12. Sophia
Chapter 12
Sophia
T he dance floor spins, but Mason keeps me anchored—or, more precisely, his crotch does as I grind on it with my backside, twerking-style. Actually, if we’re being precise, it’s his hard cock that is my anchor—at least I assume that’s what’s jutting against my ass, and not, say, his hockey stick.
My plan to make the blondes jealous might be going a little too well. All of them look ready to eviscerate me, then fry up my innards and enjoy them with a glass of my blood.
Also, I’m afraid the blondes were just an excuse. The sad truth is, I wanted to dance with Mason.
No. That’s tequila talking.
Mason isn’t?—
A slow song begins to play, and strong arms turn me around.
“Need a break?” Mason asks, his voice husky.
I shake my head, not trusting myself to open my mouth because if I do, that hard cock of his might end up in there somehow.
He takes my hand and places his other hand on the small of my back before we start to sway to the music, as if it were prom night.
Kill me now. Mason smells how I’ve always imagined a Viking would: equal parts birch, ice, and testosterone. His nearness makes Plato and Socrates’s nipples as hard as the cock that’s now against my belly.
“Do you think they’re sufficiently jealous?” Mason murmurs into my ear, words slurred.
“Who?” Plato and Socrates? They are kind of jealous of my lower back and hand, where Mason is touching me.
Mason smirks. “Did you forget why we’re dancing ‘cooperatively?’”
I furrow my brow. Oh. Shit. He’s talking about the blondes. In my state of hyperarousal, I completely forgot they existed—but the feeling isn’t mutual as they are still darting hate-filled glances my way.
“I didn’t forget,” I lie. “But now that you mention it, there’s something else we can do that would really make them jelly.” I moisten my dry lips and give him my best come-hither glance from under my eyelashes.
A wildness sparks in his eyes, and it is as frightening as it is exciting.
His voice is a low growl. “I think I know what you’re talking about.” He dips his head.
Without meaning to, I lean toward him, lifting on tiptoes.
His lips crash into mine, and he swallows my gasp.
Mason kisses just as fiercely as he plays on the ice, and I love every millisecond of it. It is so good, in fact, that the bar and the rest of the world become a distant memory. All I can feel is his rough lips, his exploring tongue, and his ever-growing hardness against the softness of my belly.
Oh, and did he just cup Socrates? I think he did, and I love it, just as I love his other hand on my ass, pulling me closer and closer and?—
The world comes back into view in the form of the Yeti team cheering and hooting at us like a pack of syphilitic owls.
Mason grudgingly pulls away from me and growls something murderous at his teammates.
The bar spins around me, and I clutch at him to stabilize myself. “Do you want to get out of here?” I mutter when he returns his attention to me.
Eyes gleaming feverishly, he grabs my hand, and we rush outside—as though the blondes might be chasing us with glued-on nails filed into claws and garrotes made of hair extensions.
I blink dazedly at the blurry, streetlight-illuminated street. “Where to—” I hiccup. “Where to now?”
He gestures across the street. “My place?”
“You live inside the stadium?” Is that even legal? Also, don’t I own the place and therefore?—
“No.” He takes my chin and turns my head slightly to the right, his touch making my body break into goosebumps. “That building, right next to it.”
If some part of me wasn’t sure if going over to his place was a good idea, that last touch seals my fate.
“Let’s go.” I grab his hand, and I guess I pass out from the resulting zing of lust because the next thing I’m aware of is riding in an elevator, our tongues dancing like Wednesday’s hands to Lady Gaga’s “Bloody Mary.” Or to whatever the original song in the show was.
The elevator dings open into an apartment, and we’re stripping our clothes as we half-kiss, half-walk through a very long corridor. Then something—hopefully Spike, the cat—hisses at us.
“Sorry,” Mason breathes, pulling away momentarily. “I think I stepped on his tail.”
I have no idea why, but what comes out of my mouth in reply is, “The only pussy you should be concerned with is mine.”
My words clearly strike a chord. Mason growls like a berserker, lifts me off my feet, carries me into his bedroom, and lays me down like a sacrifice on Odin’s altar.
My suffocating dress is promptly removed, as is my bra, leaving Socrates and Plato free, their nipples almost painfully pebbled.
“Gorgeous,” Mason rumbles before he rips my panties off like they were made of tissue paper.
