Page 38 of Pucking Billionaire

Sophia

A few minutes earlier

Iwake up with a jolt, feeling as sick as a dog who was poisoned by an evil cat.

Where the hell am I? Why do I feel so hungover and yet also drunk?

As soon I look around and spot my scattered clothing everywhere, it all comes back to me in a rush: the bar, Mason’s fist grabbing a handful of my hair, and—relatedly—all the orgasms.

Speaking of… where is Mason? Did he leave me by myself in his place? That would be pretty odd.

Then again, I should be glad he’s not here. Things would be infinitely more awkward if he were.

Maybe I should take advantage of his absence and get myself the hell out of here?

Yes, I should.

Determination and adrenaline clear my brain enough to allow me to get up from the bed. All right. I locate and put on my bra, ignoring the hickey on the side of Socrates.

Where are my panties? I search high and low but don’t find them. Fine, whatever. I put on everything else before I return to the mystery of the missing panties. I look around more thoroughly, but still, I can’t find them anywhere.

Maybe I should leave them behind? No, that’s weird. Then he’ll have a memento of the night I would rather us both forget. Besides, I’m feeling a little too vulnerable without them.

I look around again.

What the hell happened to them? Did Mason eat them last night? There is such a thing as edible panties, and we were pretty drunk.

No.

I think I’d remember him acting like a freaking goat.

I strain my brain and call forth a vague recollection of him ripping the panties off me at one point. Unfortunately, all that does is make me feel as though they’d melt anyway if I had them on right now.

I scour the room once more. Even if the panties were damaged by Mason’s rough treatment, they should be here somewhere, right? The guy is strong, but he’s not strong enough to break panties into atoms and scatter them in the air.

I kneel and look for them under the bed.

Nope.

I move the nightstand away from the wall and look behind it.

Zero panties.

Could they somehow have gotten under the mattress? Things did get pretty wild, so it’s theoretically possible. Heaving with effort, I lift the mattress as much as I can, but all that accomplishes is the mattress sliding from the bed and hitting the floor with a deafening thud.

Fuck me. If Mason hasn’t left the apartment, he’ll be here in a second, and I’m not ready to face him—or explain why I was checking under the mattress like a thief from back in the day when the banking system did not yet exist.

Grabbing my shoes, I beeline for the bathroom and make myself presentable as I ponder how I ended up making such a monumental mistake.

I blame the alcohol, obviously, and his competitiveness… and mine. What I try not to think about is how much I enjoyed what happened because that was also just the alcohol, right? With enough tequila, even a scarecrow might start to look fuckable, much less the sex-on-a-hockey-stick that is this man.

Midway through my bathroom activities, there’s a knock on the door.

Fuck me.

The voice is deep, sexy, and unwelcome. “Sophia, are you okay?”

“I’m peachy,” I shout back. “The mattress just slipped.”

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