Page 107 of The Damaged Billionaire's Obsession
He suddenly rises and walks to the wall's far side, hitting the lights.
The room is suddenly bathed in light, and even I have to squint.
Then, he walks back to the table, confidently, I might add, not weaving around like a bat in daylight, and picks up a memo and starts to read.
“Are you kidding me?” I screech. “You can see in this light!”
“A little, yes,” he answers.
“No! You’re wearing contacts!”
He shakes his head.
I go to him and sit on the edge of his desk so I can lean into his face. “Did you um—” I begin,
“Man up and get the procedure done? Yes, I did. On that trip to Germany.”
That was two weeks ago. “Ethan! That's fantastic! How come I didn’t notice anything?”
“Well, I returned with two bloodshot eyes and a plaster on my hip, but I guess you weren’t paying attention to those parts of me.”
He’d gone away for four days, only a couple of weeks after we started seeing each other. I had missed him so much that I was only focused on getting reacquainted with other parts of his anatomy.
“Hey! In my defense, it’s always dark around you. But how long have you been able to see this much?”
“It gets slightly better every day, and I wouldn’t push things too soon by getting rid of the glasses.”
“Yes, that's true, you’ll need to rest your eyes. But hey, really, that’s awesome.” I run my fingers through his thick hair, giving him a scalp rub, and he leans into the caress.
“Was it hard, though? Going through with the procedure?” I ask.
“One of the hardest things I’ve done. But I was determined to do it when you told me about your childhood. Our past traumas can make a dent but shouldn’t shape our future, Bonnie.”
I know he’s talking about me getting therapy, something I’ve been dragging my feet on. “Oookay, I’ll think about it.”
I slip my hands from his hair and drop them to his desk. My now oily hands. I note the way his eyes are drawn to my hands like beacons and the ever-so-slight flaring of his nostrils. I don’t even think he realizes that he’s doing it, bless him. He continues talking, “That’s what you said the first thirty-thousand times.”
“Well, maybe you ought to space out the requests by thirty-thousand seconds instead of two seconds, Havard.” I slip off the desk and return to the couch. “Still okay with the lights?”
“Yeah, let’s give it twenty minutes, shall we?”
He’s reached out to grab some hand wipes and is already wiping away the smudges. I want to laugh out loud.
You’re so fucking dented, babe, you might as well be a frisbee.I resort to trying something I find always works with him.
I start undressing.
He stops wiping. “Bonnie?”
“I can’t wait anymore.”
His eyebrows flick up in surprise. “It’s only—” He checks his Rolex. “Fifteen more minutes tops, then I’ll be done here.”
“And then, a fifty-minute drive to Greenwich, then into a long dinner, and conversation, possibly a game of charades, then…”
“Actually, it’s more likely to be rounds of scrabble,” he interrupts.
“There you go, another never-ending game. Babe, I’d be so horny that I’d be reduced to whines and moans by the end of the night, unable to string sentences together beyond the word ‘Zeus.’”