Page 151 of The Billionaires

The thing that pisses me off the most is the fact that the kiss was off-the-charts amazing.

The best I’ve ever had.

Better than I could imagine a kiss ever being.

Great. Now I’m even hornier.

Oh well, there’s no avoiding it. Time to angrily masturbate myself to sleep.

When I come to the kitchen for breakfast, luck isn’t on my side. Bruce—whom I was hoping to avoid—is here, and he’s just starting on his Eggs Benedict.

“Morning,” he says. “I’m glad you’re here. I want to discuss your plans for the day.”

Is that how he wants to play it? Pretend that nothing happened?

Fine. I’m glad, actually. The last thing I want is to relive that humiliation.

“Morning,” I say with fake cheerfulness. “Colossus and I will work on ‘sit.’”

Upon hearing his name, Colossus leaves his place by Bruce’s feet and runs over to me, tail wagging.

“Hi,” I croon. “You miss me?”

As if in answer, Colossus plops on his back, exposing how lacking his belly is of fur.

Please, please, I want a belly rub. And a cookie. Maybe together?

Crouching, I gladly perform my belly-related duties, then grab my own Eggs Benedict and occupy a chair near Bruce.

“We’re also going to walk,” I continue. “And I’m going to teach him how to take a treat out of my hand politely.”

Bruce nods approvingly, and I tell him what else I’m planning for today, time permitting.

As I talk, I watch Bruce for signs that my eating is bothering him, but he seems fine. Why does this make me feel special—especially after last night’s fiasco?

“Are you a socialist?” Bruce suddenly asks.

I nearly choke on my next bite. “A socialist?”

He points at me with his fork. “A socialist is someone who thinks that things like production and distribution should be handled by the government rather than private corporations.”

“I know what it is,” I grit out.

“So you admit you are one?” he demands. “Don’t worry. It won’t disqualify you from working with Colossus.”

I glance at the dog with a smirk. “Are you sure? What if I teach him ‘hardworking Chihuahuas of the world, unite!’?”

“Now you’re thinking communist,” he says. “Tell me you aren’t one of those.”

“I don’t think I am.” I angrily cut my meal into little pieces. “I do think people like you have too much money.”

He rolls his eyes. “That’s called jealous-ism.”

He thinks this is a joking matter? Not fully meaning to, I blurt out, “If someone falls on hard times, I think it’s unfair for your bank to take their home. If that makes me a socialist, so be it.”

“That is a shitty scenario,” he says solemnly. “Which is why, at my bank, I’ve implemented a deferment program for qualified people, as well as forbearance.”

“A what?” And why didn’t my parents know about it?

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