Page 115 of The Damaged Billionaire's Obsession
“And you’re mine,” I say.
“Correct. Baby, I'm dying to buy you things. So, you see why you can’t have issues with taking money from me.”
“Oh, so you just wanted to prove a point?”
“Yep. And you need to work on it fast because I’ve got a ton of money. Which, I’m afraid, from this minute on, comes with my body. Can’t have one without the other.”
“Ethan—”
“As usual, if you have any complaints about the way I run my body, put it into writing and leave it in the trash can in my office.”
I really can’t deal with him sometimes. “I hate you, Ethan.”
“I love you too, Bonnie. So fucking much,” he replies.
He takes my mouth, and I melt under his touch. Throughout our talk, his erection didn’t flag one bit.
Grant was right; we don’t make it up the curving, glass stairs. Ethan insists he would break something if we tried to go upstairs in the state that he was in.
And at breakfast, Grant leaves a note for us about needing to return to Las Vegas. Luke gets majorly pissed off because Grant had taken the week off and flown in from Vegas to spend time with his family, but Ethan only leans toward me and whispers,
“That’ll be ten bucks off your next bonus, babe.”
Chapter 33
Ethan
“Mr. Hawthorne?” Will’s voicecomes on over the intercom.
“Ethan,” I say under my breath. “Yes?”
“Mr. Farrington’s on his way to see you right now.”
“Okay, Will, it’s fine.”
Will is now well aware of my relationship and has been the soul of discretion, warning me if anyone is on their way to my office, whether or not my girlfriend is with me.
Bonnie’s not even in the office right now, as she’s having lunch with the girls. Which tells me that Jordan has told Sabrina what he saw on Friday, and Bonnie is getting serious grilling.
I take a bite of the club sandwich she made me. Bonnie hates cooking, so when we’re together, I either prepare the meals or we order in, so it makes it all that more special that she did this.
Jordan comes into my office, smiling like the cat that got the cream.
“Ethan! My main man. How the hell are you, you fucking horn dog?” The instant he sees what I’m doing, the smile wipes off his face.
“Fuck me, Ethan. You’re eating in your office. At your fucking desk. And it doesn’t look like a dungeon in here. What the hell, where are your glasses!”
“Sit down before you get a stroke, man.”
He sits, or rather, his knees buckle, and he lands in the opposite chair. I put another sandwich on a plain letter-size paper and push it across the desk toward him.
“I can’t believe this, man. I’ve known you for five years, and this has never happened.”
“Where do you want to start?” I ask, referring to the third degree I know he has in store for me.
“Obviously, I came here to discuss what the fuck’s going on with Bonnie, but here you are, literally slobbering all over your desk in broad daylight.”
I tell him about my procedure. His shock is palpable as he listens intently. Jordan didn’t know of my PTSD or the cause for it, which is why I also never told him that there was a procedure that could reverse my cone dystrophy. Because if I'd told him that, he would have hounded me to get the cure and never understood why I wasn’t interested in doing it.