Page 34 of Pucking Billionaire

A wildness sparks in his eyes, and it is as frightening as it is exciting.

His voice is a low growl. “I think I know what you’re talking about.” He dips his head.

Without meaning to, I lean toward him, lifting on tiptoes.

His lips crash into mine, and he swallows my gasp.

Mason kisses just as fiercely as he plays on the ice, and I love every millisecond of it. It is so good, in fact, that the bar and the rest of the world become a distant memory. All I can feel is his rough lips, his exploring tongue, and his ever-growing hardness against the softness of my belly.

Oh, and did he just cup Socrates? I think he did, and I love it, just as I love his other hand on my ass, pulling me closer and closer and?—

The world comes back into view in the form of the Yeti team cheering and hooting at us like a pack of syphilitic owls.

Mason grudgingly pulls away from me and growls something murderous at his teammates.

The bar spins around me, and I clutch at him to stabilize myself. “Do you want to get out of here?” I mutter when he returns his attention to me.

Eyes gleaming feverishly, he grabs my hand, and we rush outside—as though the blondes might be chasing us with glued-on nails filed into claws and garrotes made of hair extensions.

I blink dazedly at the blurry, streetlight-illuminated street. “Where to—” I hiccup. “Where to now?”

He gestures across the street. “My place?”

“You live inside the stadium?” Is that even legal? Also, don’t I own the place and therefore?—

“No.” He takes my chin and turns my head slightly to the right, his touch making my body break into goosebumps. “That building, right next to it.”

If some part of me wasn’t sure if going over to his place was a good idea, that last touch seals my fate.

“Let’s go.” I grab his hand, and I guess I pass out from the resulting zing of lust because the next thing I’m aware of is riding in an elevator, our tongues dancing like Wednesday’s hands to Lady Gaga’s “Bloody Mary.” Or to whatever the original song in the show was.

The elevator dings open into an apartment, and we’re stripping our clothes as we half-kiss, half-walk through a very long corridor. Then something—hopefully Spike, the cat—hisses at us.

“Sorry,” Mason breathes, pulling away momentarily. “I think I stepped on his tail.”

I have no idea why, but what comes out of my mouth in reply is, “The only pussy you should be concerned with is mine.”

My words clearly strike a chord. Mason growls like a berserker, lifts me off my feet, carries me into his bedroom, and lays me down like a sacrifice on Odin’s altar.

My suffocating dress is promptly removed, as is my bra, leaving Socrates and Plato free, their nipples almost painfully pebbled.

“Gorgeous,” Mason rumbles before he rips my panties off like they were made of tissue paper.

Did I mention he forms a fist in the process? Well, he does, and this is officially the wettest I’ve ever been in my life.

Panting, I watch him strip his own clothes, all the way down to his boxers.

“Those too.” I gesture at the tented underwear with a trembling finger.

He removes his boxers, unleashing the cock that I’ve been feeling against me all night.

Wow. Just wow. It’s big, thick, velvety, and otherwise so perfect that it might just be the Platonic ideal of a cock, one that makes all other cocks seem like limp imitations in comparison. I can’t help but think of Nietzsche and his Übermensch. Also, to slightly paraphrase Nietzsche, if you gaze long enough at this cock, the cock will get inside you.

Yep, I hereby christen this cock Uber.

“I want it in me,” I blurt.

Mason’s nostrils flare. “Not until I taste that pussy.”

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