Page 29 of Pucking Billionaire

She frowns. “Aren’t you moving into the mansion around that time?”

I feel a pang of guilt at the reminder. After some deliberation, I decided to live in the mansion, but Abigail insisted on staying in the apartment we’ve shared all this time. It took a lot of arguing, but I was at least able to convince her to let me pre-pay my part of the rent for the remainder of our lease.

“Richard said he’d take care of the move,” I say. “I’ll just put my stuff into boxes after I pack for the cruise.”

Abigail pouts. “I’ll miss having you around.”

“Same. But look on the bright side… You’ll get to sleep on the bottom bunk, or—and this would be an insane luxury, I know—get a normal, one-person bed.”

Of course, she could just get another roommate for the bunk bed, but that idea makes me weirdly jealous, which is silly considering that I have the choice of staying in the tiny apartment with Abigail… at least until she finds a job, which probably won’t take that long.

“Wait a second,” she says, interrupting my thoughts. “Isn’t that…?”

I follow her gaze and nearly choke on my dessert—I mean, alcoholic beverage.

Mason has just entered the bar, along with a crowd of dudes whose faces I recognize from the game.

This is the whole Yetis team, no doubt here to celebrate their win—and they’re not alone.

The blondes I saw earlier are with them, and though it shouldn’t matter at all, for some reason this makes me angrier than a Tasmanian devil whose juicy carrion has just been stolen.

Setting down my drink with a bang, I leap to my feet and head right for Mason.

Chapter 11

Mason

As soon as we walk into the bar, my eyes zero in on Ladybug, and my fucking cock gets harder than a hockey puck—and those things can break the bones in your hand.

I blame the dress she is wearing. It’s low cut and shows off her perfect breasts in all their ivory glory. It doesn’t help that I’ve always been a boob aficionado, even if said boobs are attached to someone I shouldn’t want anything to do with.

Fuck me. It’s bad enough I thought about this woman each time I jerked off in the past two weeks. Now she’s giving me hard-ons while being dressed? If my teammates didn’t love this bar as much as they do, I’d punch a hole in the wall, but after the last such incident, the owner said he’d ban us if we broke so much as someone’s nail.

I check if my teammates are staring at Sophia, ready to break bones instead of walls if they are.

Nope. They’re too busy with the horde of blonde puck bunnies that accosted us outside.

I grit my teeth and blame my intense swirl of emotions on the endorphin rush from the win. My teammates and I did all we could to burn off the crazy victory-related energy, from butting heads (a celebratory tradition in our sport) to hugging it out. This trip to the bar was supposed to be a continuation of the jubilee, but now it’s ruined, at least for me.

No. Wait. Maybe I can ply her with drinks and ask her to sell?

Or maybe not.

As soon as Ladybug spots me, her eyes narrow into tiny amber slits.

Pretty slits, but still.

She strides angrily my way.

This is not good.

“Don’t follow me,” I bark at my boisterous teammates and hurry forward to meet her out of their earshot.

To my surprise, not a single nosy busybody comes after me—probably because they’re too occupied with the blondes.

Ladybug and I come face to face in about the middle of the bar, and she nearly crashes into me, her ample bosom heaving and driving my cock insane.

“Are you stalking me again?” she demands.

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