Page 76 of Pucking Billionaire

Mason grins. “I figured, which is why I plan to teach you.”

“Teach me?” I take a tentative step toward the ice. For whatever reason, I find the idea of him teaching as fascinating as the blindfold.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

I swallow, my throat peculiarly dry. “Okay.”

Summoning my courage, I step into the chilly room and see a bunch of gear Mason must’ve had someone prepare for us. There are two pairs of skates, one helmet, one pair of gloves, thick snow pants, and elbow and knee pads. Last but not least, there’s a gizmo that looks like a walker an elderly person might use after hip replacement surgery.

I wrinkle my nose at the safety gear. “You really didn’t have much confidence in my skating skills, huh?”

Mason effortlessly slips on his skates. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” He picks up the smaller skates. “Now, let’s put these on.”

I put on the snow pants first because I doubt I can get inside them with skates, then sit on the bench and give Mason my feet as per his demand. Given the gentle care with which he puts on those skates, the foot fetish idea resurfaces, except it seems like I’m the one who has it because I very much like it when his strong fingers brush over my arches.

He then fits a helmet onto my head for the second time today—and I almost kiss him again. However, when it comes to the knee and elbow pads, I insist on dealing with them myself, mostly because I don’t think I can control myself for much longer—and we are in public, even if there’s nobody around.

“Perfect.” He looks me over approvingly. “Let’s start with you just standing, getting comfortable with the skates.”

I step onto the rink and do as he says, even though the way he’s holding my hand makes my brain turn to mush—and that’s despite the gloves.

Once I’m more or less adjusted to the feeling of the skates, he brings over the walker thing, and I use it to wobble around a bit, getting more comfortable by the minute.

“I think I can go without it,” I say after some time.

“Okay.” He glides over to me with the grace of a figure skater. “Hold my hand.”

I push the walker away and grip his hand for all I’m worth. We begin to move over the ice, and it feels surreally like dancing, especially when he takes both of my hands in his and twirls me in a circle.

“Let me try this on my own,” I say after a few more minutes.

“I’m not sure you’re ready,” he says.

Should I tell him that his touch is too intoxicating, and that I might actually be safer on my own? No. Instead, I just give him my best puppy eyes. “I can do it. Please.”

He gingerly lets go of my hands. “Go slow. Be careful.”

“Of course,” I say… and then, in an eyeblink, without any warning, I faceplant right onto the ice.

Whoosh. Thanks to all the padding, all I feel is the wind getting knocked out of me. Then strong arms pick me up, and I feel myself getting carried somewhere.

By the time I recover my wits, we’re in the elevator, with me clasped securely against Mason’s chest.

“Where are we going?” I mumble.

“My room,” he says. “I’ve got some first aid there. You scratched your chin.”

Huh. My chin does feel a bit sore. But hey, aside from that, I don’t feel any pain whatsoever, though I’m not sure if that’s because I didn’t really get hurt or because of all the endorphins flooding my body thanks to his touch.

The elevator stops, and Mason takes long strides toward his destination.

Once we’re in his suite, Mason takes me to the giant bed and drapes me over it, looking at my chin like a heart surgeon might peer into an open chest cavity.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

So turned on that I could come, but I can’t tell him that. “There’s no pain,” I say. “I felt some soreness at first, but even that’s gone.” Or deafened by the tsunami-sized spikes of hormones.

“I will disinfect it,” he says. “Can I leave you alone for a second?”

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