Page 77 of Pucking Billionaire

“Like I said, I’m fine.” Hell, I want some soreness… just not on my chin.

He leaves me reluctantly, as though he’s worried that I’m putting on a brave face and might still break into tiny shards as soon as I’m out of his view. When he’s finally gone, I rush to rid myself of the bulky, dorky gear, starting with the elbow pads and working my way down. I also fix my hair as much as the nearby mirror allows—and then I wonder how fun it would be to see him fucking me in this mirror, which is clearly here for that explicit purpose.

I blush at the thought, and this is when he comes back, of course. Walking up to me, he sits on the bed and gently lifts my chin with his finger.

Oh, boy.

He dabs the imaginary boo-boo with an alcohol swab and tenderly blows on my chin.

By Odin’s beard, his lips are too temptingly puckered and too near me. Unable to help myself, I lean toward them, like a slutty moth toward a cock-shaped flame.

Mason’s breath catches as he realizes what I’m doing. Leaning in as well, he meets me with a kiss that starts off gentle but quickly turns anything but. Our tongues tangle, and the kiss begins to remind me of his hockey game: fierce, bold, and hot.

I’m panting, my head spinning, when he somehow manages to pull back.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

“I want my skates off.” Or else the headlines might read: “Owner chops off arm of best player on team while canoodling with him.”

He nods, and his face develops a look of tough concentration, like he’s exerting a great deal of control over his baser instincts. He removes my footwear, followed by my socks. And then, as though he’s developed psychic powers, he begins to massage my feet, starting with the arch and moving over to each toe, his hot breath making it feel like he’s licking them too—or maybe he is. I’m too blissed out to be sure.

So yeah, I am definitely into foot stuff, and maybe he is as well. No matter how turned on I thought I was before, it was nothing compared to how I feel now. I want to strip him naked and have his lips suck Plato and Socrates’s nipples. I want him to fill me with his?—

In another psychic moment, Mason begins to strip for me.

“Yes,” I gasp. “Take it all off.”

I clearly made that too vague. I meant for him to be naked, but he strips me instead—and only after that does he unleash Uber.

“Are we doing this?” His words are almost guttural, and I again get the feeling that pausing to ask questions is costing him a great deal of self-control.

On his end, Uber seems to wink cockily at me, like he’s saying, “We all know you want me.”

I dampen my lips. “Do you know the Sin City slogan?”

Mason stares at me like a wolf at a newborn rabbit. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?”

I scooch toward him on the bed. “This cruise is our Vegas.”

His gaze turns hooded. “Your eyes remind me of warm chocolate. Have I ever told you that?”

“You’re not looking at my eyes.” I circle my finger around my tight nipple—which is the current focus of his gaze. “Also, I thought you didn’t eat chocolate. That when you crave something like that, you actually want fruit.”

“You forget,” he growls. “I eat lots of dark chocolate. You even thought it was obscene that I put it in my salads.”

“Ah, right.” I totally forgot. But in my defense, I’m face to tip with Uber, so my brain is running on estrogen fumes. “I guess I accept your compliment.” Even if it makes me think of tossing a salad—the sex act, that is.

“Speaking of delicious things that I want to eat, lie back,” he orders gruffly.

Oh, my.

I do as I am told, and he traces a path over my body with his tongue, starting with my right foot, over my calf and knee, and all the way up to where I’m quivering with need.

He feather-kisses my folds first, sending a shiver of pleasure through my every nerve ending. Then his kisses get deeper and fiercer, making me moan.

“Delicious,” he breathes right into my flesh. Then he takes a luxurious lick over my clit, followed by another one, and another and another until an agonizingly sweet pressure coils in my core, leaving me panting and twisting in desperation.

“That’s right,” he grunts. “Come for me.”

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