Page 59 of Pucking Billionaire

Sophia crosses her arms in front of her chest. “She never told me that.” She bites her lip. “I think it’s my lack of a big cock.”

I arch an eyebrow.

She blushes again. “I meant Donatello, not you.”

“Huh?”

She looks at me pleadingly. “Can we move on?”

I resist the urge to smile. “The lungs in question are just under the shell, so if you scare a tortoise, it will hide inside with a loud hiss.”

“Huh.” Sophia grabs a muffin absentmindedly. “April did hiss at me the other day, when I accidentally snuck up on her.”

“There you go.”

She munches on that muffin so seductively I stare at my plate to maintain my equilibrium.

“What else did the good doctor tell you?” she asks.

“She told me about the birds that ride your tortoises.” Having recovered somewhat, I look back at her, just in time to see her lick crumbs from her lips, which makes the aforementioned cock way bigger.

Because I’m pretty sure she was not talking about Donatello.

“Ah, right.” Sophia chuckles, her blush almost gone. “According to Dr. Kelpcon, the birds and the tortoises have a symbiotic relationship. Something about ticks in the folds of tortoise skin.”

Whew. The phrase “the folds of tortoise skin” settles my dick… a little. “If you ask me, you have much more of a symbiotic relationship with those tortoises than the birds do. They need someone to pay rent, and you oblige.”

“And what do I get?” She picks up a mini-doughnut. “The junk I eat doesn’t include ticks.”

Is she serious? “You get to feel the relaxation from watching them.” I sure would.

Her cheeks flush again. “Those lovebirds—or love tortoises—hump way too much for me to be able to relax around them.”

At the mention of humping, my eyes get drawn to her cleavage, ending my cock’s brief reprieve.

“So… what was that bargaining chip of information?” she asks, shifting in her seat.

Ah. Right. “Mr. Berger is alive and well.”

She stares at me in confusion.

“You wanted to know if he made it,” I remind her.

“I did?”

I sigh. “The guy whose life we saved.” I’m being generous when I include her in that “we.”

“Oh. The hairy guy who was having a heart attack?”

“His name, as it turns out, is Hampton Berger, and he’s made a complete recovery,” I say. What I don’t mention is that our shared lawyer wasn’t going to divulge this to either of us, so I used my own channels to find out—the same Max Stolyar who gave me the dossier on her.

“Hampton Berger?” She chuckles. “Do you think his friends call him Ham?”

“Ham Berger?”

“Hey,” she says. “He survived, so it’s not in poor taste.”

“Not in poor taste? That heart attack might’ve been the result of eating too many hamburgers. Besides, should someone with the last name Papachristodoulopoulou really be throwing stones?”

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