Page 88 of Reckless Obsession

Dark wood. Dark art. Dark furniture. No photos.

I’ve always preferred darker interiors anyway. Jake liked things brighter, more polished, more metropolitan. Sleek and optimistic. He had a way of making everything look expensive and alive at the same time.

My phone dings again, yanking me out of my own head. I check the screen.

Don’t ignore me, Tristan, I’m bored.

I let out another long breath and glance up at the ceiling, because I already know I’m about to do something I absolutely shouldn’t. Something I lecture myself against regularly. Something reckless, unwise, and entirely avoidable.

And yet I do it anyway, because for all my supposed discipline, I seem to lose most of it when it comes to Maksim.

Come to my place.

The message shows as read almost immediately.

Then… nothing. The typing bubble appears, disappears, appears again. Maksim, the man who usually fires back within seconds, is actually hesitating.

He never takes this long to respond. He’s impulsive by nature and loud with emotion. Silence from him means his brain is sprinting in six directions at once. He’d probably hate hearing it, but he’s an overthinker in the most chaotic way possible. He just disguises it with sarcasm and provocation.

After more than five minutes of nothing, I decide to put us both out of our misery and call him.

He answers on the second ring.

“So,” I say the moment the line connects, “you’ve got nothing to say?”

“I didn’t at first,” he replies, and I can hear the suspicion under the amusement in his voice. “Also, you’re kind of scaring me today, Tristan, and I’m not easily scared.”

A breathy laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. That surprises both of us, I think.

“You said you were bored,” I tell him. “I’m giving you an option. Come over. I’m about to make dinner. I’m a very boring person, but you can eat here, and after that—”

“After that we fuck?” he cuts in like he’s helping me finish my statement.

There’s no accusation or offense in his tone. Just certainty.

That stops me.

Because the ease with which he says it, the casual confidence that that’s all I mean, lands wrong in my chest. Not because it’s unreasonable. God knows I’ve given him enough reason to think sex is the main language between us. But I still don’t like hearing it said out loud, as if that’s the only thing I’d want from him.

“No,” I say, and the word comes out more honest than I expected. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

“I don’t mind,” he replies easily. “You can call me for secret sex whenever you want. I’m always down. You know that.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Dear God, he is impossible.

“Maksim—”

“I’m on my way, Mr. Grump,” he says, cutting me off before I can even figure out what I was going to say. “Don’t start cooking without me tho.”

My brows furrow. “Why?”

“Because I want to watch you cook, Tristan Sinclair.” The way he says my full name, playful and almost affectionate, does dangerous things to my pulse. “See you soon.”

He hangs up before I can respond.

I pause for a moment before setting my phone down gently on the counter, then glance at the untouched chicken in front of me.