26. Sophia
Chapter 26
Sophia
W hen I drag myself away from Mason, I see that everyone who was with us on the zipline—from too-young-to-see-this Levi to the maybe-grandfather—is staring at the two of us like we’re masturbating chimps at the zoo.
I leap to my feet. “Let’s go.” If I’m lucky, I’ll never see any of these people again.
Nodding, Mason stands up and leads me to our ride, his gait a little strange.
On the ride back and during dinner, we pretend that the scorching kiss didn’t happen, which is good, because it probably shouldn’t have happened, no matter how good it felt at the time. Instead, the conversation continues in the get-to-know-each-other vein, and I can’t help but be greedy for every morsel of information he imparts, like the fact that he was recruited into hockey at the ripe old age of five. Nor can I resist it when he passionately talks about Planet Earth , his favorite nature documentary.
“I have a confession to make,” he says when dessert is sadly over. “I arranged for a surprise for you tonight, but if you don’t?—”
“I want.” Was that too forward?
“Good,” he says. “What’s your shoe size?”
I blink at him. I thought he was talking about Uber wrapped in a bow, but what would that have to do with my shoe size? Unless… does Mason have a foot fetish? He didn’t seem to on F-Day, but that doesn’t mean anything.
“Size eight.” I hope that’s small (or large?) enough to get him in the right mood.
“Thanks.” He texts someone one digit, and I can only assume it’s the number eight.
Okay. There’s every possibility that the surprise isn’t happening in Mason’s bedroom.
My overzealous curiosity engaged, I follow him through the ship and into the elevator, which takes us to deck three.
Hmm. I vaguely recall a mention of some cool attraction on this deck. But I can’t?—
A cool breeze and a sign reading “Ice Rink” clue me in just as my memory was about to.
“We’re going ice skating?” I say, not bothering to hide the excitement in my voice.
“I should’ve blindfolded you,” Mason says grumpily.
Yes. That would have been pretty hot.
He opens the large doors in front of us, exposing a giant room covered in ice. “As you have guessed, the surprise is that we’re going skating.”
I drag my mind out of the gutter. “I don’t know how to skate.” Is that why my heart is hammering so wildly?
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?”
“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.”
And do I ever. White specks dance in my vision, and my well-massaged toes curl spasmodically as I come all over his clever tongue.
“Good job,” he murmurs before he slides his tongue down, passing by my perineum, and then, in yet another feat of psychic powers, he gives me a lick where the sun never shines.
A shudder ripples over my body, and I flush all over. This is embarrassing in a weirdly hot way. It feels tickly but good, especially when he squeezes my butt cheeks and orders me to relax.
Relax? How can I when he’s sucking on his finger and then pressing that finger against the tight opening of my ass? Slowly, it slips inside, and the sensation is intense, the stretch a little painful—but again, in a weirdly sensual way.
Stranger still, when the finger is gone, I kind of miss it.
“Now,” he rasps. “I want you from behind.”
Oh. I’m pretty sure he means my pussy. Either way… “I thought you’d never ask.” Limbs a little wobbly, I get on all fours and watch in the mirror as he positions himself behind me, Uber harder and thicker than I’ve ever seen it.
“Careful,” I gasp as I watch him put on a condom. “You’re too big.”
“Of course,” he says soothingly, and then he enters me (yes, my pussy) slowly and gently, letting my muscles adjust as he goes. In the mirror, his face looks tormented, like it’s taking a herculean effort of will to exude such control. Then, almost teasingly, he pulls Uber out.
No. I want?—
He slowly glides back in, and it goes in as smoothly as a panna cotta does into my mouth, thanks to the copious moisture I’m producing.
“Faster,” I shock myself by saying. “Harder. Deeper.”
Grunting something unintelligible, he delivers on my demands, thrusting into me like a man possessed.
My moans grow in pitch and desperation.
“Come,” he orders just as I’m doing so anyway.
With a scream, I clench around Uber, and barely remain on all fours afterward.
“Give me another one,” he grunts greedily.
Staying on all fours is the best I can do as far as replies go, but he helps me with that anyway by grabbing on to Socrates before thrusting into me with renewed vigor.
My eyes roll back into my head. A new orgasm builds in my core, but it seems far away, almost out of?—
His finger returns to where it was in my ass, creating an overwhelming sensation that gives me an explosive burst of pleasure—one that leaves me almost hoarse from all the moans and screams.
“One more time,” he growls. “You can do it.”
If I could speak, I’d tell him that I don’t share his confidence—but then I feel him let go of Socrates and grab a handful of my hair.
Oh, fuck. Realizing my eyes are closed, I open them and stare at the mirror.
Yes! He’s grasping my hair in a hard, veiny, premium fist, and the sight of it is like applying a powerful vibrator right up to my oversensitive clit.
I come, screaming his name.
As I squeeze around Uber for the last time, Mason grunts in pleasure, and I feel his release, which makes me spasm again in a weak aftershock.
Panting, I fall into a heap on the bed, unable to move a single muscle. Faintly, I’m aware of Mason cleaning me up and then wrapping himself around me like a billion-dollar blanket.
“Nice,” I mutter.
He snorts. “Just nice?”
“Oh, the sex was divine.” I yawn. “I meant the spooning is nice.”
“Ah.” He kisses the nape of my neck. “I was about to demand a rematch.”
“That we can discuss tomorrow,” I say over another yawn. “So long as you remember that ‘what happens on the cruise…’”
“‘…stays on the cruise,’” he says, his tone hard to decipher.
“That’s right.” I cozy backward into him. “Now I’m going to sleep.”
And just like that, I’m out.