Page 52 of Pucking Billionaire

“So is ethanol,” she counters.

I cross my arms. “I don’t think so.”

“It can lead to addiction, right?”

“Sure. But so can cheese—and you don’t think that’s a drug, do you?”

“Cheese addiction?” She picks up the big shaker of parmesan and sprinkles a good dose on her next piece of steak.

“At least you’re not snorting that,” I say with a grin.

She rolls her eyes once more. “Alcohol produces endorphins, just like some of the worst drugs.”

“Fucking produces endorphins, but that’s not a drug, is it?” Then again, maybe that’s not the best example. Fucking Sophia might just be the most addictive drug of them all, one that I got hopelessly hooked on from the first try.

Ladybug blushes, then snatches my phone and does a search.

Should I tell her she keeps breaking her digital detox?

“Here.” She waves the screen at me. “Alcohol is a central nervous system depressant.”

I take the phone from her, read the screen, and frown. “I can tell you’re a philosophy major,” I grumble in defeat. “You’re very good at sophistry.”

She looks at me suspiciously, and I belatedly realize that she might not have told me about her major.

As luck would have it, Helena returns at that moment. She’s holding a tray of desserts, and helping her is a burly busboy who thankfully isn’t wearing the horrible jacket with buttons.

Helena puts a fruit bowl in front of me, then arranges Sophia’s desserts around the rest of the rather-large table and hurries away.

I gesture at all the sweets. “Are those drugs?”

“No.” Sophia gives an éclair a longing glance that makes my cock very jealous. “Well, maybe.” She gestures at the tiramisu. “This one has caffeine, which is a drug.”

I scan the table, amazed at how inventive people can get in their quest to consume as much sugar as possible. “I bet you I could forgo alcohol for longer than you can forgo dessert.”

She grabs the phallic-looking éclair. “I’ll take that bet… after the cruise.”

“Yeah. Sure.” I pick up one of the strawberries on my plate. “I don’t know if you realize this, but when you crave something sweet, you’re really craving fruit.” I bite into the strawberry and find it rather sour and therefore unsupportive of the point I’m trying to make.

Sophia sensuously nibbles on the fucking éclair. “Maybe when you crave fruit, what you really want is sugar—and the fruit comes up short.”

“Fruit is delicious,” I say firmly. “A good ripe mango tastes sweeter than anything you have on this table.”

The problem is, fruit needs to be in season, while sugar is by definition saccharine sweet year-round.

“In philosophy, we call this sort of thing qualia,” she says. “What the color green looks like to you might be different from what it looks like to me. Same with tastes. Maybe a ripe mango really does taste like a dessert to you, but it sure doesn’t to me.”

I resist making another comment about her major and dig into my fruit instead. She attacks the desserts, taking a bite of each one but not finishing any.

“Which was your favorite?” I ask when she pushes her chair away from the table.

“The panna cotta.” She gestures at a white concoction in a glass. “And I dare you to try it.”

I take the proffered tiny spoon and dip it into the fruity part of the concoction.

“That’s cheating,” she says. “Try the white stuff, without a hint of fruit.”

Fine. I fish around for the white stuff in question, all the while wondering what it’s made from.

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