Page 33 of Pucking Billionaire

I get up from the barstool myself, and the world around me slides around a little, as if I were back on the ice but without my skates.

Noticing my discomfort, Sophia arches an eyebrow. “Ready for that dance-off?”

Ready or not, I extend my hand to her, and when she takes it, the feeling of her soft skin on my callused palm makes my already-hard-for-too-long dick scream Estonian obscenities.

When Sophia isn’t looking, I readjust myself so I can walk despite the monster hard-on.

Somehow, we get to the dance floor.

My teammates make a wide circle for us, but their partners—the blondes—seem unhappy about something, at least if I go by the dirty looks that they give Sophia.

Sophia leans in and her juicy lips brush my ear, turning my cock green with jealousy and balls blue with?—

“Instead of competing,” she whispers, “do you want to do a more cooperative sort of dance?”

I draw back to stare at her dumbly. “Why?”

“Because I’ll concede the tequila contest if you say yes,” she says.

“No, I mean why dance ‘cooperatively?’” And doesn’t that merely mean “dance together?”

She shrugs. “I feel like making your little blonde fan club jealous.”

“Fuck, yes.” Wait, did I say that out loud? Well, whatever. I pull her so close that I can taste her mango-and-watermelon scent. “Let’s fucking dance.”

Chapter 12

Sophia

The dance floor spins, but Mason keeps me anchored—or, more precisely, his crotch does as I grind on it with my backside, twerking-style. Actually, if we’re being precise, it’s his hard cock that is my anchor—at least I assume that’s what’s jutting against my ass, and not, say, his hockey stick.

My plan to make the blondes jealous might be going a little too well. All of them look ready to eviscerate me, then fry up my innards and enjoy them with a glass of my blood.

Also, I’m afraid the blondes were just an excuse. The sad truth is, I wanted to dance with Mason.

No. That’s tequila talking.

Mason isn’t?—

A slow song begins to play, and strong arms turn me around.

“Need a break?” Mason asks, his voice husky.

I shake my head, not trusting myself to open my mouth because if I do, that hard cock of his might end up in there somehow.

He takes my hand and places his other hand on the small of my back before we start to sway to the music, as if it were prom night.

Kill me now. Mason smells how I’ve always imagined a Viking would: equal parts birch, ice, and testosterone. His nearness makes Plato and Socrates’s nipples as hard as the cock that’s now against my belly.

“Do you think they’re sufficiently jealous?” Mason murmurs into my ear, words slurred.

“Who?” Plato and Socrates? They are kind of jealous of my lower back and hand, where Mason is touching me.

Mason smirks. “Did you forget why we’re dancing ‘cooperatively?’”

I furrow my brow. Oh. Shit. He’s talking about the blondes. In my state of hyperarousal, I completely forgot they existed—but the feeling isn’t mutual as they are still darting hate-filled glances my way.

“I didn’t forget,” I lie. “But now that you mention it, there’s something else we can do that would really make them jelly.” I moisten my dry lips and give him my best come-hither glance from under my eyelashes.

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