Page 40 of Pucking Billionaire

How mesmerized was I by Mason’s cock that I forgot that the word Uber is already in use?

Well, I’ll use Lyft from now on, or Richard. I doubt I can “ride an Uber” ever again. Not without getting wet.

Then something else occurs to me. It just might be Richard’s fault that I called Uber “Uber.” Richard wants everyone to call him Dick, and he’s my ride service, so maybe, subconsciously, I’ve begun to associate dicks with car rides?

As it so often happens when I think about the subconscious, the philosopher in me starts to ponder questions such as, “Can you prove that people besides you are conscious?” An even more interesting one is: “Are animals conscious?” If they are, what about flatworms? Some flatworms tear themselves in half when they want to reproduce, and then those halves regrow the lost body parts to become two flatworms, with apparently intact memories. What happens to flatworm consciousness during such a process? If it’s retained, it means body parts can have a consciousness, and if that is the case, it makes me wonder if Plato, Socrates, and Uber are conscious.

A car honk distracts me from my philosophical musings, so I reluctantly climb into Richard’s car and spend the ride home apologizing.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Abigail demands during lunch on campus the next day. “Don’t skip a single detail.”

Yeah. Sure. That last bit isn’t happening, but I do give her a PG version of the events, glossing over how much I enjoyed myself. Despite my censorship, Abigail listens with a worrying expression on her face, like either her brain is about to explode or she might have an orgasm vicariously.

“So what’s next for the two of you?” she demands when I finish.

“Nothing.” No selling him the team and no Uber rides for me.

She waves away my words like she would an annoying fly. “Has he called you?”

“He has.” And I’ve ignored his incessant calls, as well as the texts, and even one email—and that last one was weird because I don’t think I gave him my email address.

Abigail’s face sags. “You didn’t answer him, did you?”

“And I won’t. Don’t even try to talk me into it.”

She looks at something over my shoulder, and her grin reminds me of what Spike might look like if he ate a canary. “What about talking to him face to face?”

I follow her gaze.

Fuck.

Headed our way is Mason, and he is holding a lunch tray with his big hands looking too much like fists for my comfort.

“I’ve just remembered I have to edit a paper.” I leap to my feet and rush out of the cafeteria as if I were the aforementioned canary and Mason were Spike.

I’m so overwhelmed by the near-miss that I’m wide awake in Professor Ambien’s class, which is bad. Ambien sucks so much as a teacher he almost makes me dislike philosophy. In that, the lecture reminds me of the scene from A Clockwork Orange where the anti-hero’s eyes were clamped open for aversion therapy.

As Richard drives me home after class, I check my phone and find a few more messages from Mason, my favorite one being:

Running away? How very mature.

He’s got a point. I should face him and calmly explain that I don’t want to see him, but I can’t bring myself to do that, and not just because saying that would be a bald-faced lie. I think a part of me is afraid I’ll end up having another orgasm.

“You should eat your dinner,” Richard says, meeting my gaze in the rearview mirror.

Ah. Right. There’s a lunch box next to me, and when I open it, I find the chef’s latest masterpiece: crepes with Nutella and berries, with bits of egg, ham, and cheese.

As I eat it, I realize I’m quickly getting adjusted to my newfound wealth—and not just gastronomically. Over the past two weeks, I’ve gotten to know the staff and figured out an efficient way to run my household. Thanks to Abigail, I have a firm grasp on some of my investments—the exception being the hockey team, but even that seems to be running itself for the time being.

As we pull up to my mansion’s gate, I spot a person loitering nearby. I recognize her immediately, and the temptation to pretend I’m not in this car is very strong.

“Who is that?” Richard asks.

I sigh. “My mother.”

Chapter 15

Sophia

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