Page 27 of Pucking Billionaire

Meeting my eyes, Mason gives himself an expert stroke and adroitly sends the puck into the opposing team’s goal.

Not sure which stick he used for that, but it turns me on unbearably.

Though I’ve never thought of myself as an exhibitionist, I ignore all the people around me as my hand sneaks into my panties and my finger circles my clit. Once. Twice.

“Sophia!” Mason screams as his strokes intensify. “I’m coming for you, Sophia. Sophia!”

“Sophia?” the voice of Professor Ambien is like a cattle prod poking me in the butt.

Fuck me. Despite the precautionary cappuccino, I’ve still managed to doze off and drool all over my desk.

“Care to tell us in what text the Theory of the Forms was first introduced?” Ambien asks nastily.

I rub my crusty eyes. “Phaedo?”

Ambien looks disappointed. “You should thank Zeus for your habit of studying ahead. Class participation is twenty percent of your final grade, and you almost lost it.”

Shouldn’t he invoke Morpheus as his Greek god of choice, seeing how that’s the dream deity and all?

“In any case,” Ambien drones on, “In The Republic, Plato?—”

My eyes become heavy again immediately, so I bite my tongue to stay awake.

The last thing I want is to return to that dream where I saw Mason naked.

Chapter 10

Sophia

“These tickets are amazing,” Abigail exclaims when we take our seats on the day of the game.

My cheeks burn. Being here reminds me too much of the recurring wet dreams I’ve been having for the past two weeks, but there’s no way I’m telling Abigail—or anyone else—about them. Unless… maybe I should tell a therapist? I guess I can afford one now, and unpacking my traumatic childhood does sound like a fun way to spend my time.

“Look.” Abigail points at the ice. “Number Forty-Two.”

I can’t help but look, and there Mason is, wearing a hockey jersey that doesn’t make him look bulky, the way it does other players. Instead, the uniform teases me with the promise of him taking it off.

Wait, what? He won’t take it off. Not unless I’m dreaming again.

Hmm. Am I dreaming? The players aren’t naked, but the agility and skill they display on the ice is mind boggling, especially in Mason’s case.

Example: he skates forward, leaving his teammates behind, and then trips over the hockey stick a guy from the opposing team—Number Thirty—put in his way. If that were me, I’d wake up in the hospital with a concussion, but Mason merely drops to one knee (as if proposing) before shooting the puck from that position. And… he scores!

“Did you see that?” Abigail shouts. “He got it right between the goalie’s legs!”

Ignoring my friend, I start watching in earnest, and I’m spellbound when Mason scores another goal.

“That was incredible,” says a nearby fan to another. “He stayed with the puck, pirouetted, went between the d, and then scored between the legs.”

Yeah. It was pretty incredible, and I’m beginning to see that scoring is something Mason is very good at—as well as getting between people’s legs.

The game keeps going, but then Number Thirty smashes into Mason right next to us.

Hey! Is that even fucking legal? Mason might be an asshole, but I don’t enjoy seeing him bashed like that… or seeing anyone bashed, really.

Thankfully, Mason is okay, or so I assume, since instead of falling down in pain, he throws a punch right at Number Thirty’s face, and the crowd erupts in response.

I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. All I can think of at first is that I saw a glimpse of a real fist. Then I’m petrified because Number Thirty punches Mason back.

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