Page 83 of Desperate Desires

“My apartment is so small. I’m sure you’re going to hate it,” I scoffed.

“Not your apartment. The whole brownstone.”

“What do you mean? Oh, my God. Ono? You bought it?” I asked.

“I bought it,” he nodded.

“Why?”

“Cause you like it,” he said, the duh was implied.

“How?”

“Well, Wife, my guys have been renovating and moving our stuff all weekend, but if you don’t like it, let me know. I can set up a time with a realtor and we can go house hunting?—”

“Are you crazy? I love that place. But how did you get the owner to sell?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“No, I probably don’t,” I said, imagining the worst.

After all, Ono’s family used to be mobsters. He’d already admitted to killing people, though I doubted old Mrs. Thompson was floating somewhere in the Hudson. Not that I would mind because really, the woman was a penny-pinching bitch.

Oh my God. That’s an awful thought.

“Don’t look so alarmed, Baby. I paid more than what the place was worth, and in cash. Money moves mountains,” he said with a wink, and kissed my temple.

The man was certifiable. And strange as it sounded, that attracted me more than his gorgeous eyes and sexy grin.

“What’s got you smiling, Wife?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing. Just thinking about home,” I said honestly.

He smiled back at me. Like really smiled, and dear Lord, it was brighter than the sun coming out.

“I like it when you say that, Doc. I like it when you talk about our home.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh huh,” he whispered and bent his head, kissing me hard before biting my lip.

“Ouch!”

“Now, knock it off before I fuck you right here in front of the flight attendant.”

That threat had me behaving, alright.

An exhibitionist, I was not.

Closing my eyes, I took that nap I’d promised I would take and didn’t open my eyes again until I felt Ono carrying me to the waiting car.

“Hmm? I can walk,” I whispered, but my big, domineering husband just kissed my head and hummed as he placed me gently inside the waiting car.

Once we arrived at the brownstone on Hudson Street, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Ono must have hired Superman or something because despite it being January, the entire place seemed to shine like it had been power washed and all the odds and ends that needed replacing, polishing, or repainting had been seen to.

“It’s all been done as you said, Boss,” Gio, the head of my husband’s security team, told him as we climbed the stairs to the main part of the home.

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