Page 4 of Pucking Billionaire

Oh, fuck me.

With a sinking feeling, I follow the sound.

Yep. My plans are fucking toast because there she fucking is—the woman I knew would be here.

The woman I needed to charm so she’d sell me my team.

Chapter 3

Sophia

A minute earlier

Still in a daze, I scan my surroundings.

There are two men waiting here: a mustachioed, portly one reading a magazine and playing with the buttons on the collar of his shirt, and a tall, broody, broad-shouldered specimen who is clutching his phone in a tight fist.

Oh, boy.

That fist.

Not this again.

But yep. There I go, turning wet, hot, and bothered at the mere sight of it.

What is wrong with me? You’d think after all that I’ve just gone through in that office, sexy times would be the last thing on my mind, but it seems like the stupid fist thing is never turned off.

In reality, I’m a peaceful person—a pacifist, in fact—and I’m not particularly kinky as far as I can tell, so I don’t have a clue why the sight of a man’s fist does to me what Viagra would do to a horny male teen. Oh, and the fist being attached to a gorgeous man like this makes the situation infinitely worse.

The guy has piercing gray eyes, a strong—albeit previously broken—nose, a powerful jaw, and eyelashes I’d sell my soul for. And for some reason, he’s wearing a track suit, which should make him look like an old-school rapper or mobster. To my eyes, however, he resembles a Viking. Maybe it’s the longish blond hair? Or the fierceness he exudes?

If we’re asking random questions, how does attraction actually work? Is “being hot” objective or subjective? Do we all have a choice in who we find “hot,” or is this just another way to phrase the question about free will?

Whatever. I swallow the excess liquid pooling in my mouth and wish there were a pussy equivalent to swallowing. Just like with fists, despite loathing violence and everything else that Vikings represent, I find them infinitely fascinating. And I’m not proud of this, but I sometimes fantasize about what it would be like to roll in the hay with one… screaming Odin’s name as I orgasm.

Fine, maybe I do have a kink. Or two.

“This is my lawyer’s office too,” the Viking growls sexily. “A stalker would wait inside her apartment.”

Who is this “her,” and why do I feel jealous?

“Oh, please,” the Viking replies to whatever he hears on the other line, his gray eyes glinting with steel. “She shunned him all those years, but as soon as he got sick, there she was.”

Wait a second. Is it my guilty conscience talking, or is he?—

“You think she was interested in reconciliation?” he continues. “No fucking way. She didn’t even come to his funeral.”

Fuck. The brute is talking about me. But?—

“All she wanted was the money, like a gold-digging vulture.”

A gasp escapes my lips and all traces of arousal evaporate, leaving me drier than a prune in the desert.

The asshole Viking makes eye contact with me, and a rollercoaster of emotions flits across his features, not a single one of them guilt for what he said.

Mainly, he seems disappointed that he got caught.

Operating on pure instinct, I close the distance between us, poke his broad chest with my index finger, and hiss, “How dare you?”

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