Did I mention he forms a fist in the process? Well, he does, and this is officially the wettest I’ve ever been in my life.
Panting, I watch him strip his own clothes, all the way down to his boxers.
“Those too.” I gesture at the tented underwear with a trembling finger.
He removes his boxers, unleashing the cock that I’ve been feeling against me all night.
Wow. Just wow. It’s big, thick, velvety, and otherwise so perfect that it might just be the Platonic ideal of a cock, one that makes all other cocks seem like limp imitations in comparison. I can’t help but think of Nietzsche and his übermensch. Also, to slightly paraphrase Nietzsche, if you gaze long enough at this cock, the cock will get inside you.
Yep, I hereby christen this cock Uber.
“I want it in me,” I blurt.
Mason’s nostrils flare. “Not until I taste that pussy.”
“Oh. Well. I guess I can be patient.”
With a smirk, he bends down and gives my pussy a featherlight kiss.
My whole body turns into a shiver.
Mason’s callused hands cover Plato and Socrates, and his strong fingers tweak their nipples with just the right amount of pressure—like he’s had years to learn what I like.
His next kiss lands on my clit, and it’s firmer and more wonderful than his last.
I lean back and close my eyes, overwhelmed by all the sensations.
He laps at my folds, making me moan in pleasure. Then he places another kiss there. And another. Then he licks and circles my clit with his tongue before kissing it once again.
My moaning grows frantic and desperate as the pressure starts to coil in my core.
He releases Plato and Socrates—and they miss his touch immediately. But then his palms slide under my butt cheeks, and he pulls me toward him, his tongue penetrating me as if to give a prelude of what Uber will do.
Just as the orgasm is almost upon me, he places his tongue on my clit, making it flat and pliant—and then he pulls my ass toward him once more, and I come with a scream.
“Good girl,” he murmurs roughly. “Now come all over my fingers.”
One of his hands releases my butt, and he slides one finger inside me, then another, all while his lips and tongue take their turns at my oversensitive clit.
The feeling is intense, and the orgasm only takes a few seconds to fully form and crash into me, hard. I come even louder this time, and by the time I catch my breath, he’s arranged me on all fours, ass and pussy exposed from behind for his viewing pleasure.
His voice is a low, deep growl. “So. Fucking. Hot.” He rips opens a condom and sheaths Uber. “Are you ready for me?”
“Hells yeah,” I gasp. “But… can you do something for me?”
“Anything.” As if to confirm the words, Uber twitches.
“Can you grab a fistful of my hair?” I undo my ponytail. “And then hold it so that I can see it?” I’ve always wanted a guy to do that as he fucks me, but I’ve never felt bold enough to ask.
His jaw ticks. “As I said, fucking hot.” Gripping my hips, he enters me, shallowly at first, then pushing deeper and deeper until I’m deliciously stretched—and then he reaches forward, grabs a handful of my hair, and holds it in a tight, veiny, white-knuckled fist within eyeshot.
Fuck! I shouldn’t have asked him for that. The surge of arousal is so extreme my vision speckles with white. There’s something animalistic about how much I want him to fuck me. Something desperate.
“Faster,” I pant, staring at the fist unblinkingly. “Harder. Please!”
With a grunt of pleasure, Mason speeds up his pace, pistoning into me with the same breakneck speed as when he skated toward the enemy goal.
My entire body feels like a pulsing wave of sensations. “Mason! Oh, fuck, Mason…”
He takes my words as an invitation to go faster and harder, his free hand squeezing my ass as his other continues to grip my hair in that glorious fist.
“Come for me,” he growls, slamming into me with powerful thrusts, pushing me over the edge.
With a gasping cry, I come, quivering around him.
“Fuck,” he grunts, and I feel him harden before he grinds against me in his own release, giving me a final aftershock of pleasure that leaves me completely worn out.
“That’s it,” I gasp as he pulls out of me. I plop on the bed. “I’m going to pass out now.”
“Sure thing, Ladybug,” he murmurs, wrapping his hot body (in every sense) around me. “Sweet dreams.”
Ladybug? Whatever. After the pleasure he’s given me, I’d let him get away with calling me a scorpion. Maybe even a cockroach or a dung beetle.
Closing my eyes contentedly, I keep my word and pass out.