Page 88 of Pucking Billionaire

After the doughnut breakfast, he gets the captain to give us a private tour of the ship, including areas that “no one has ever seen, or will see again… until two days from now.”

“What happens two days from now?” I can’t help but ask.

The captain takes a big gulp of vodka straight from the bottle. “Florida Bears are taking this very cruise,” he explains excitedly. “Which means I get to meet my other favorite hockey player: Michael Medvedev.”

Mason’s expression darkens. “Don’t tell him you’re a fan of mine, or he might just punch you in the face.”

“Oh.” The captain chugs another liver-destroying dose of alcohol. “Thanks for the warning.”

When the tour is over, I ask Mason about this Michael Medvedev, as it seems there’s history there.

Mason’s jaw tightens. “Misha is a rude fucker who thinks he’s my equal, except he’s not.”

“Misha?” I blink in confusion.

“In Russian, that’s a diminutive version of Michael, but it’s also associated with bears. He hates it when people call him that, which is why I use it whenever I can.”

“I see.” When I think bears, I think Winnie the Pooh, Paddington, and Viking berserkers, but hey, whatever tickles your pet bear.

“Anyway,” Mason continues, “he’s got some talent, I’ll give him that, but no ability as a team player. The Yetis kicked him out after his first week, and he blames me for it, even though it was actually our coach who made that call. The only team that would take him after that were the Florida Bears, and they’re at the bottom of the DHL barrel. But hey, I guess he’s still famous enough to be on the captain’s radar.”

I wink at him. “The good captain does seem to have great taste when it comes to hockey players.”

I’m not sure what exactly was seductive about that sentence, but Mason picks me up and carries me into his suite, where he gives me a full-body massage and fucks my brains out. Afterward, he surprises me with a romantic dinner for two on his balcony, which is followed by another divine-level fucking.

The next day, I learn that Mason has booked us a morning at the spa, as well as a private cabana to chillax in—and canoodle in. The day after that, he reserves a private outdoor hot tub surrounded by ocean views. And if that weren’t romantic enough, he sets up a hammock on the very top deck of the ship so we can sleep under the stars.

Throughout all this pampering, I get the feeling like he’s on the verge of asking me something, but he never does. I suspect he wants to ask me to sell the team, and I’m glad he doesn’t voice that out loud because I want to pretend that he’s with me for me. Plus I still haven’t decided if I’ll sell or not.

Or maybe I have decided. Selling is the only way to ensure that “what happens on the cruise stays on the cruise.” Otherwise, he’ll continue stalking me, and it would be all too easy to believe that it’s not just my team he’s after—and I can’t allow myself to fall into that kind of trap again.

After Mom and Rupert, I would be an idiot to trust someone who I know has ulterior motives.

Still, even though I know that whatever is between Mason and me is an illusion, I find myself increasingly down as the end of the cruise nears… even as I continue to enjoy myself in Mason’s company.

In fact, if it weren’t for his company, I might get downright depressed.

On the night before our arrival back at Port Canaveral, I can no longer stave off the mopiness. Even the five orgasms he’s given me this evening haven’t helped. I am beyond depressed that the cruise is ending—and I feel dumb for feeling this way.

I knew this would end.

Knew that a joy such as I’ve experienced wouldn’t last.

Not for me.

Never for me.

My chest tightens as I picture my life back in NYC. It’s a good life—I have money, I have Abigail, I have my philosophy studies. I even have horny turtles… I mean, tortoises. Yet I feel hollow as I imagine going back to all that sans Mason.

In the past few days, he’s stalked his way not just onto my cruise but also?—

Mason turns over in his sleep, removing his arm from my shoulder.

I instantly feel cold.

I pull a blanket over myself, but it doesn’t help. I can’t sleep. The separation is looming over me like the sword of Damocles. Tossing and turning, I try to come up with a way to proceed that would not hurt… or would hurt the least.

Midway through the night, I decide I need to just rip off the Band-Aid. Or the full-body burn bandage, as it may be. I need to avoid any kind of emotional (possibly fake on his end) goodbyes and sneak out of his room and off the cruise before he wakes up. Once home, I’ll get in touch with my lawyer and sell the team.

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