27. Mason
Chapter 27
Mason
T his is how I want to wake up from now on—with Sophia in my arms.
What happens on the cruise stays on the cruise.
Not fucking likely. Not if I have anything to say about it.
I draw her closer.
It’s official. My new mission is: make sure this thing between us—whatever it is—continues after the cruise.
I just need a strategy, like I would in a game.
Yeah. For starters, no more talk about buying the team. Instead, I can offer to help her run it… though she might get offended by that. Maybe instead, I could?—
“Morning.” She opens one eye. “Did I snore?”
“No.” I smile at her sleepy face. “You were quiet, like a hibernating ladybug.”
She opens both eyes. “They hibernate?”
“In the winter. They don’t eat while they hibernate, but if the weather gets extra cold, they might come out for a snack.”
“A great idea.” She wriggles out of my embrace and sits up before sliding her feet off the bed. “I’m starving.”
Deliciously naked, she beelines for the bathroom. I take a moment to calm my instantly-at-attention dick, and then I make a call to make sure her shoes and our other items are returned from the ice rink.
When she comes out of the bathroom, sadly wrapped in a robe, I’m not surprised to learn that she wants to swing by her own suite.
“Your shoes will be outside the door,” I tell her.
She darts a glance at her bare feet. “Ah. Right. Thanks.”
I wave the thanks away. “Which restaurant are we getting breakfast at?”
“The usual,” she says, not questioning the “we” part. “I’m dying to know more facts about ladybugs.”
I’m not sure if she is kidding or not, but once we meet up, I tell her what I can remember from the beetle documentary I watched. Fascinating factoids such as: ladybugs bleed from their knees when threatened, and their larva look like micro gators, and they have claws that help them sit on surfaces, and the creepiest fact of all—they lay extra eggs as a snack for their young.
“Oh, and they have an adorable collective noun,” I say in conclusion.
“They do?”
“Yeah. A group of them is called a loveliness of ladybugs.” Which is fitting, considering how lovely the ladybug in front of me is.
“And that’s all?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
Sophia narrows her eyes. “How come you didn’t tell me that they taste bad? Or that their coloring is a warning of that fact? Those are the only things I knew about ladybugs before today.”
I shrug. “I’ve only tasted one ladybug thus far, and she was delicious.”
Predictably, her face reddens to a shade not that different from a ladybug’s bright hue. I guess it might be too much to tell her another truth: regardless of her coloring, she need not worry about predators ever again—not while I’m still breathing.
She slurps her macchiato. “So… what are we doing today?”
“How about we try the surfing simulator after this?” I offer, keeping a poker face to hide the fact that her “we” makes me want to pump my fist in the air.
She cocks her head. “You surf?”
“No, but I’m a quick learner.”
Turns out, Sophia is a much quicker learner than I am—at least if we go by the number of times each of us wipes out on the simulator. In my defense, half of my falls happened because I got distracted by staring at her in her bathing suit.
“You ice skate so well I thought you’d be good at balancing activities in general,” she says while we’re waiting in line to ride again.
She’s referring to the somersault I accidentally performed during wipeout number fifty-seven.
“I’m sure I could master surfing if I wanted to,” I say with a confidence I don’t quite feel.
She shakes her head. “I’d stick with hockey if I were you. It’s what you’re good at.”
I lean in to whisper into her ear, “Are you sure you can’t think of something else that I’m good at?”
Just as I intended, Sophia blushes once again.
For the next few days, we’re inseparable. Together, we go cage-diving with sharks, take history tours, ride an electric tram, and go snorkeling. During meals and when commuting to those excursions, we learn more about one another—and no matter how much I learn about her, it’s never enough.
Of course, the highlight of each day happens in my suite, where we thoroughly explore each other’s bodies, learning what the other likes and dislikes. Oh, and I’m not keeping score or anything, but I’m positive that I’ve made Sophia come three times for each of my orgasms.
When we reach Jamaica, we nearly break our necks climbing a six-hundred-foot waterfall. Afterward, one of the tour guides offers to sell us some weed.
“Can we?” Sophia looks at me pleadingly.
“Why?” I narrow my eyes at the guide. “We can’t take it on the ship.”
The guide grins her overly toothy smile. “I could just sell you a couple of jointsthat you can smoke before you head back.”
I frown. “I don’t do drugs.”
“We’ve already had this conversation,” Sophia says. “You drink, and alcohol is a drug.”
“How about just one joint?” the guide suggests.
Sophia fishes out a soaking-wet bill from her pocket. “Will this cover it?”
Eyes shining with avarice, the guide snatches the bill away before I can see what denomination it is. “This will do,” she says. “And—for my new favorite customer—here’s a bonus.” She pulls a cheap plastic lighter out of her purse and gives it to Sophia along with the joint. “I’d recommend you go smoke it over there.” She points to a spot near the water. “The view is nice, and I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”
Sophia elbows me challengingly. “Will you go with me, or are you too afraid of contact high?”
“I’ll go,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I approve of this.”
“Noted,” Sophia says, and under her breath, she mutters something that sounds like “narc.”
When we get to the secluded corner, I have to admit that the view here is nice… at least until Sophia lights up her joint and blows out a cloud of smoke that obscures said view.
“Doesn’t that destroy brain cells?” I ask her.
She coughs. “Alcohol does as well. Now can you please stop being a buzzkill?”
I sigh. Weirdly, the drug smells kind of nice. Very herbal, which makes sense, but also earthy and with hints of either lemon or apple, though that might well be Sophia’s shampoo. Also, the way her lips wrap around that?—
“Is this what peer pressure is like?” I grumble out loud. Because a part of me wants to try the stupid thing. Though she’s much too young to be a peer.
She was in kindergarten when I was under actual peer pressure in high school.
She arches an eyebrow. “Does that mean you want to have a puff? I assure you, the addiction potential is?—”
“Let me guess, ‘less than that of alcohol,’” I say.
She nods.
“Fine.” I extend my hand. “Give it.”
I take the joint, suck in some smoke, and let it out.
She narrows her eyes. “You didn’t inhale.”
I frown. “I didn’t?”
She cocks her head. “You’ve never smoked anything before?”
“No. I’m a fucking athlete. Why would I?”
She snatches the joint back. “Do this.” She drags in such a big lungful of air that her stomach expands.
“Got it.” I take the joint back and do as she suggested… and begin coughing like I have tuberculosis, bronchitis, and pneumonia all at once.
“That was too much,” Sophia says when I can breathe again. “Do it more like this.” She takes the joint, and her ample bosom rises and falls, making my dick hard once again.
When she hands me the joint, I inhale slower and gentler, but I cough once again.
“Have you ever meditated?” she demands.
I nod.
“Breathe in like that.” As she demonstrates, her boobs bob up and down once more, sending the rest of my blood into my already-throbbing cock.
I do a meditative inhale, but the coughing fit that follows is even worse.
She rolls her eyes. “How about I shotgun you?”
“You what me?”
“It’s when I exhale the smoke into your mouth while you inhale.” She takes in a drag and rises on tiptoes, like we’re about to kiss.
Fuck me.
Our lips lock, and she does what she described. As I inhale her smoke-laced breath, I realize that her statement about weed’s lack of addictiveness is bullshit.
If it were delivered this way all the time, I’d be a pothead forever.
“Again?” she asks after she pulls away.
I nod.
She does the shotgun thing, again and again, until the joint is gone… which is when I realize that an invisible purple sausage is flying around my head and singing “Happy Birthday” in Estonian.
Wait, what?
That doesn’t make sense.
Today isn’t my birthday.