The Billionaire Paid For My Face Chapter 2

And then there was Hudson.

How do I even explain Hudson?

He was a bizarre anomaly in the world of wealthy benefactors. He wasn’t the ice-cold, domineering alpha billionaire you read about in airport paperbacks.

During our late-night arrangements, while I was literally lying naked in his bed, he would suddenly ask:

"What do you think of this pajama shirt? Does it make my shoulders look weird?"

I’d say, "No."

He’d sigh. "You didn't even look. You're just saying no."

I searched for a polite excuse. "Hudson, you're currently pinning me to the mattress. My field of vision is a little restricted."

He paused, considered this, and decided it was a valid point. He deliberately pulled me up by the waist, sitting me right in front of him so I could get a good look.

I stared at him with excruciating patience for thirty seconds. "Okay, yeah. It does."

He went entirely silent out of sheer indignation. He ripped the pajama shirt off, exposing his ridiculously sculpted abs.

I had no choice but to reach out and comfort his bruised ego. He caught my hand, pinned it, and ended up keeping me awake the entire night until my lower back throbbed.

The next day, a substantial bonus hit my bank account.

I understood the game. Overtime required overtime pay. When your boss occasionally short-circuits, you don't complain; you just cash the check.

He used my body to search for the shadow of someone else, and I lay beneath him dreaming of the wind in Iceland.

He used me as a distraction. I used him as a magic lamp. Whenever my bank account ran low, I just gave him a rub.

Fair trade. Everyone got what they needed.