Page 116 of Dirty Mafia King

Or reminded him—in case he forgot—about the Red Room.

My heart thumps like it’s projecting me forward. Don’t be shy. Do it. Do it. Do it.

I bite my lip and open the refrigerator, the foil-wrapped tray remains untouched.

He changed his mind.

With a disappointed sigh, I trek across the kitchen I spent hours reorganizing and tidying.

A flash of red catches my eye.

A ribbon, attached to a key, on the island countertop.

And it wasn’t there earlier.

I pick it up, and curl the blatant invitation in my palm.

My heart beats in rapid cadence with my thoughts.

Don’t be shy. Do it! Do it!

CHAPTER42

BASTIAN

She jumps like a nervous filly when I turn on the light in the Red Room, the key tumbling onto the cement floor with a clang as I make my presence known. She freezes, her breath coming fast and deep, a shy flush warming her face.

So fucking innocent. A better man would send her away.

I’m not that man.

“Sit.” I point to the leather spanking bench.

With a bowed head, she scampers to do my bidding and settles onto the flat section. She’s terrified, yet here by her own will.

A man can only take so much before he reaches a breaking point. I’ve been exceedingly patient with the little kinkster, yet she keeps pressing my buttons. Tonight, she’s going to learn the hard way why a lamb like her should never offer herself to a bull like me.

Several seconds pass before she draws the courage to look up.

My dick’s so hard, it’s almost painful.

“For your sake, do everything I ask tonight. I’m in a mood. Capisci?”

She quickly nods. So beautiful. So submissive.

“Strip slowly, without looking away. Then position yourself belly-down on the bench with your ass raised.”

Her nostrils flare as we lock eyes. Madonna mia, she likes this, and we haven’t even begun. Does she have the slightest clue as to the lengths to which I’m about to ruin her?

Lust pulses through my veins. Still, I resist shackling her with chains and taking what she so sweetly offered. I watch and wait, getting off on the nervousness I’ve caused, and how she ever so slowly fumbles with the buttons on her dress.

The material slides down her beautiful body.

Ma dai. What the fuck is she wearing?

She’s gone from conservative babysitter to straight out of a porn flick. Her breasts practically explode from a red silk push-up bra. Her curls are barely concealed beneath the tiniest motherfucking thong in the same color. And a black garter belt—the old-fashioned kind with two snaps that hold up the stockings—frames her pussy beautifully. Sheer black stockings with lacey tops accentuate her creamy thighs. I look my fill, all the filthy ways I plan on playing with her racing through my mind.

“Take off your bra,” I hoarsely mutter.