Page 150 of Reckless Obsession

“I’m charming and you know it.”

He huffs out a laugh but doesn’t say anything else. I stare up at him, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been weirdly disciplined this week, you know that? Very restrained. Very… priest-like.”

That gets his attention. He finally glances down at me, one brow raised.

“Priest-like?”

“You haven’t fucked me for a week,” I say, poking his thigh. “A whole week, Tristan. I’m starting to think you’re punishing me.”

“I am punishing you.”

I blink. “Wow. No hesitation.”

“You went to the Circuit after I told you not to,” he says simply, eyes returning to the screen. “And you came back with a black eye.”

“I also came back with a win.”

“I don’t care about the win.”

I let out an exaggerated groan. “You’re so dramatic. It’s one black eye. It’s already fading. You should be rewarding me for my athletic excellence, not starving me of sex like some cruel Victorian husband.”

A laugh slips out of him, quiet and low, warm enough to make my chest feel stupidly tight. I cover it by scowling, turning my face toward the television long enough to pretend I’m still following whatever deeply meaningful conversation the short-haired woman is having.

I am not.

My mind has already wandered.

“Hey,” I say after a while.

Tristan hums, still distracted by the movie.

“We should go on vacation.”

That gets a brief glance from him. “Vacation?”

“Yeah.” I sit up a little, pushing his hand away from my hair only so I can look at him properly. “We’ve been doing this”—I gesture vaguely around the apartment—“for three months now.”

His expression stays neutral.

“This apartment,” I continue, “that you bought specifically so we could meet without me sneaking into your place every other night. Which, by the way, was very considerate of you.”

Tristan’s lips twitch, but he says nothing.

I keep going, warming to the idea the more I say it aloud.

“You’re here most of the time anyway. You still technically live at your own apartment, but you practically keep half your life here now.” I point toward the hallway. “Your shirts are in the closet. Your wash cloth is in the bathroom. You have a charger on my side of the bed.”

“It’s our bed.”

I pause.

Then, because that lands far too softly in my chest, I recover quickly.

“Fine. Our bed. Whatever. My point is, we’ve been trapped in this city and this apartment all summer, and I don’t resume school for another three weeks.”

“Maksim—”

“We could go somewhere.” I grin at him. “France. Italy. Greece. Somewhere with a beach, preferably. Or somewhere with old buildings and stupidly good food. We could stay in one of those hotels with balconies and room service, and you could finally stop pretending you don’t enjoy life.”