บททั้งหมดของ His Darkest Obsession: บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

PROLOGUE I’m naked and spread-eagled on the bed. My hands are anchored above my head to the headboard, my legs parted and vulnerable to the cool penthouse air. And I am aching. A deep, desperate, hollow throb pulses between my thighs, so intense it makes my entire body tremble against the black Egyptian cotton sheets. My pussy clenches over nothing, slick and humming around the tiny, relentless bullet vibrator buried deep inside me. Every nerve ending is on fire, begging for the one thing, the one man, who is currently seated on a chair across from me. He holds a sleek black remote in one hand and nurses a glass of scotch with the other, watching me squirm like I’m his favorite show. He is raw, masculine perfection. Fully shirtless, his broad shoulders taper into a dangerously narrow waist, his chest and abs carved with hard, visible muscle that glistens beneath the low lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. Lower down, a pair of loose black lounge

JOANNA The elevator ride down is torture. Thankfully, it was blessedly empty. The last thing I need right now is disintegrating in the presence of strangers. I spend all thirty seconds trying not to throw up. My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored wall. Red eyes. Trembling hands. Brown hair still messy from his fingers. From an hour ago. God. A fresh wave of nausea crashes over me. I lean one hand on the wall to keep myself upright. The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. I practically stumble into the lobby. “Miss? Are you okay?” The concierge’s voice follows me, concerned. I don’t answer. If I open my mouth, I’ll start crying again. The evening air hits me the second I step outside. It smells like a storm is brewing. Cars rush past. People laugh somewhere across the street. A couple walks by holding hands.The sight makes my chest ache. I force a deep breath into my lungs and yank my phone out of my pocket. My hands are still shaking, but a lit

ROWAN Numbers are clean, logical, and entirely devoid of emotion. That is why I like them. Algorithmic forecasting models don’t have a fragile ego. They certainly don’t call you at midnight to remind you that your older brother has just successfully resected a glioblastoma while you are merely "playing with spreadsheets." I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, ignoring the faint vibration of my phone in my pocket. It's my mother. Again. Calling, I'm sure, to remind me about Julian’s celebratory dinner. A dinner I plan on skipping because a room full of arrogant neurosurgeons is a special kind of hell I lack the patience for. I just haven't gotten around to telling her that I won't be there. It'll break her heart, for sure, but she'll be the only one to miss me there. I sit on my barstool in the dim, leather-scented quiet of the financial district’s most discreet lounge, nursing a glass of scotch as I go through the stock market charts on my tablet. After the s

JOANNA There are exactly three things I’ve learned over the last month. One: heartbreak is apparently not a straight line. Two: blocking your ex means absolutely nothing if you’re the idiot who keeps unblocking him at midnight just to see if he’s still thinking about you. Three: Kenneth looks annoyingly well-rested in selfies. I block him again. Hopefully for the last time. “…And blocked,” I mutter triumphantly, tossing my phone onto the nearest chair before temptation can strike again. Ria, who’s currently stealing fries off my plate from across the kitchen island, raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “That’s what you said last Thursday, and the Tuesday before that, and the Sunday before that.” I glare at her and she blinks at me innocently. “Well, I mean it this time.” She pops another fry into her mouth. “I’ll believe it when your thumb develops self-control.” “…Rude.” She grins. The annoying thing is…she’s right. Recovery hasn’t been some dramatic movie mont

JOANNA I take another sip of my champagne and immediately remember why I don’t drink champagne. It tastes like sparkling disappointment. Then again, maybe my taste buds just aren’t rich enough. Around me, Icarus gleams. Everything about the club screams obscene wealth. The ceiling disappears into darkness broken by cascading crystal lights. Marble floors reflect designer heels and polished Italian leather shoes. Every other person I glance at looks like they either owns a private jet, models for Vogue, or has inherited enough money to casually buy a small country. Women glide past in dresses that undoubtedly cost more than my entire wardrobe combined. One of them is wearing what looks suspiciously like actual diamonds sewn into her dress. I stare for an extra second. Yep. Definitely diamonds. Meanwhile, I’m silently praying nobody spills some expensive thing on my dress. It’s a direct result of a last-minute shopping splurge. And by splurge, I mean a literal financi