Page 18 of Sinful Mafia Santa

“Ten,” he finally says.

“I—”

His eyebrows rise.

We both remember the last time he spanked me, in the living room of the Atlantic City bungalow he shared with Logan. I argued with him then, too, until he ran my total up to twenty. We only got to twelve before our world fell apart.

“Ten,” I finally say. “Sir.”

“Master Jonathan,” Gage says, not taking his eyes from me. “A chair, please?”

A bare-chested giant with a stag’s-head mask drags an armchair to the foot of the dais. It takes two men to lift it onto the stage. They shift the Christmas tree back a couple of feet, positioning the chair in the center of a bright, white spotlight.

Gage takes his time settling into the chair. He shrugs his shoulders. Shifts his weight. He spreads his legs wide, and then he snaps his fingers. “Come to Santa, babygirl.”

This is wrong. This is filthy. Good girls don’t let themselves be spanked. Wise women don’t display themselves in public.

But I made my decision the instant I asked the Waldorf doorman to hail me a cab. I merely confirmed it when I offered up my name at the front desk. And I chiseled it in stone when I strode through the club to the Heart.

I strain my thighs, rising to my Louboutin stilettos without touching a hand to the floor. Gage watches me step onto the dais.

He reaches for the red bow I tied around my throat, the one I took from a locker in the greenroom. I shiver when he slides the ribbon across the back of my neck. “Hands,” he says, as my nipples turn to stone.

I hold out my wrists, because this is another game we played ten years ago. He lashes my hands tightly, efficiently, binding me palm-to-palm. Before I sprawl across his lap, he pulls his knees together, just a hair.

His thighs are steady beneath me, sturdy. His cock twitches, pressing hard into my belly as I find my balance. If my wrists weren’t bound, I’d reach beneath my body. I’d stroke him through his trousers and make him cream his boxers. I’d take whatever punishment he chose to give me after, once he stopped seeing stars.

He smooths my hair back from my face, taking his time to gather it in one hand. Bending over to brush a kiss against mybare nape, he lets his lips linger near my ear. “Saytiramisu, and I’ll stop.”

I manage a nervous grin. “Cranberry tart,” I whisper, but I have to swallow hard. “Sir.”

He smooths his free palm over my arse, and I feel every stitch of my lace knickers tattooing my heated skin. “Count,” he says. “Thenthank you, sir.Loud enough for them to hear you in the lobby.”

I nod, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to make myself heard three feet away. I close my eyes.

“Not like that,” Gage says. “Eyes open, babygirl. This is why you came tonight. This is what you wanted—everybody watching you.”

I can’t do it.

He tugs my hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to get my attention. “Don’t make this worse than it has to be.”

I hear his voice. I understand the words. But I still can’t.

“Aeryn,” Gage whispers. “ Are you choosingtira?—?”

I open my eyes.

The first blow comes before I expect it. I hear the sound, like a hockey stick breaking, before I register the fire splashed across my arse.

I thought he might go gently, easing me into things, giving me time to remember the past. But he’s started at eleven, and every nerve in my body leaps to attention.

Everynerve.

A drumbeat throbs between my thighs. My body remembers Gage’s touch. It remembers the excitement of mixing pain with pleasure. It remembers exactly how it feels to hold a safeword, to be the one ultimately in control of exactly how far a scene can go. It remembers power and release and pure, uncomplicated heat.

“One,” I say. Then, “Thank you, sir.”

“Louder,” Gage commands.