The Billionaire's Bite
After I baked him a cake like some kind of unhinged P*******t housewife.
My shoulder aches, a dull, warm throb just below my collarbone, and when I twist to look at it in the mirror across the room, there’s a mark there—not quite a bruise, not quite a hickey, dark and strange at the edges. Great. Add “walking around with a hickey the size of a fist” to today’s list of problems.
The bathroom door opens and Damien steps out, hair damp, sweatpants low on his hips, and every ounce of my composure leaves the building.
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