Chapter 113

Cynthia straightened and looked toward the door. Their eyes met, and time seemed to stop. Over two weeks had passed since she last saw Jonathan, after returning from Betric.

Seeing Jonathan composed, her voice remained calm and emotionless, even cold. "Aren't you drunk?"

Jonathan stood at the door, his expression cool, his eyes clear. He didn't appear drunk. However, a hint of color on his pale cheeks made him oddly endearing.

He entered, glanced at the suitcase, and asked coldly, "Where are you planning to move?"

Cynthia hadn't considered moving; she was packing for a trip to Pillere tomorrow. She didn't want to explain this to Jonathan. "This has nothing to do with you."

Ignoring him, Cynthia continued packing in the walk-in closet. Exiting, she bumped into Jonathan's chest.

He stood in the doorway like a mountain, his gaze heavy. Cynthia realized he had been drinking heavily; the strong scent of alcohol surrounded him.

She leaned in, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. "How much tequila did you drink?"

Jonathan looked down at her sniffing him, and felt a surge of emotion he couldn't resist. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but he cupped her face and kissed her passionately.

Their lips met, and Jonathan's body shivered. He'd touched her countless times, but each touch felt overwhelming. He craved her warmth and scent like an addiction.

In contrast, Cynthia remained indifferent. She missed him, longed for his presence, but maintained her composure. "Jonathan, do you know what you're doing?" Her voice was calm and unruffled.

He seemed dissatisfied. Her clear eyes stirred something within him. Without hesitation, he lifted her and pressed her onto the bed, showering her with kisses.

He kissed her hard, his lips trailing from her mouth to her ear. Her earlobe was sensitive; in the past, kissing it evoked strong feelings. He was trying to please her.

This usually worked, but now, lying on the bed, she neither resisted nor accepted. She looked at him with cold eyes.

He propped himself up, their noses almost touching, their breaths mingling. She smelled the tequila, but it didn't mask his unique, cool scent—sandalwood and wild orchids. This scent captivated her, always soothing her.

Cynthia almost lost her composure, but regained her clarity. "Jonathan, get up." Her voice was cold and warning.

He remained unmoved, gazing at her. His eyes were dark and deep, like a calm sea, yet a tempest seemed to brew beneath the surface.

He didn't get up. He kissed her again, more intensely. His hand reached into her clothes, wandering around her waist.

"Jonathan, let me go!" Her voice was chillingly cold. Her body was tense.

He didn't seem to hear and kissed her harder, even pinching her breast.

"Ouch!" A sharp cry of pain broke the silence.

Jonathan instantly sat up, hand to his forehead. Shock and regret filled his gaze as he stared at Cynthia, who held a small table lamp. She had hit him!

In the heat of the moment, she had hit him with the lamp! He felt the throbbing pain.

Cynthia calmly sat up, replacing the lamp. She tossed her hair and asked, her voice enticing, "Are you sober now?"

"You actually hit me!" His eyes were regretful. He looked pitiful, frustrated.

"Who told you to act like a rogue?" she replied nonchalantly.

"You actually hit me!" he repeated, incredulous. He couldn't understand her composure.

"It was a light hit. Call Claude; have him take you to the hospital," she said, noticing blood on his fingers. She had controlled her strength; it was a scratch, likely to bleed slightly, and hidden in his hair.

"You actually hit me…" His voice grew weaker, his regret and shock replaced by confusion and sadness.

Cynthia sighed. He looked like a lost puppy. "Okay, okay, I was wrong. I shouldn't have hit you. I'll call Claude, okay?"

When Claude arrived, he found Jonathan disheveled, vacant-eyed, and sorrowful. His forehead was injured, red and swollen, bleeding.

Claude was startled. "Mr. Bennett, what happened?"

Jonathan remained silent, looking lost. The tycoon looked near tears.

Claude asked Cynthia, "What happened to Mr. Bennett?"

"He got hit on the head by a lamp," she said casually. "But don't worry, I didn't really hurt him. He's dazed, but not damaged."