look of concern in her eyes catches me off guard.
