Page 55 of The Damaged Billionaire's Obsession
Ethan
I watch Bonnie’s retreatingback. There’s only one word to describe her. Regal. If I didn’t know it before, I know now that Bonnie Russo is so embedded under my skin that she might as well be a tattoo.
My raging hard-on and my pounding heart and trembling hands are proof enough. I look at the drying smudge on my desk, and I have zero urge to wipe it off.
What is that woman doing to me, and why am I so fucking drawn to her? Why do I look at her and see two women at once, one pulling me to her and the other pushing me away? One scared and innocent, the other brazen and wanton. I hear the Irish brogue she tries to mask. She’s a contradiction I want to solve, a code I need to break.
Which tells me I shouldn’t. She’s not my guinea pig. I don’t even know if she wants a relationship, or if I can have one with her. I’ve never been attracted to someone like her, and I never, by rule, stray from habit, so I’m out of my depth here.
I don’t do messy, and any kind of relationship with Bonnie Russo has messy written all over it. Literally. I look at the smudge of spit again.
Taking deep breaths, I grab my glasses, walk over to my desk, and drop into my chair. My dick is still hard. For fuck’s sake, why couldn’t she be a nice, blonde, curvy, socialite I can fuck out of my system until the next time I have an itch?
Why does she have to be a complex woman full of sass, who wears leather and prefers motorbikes to cars? A mouthy genius of a woman who did God knows what in Ireland to learn how to hack like a beast and hops in and out of schools like they’re going out of fashion? And my fucking employee?
I should have stuck to emails and phone conversations with her, even though it was getting ridiculous. People are already noticing how I avoid her, and gossip spreads. If word gets around that I can’t stand her, it would damage her reputation. And she’s already rapidly gaining popularity on and off the tech floors.
I thought I could pull it off, that I’d put enough distance between us, that she wouldn’t dare to flirt ridiculously with me. That she would be nervous and amped up for her L.A. expo that she’d act professional with the one person who created the program, and who could help her the most.
The meeting was doomed before it began, with her putting the moves on the helplessly infatuated Will, then blatantly staring at me like a starving vixen. I didn’t even manage to get to the crux of the meeting, and it’s important I warn her about the guys in L.A.
At least we can mutually agree now that face-to-face meetings are not a great fit for us, what with the trainwreck that just happened.
I can't even describe how enragingandarousing it was watching her childishly smear spit on my pristine desk.
Dirty girl.
Lust slams into me again, and my dick throbs. I imagine other places I’d like her to smear her spit on.Fuck. I need to get it together.
My next meeting is in a few minutes. I've established that cold showers don't help, and jerking off makes it worse because once I let myself go with thoughts of her, they never stop, and I never stop being hard.
I pick up the phone and dial a number most likely to cool my ardor.
“Hey, Pops.” I greet him.
My father's deep rumbling voice comes on. “Ethan, how’s it going?”
“Great. What are you up to?”
“The usual, just trying to get the last order out.” I hear the dull hum of the wood chisel going.
My father’s one passion is woodwork. It was a necessity growing up, as selling pieces sometimes made the difference in whether we had a decent meal or not. Now, he does it because he wants to, and he charges nothing for truly amazing pieces.
“You left early again today,” he says
“You know it's that time of the year.”
“Oh, I know. Launching a new product.” The whirring continues as he waits for me to say what’s on my mind. Or to not say anything at all.
He knows that when I call him, it’s not always to talk. Sometimes, I just want to spend time with him, so we’d both put our phones on speaker and carry on with whatever we were doing until someone calls it a good chat and disconnects.
I start checking my emails and typing up quick replies.
“Are you okay, though? Eyes are good?”
He always asks about my eyes. “They’re fine. For now. I was just a bit riled up by something, but I’m settling now.”
“You’ve got it, always remember that.”