Page 23 of Sinful Mafia Santa

But that’s the very reason she needs to sleep tonight. We can talk tomorrow.

So I brush my lips against her shoulder. I whisper, “Thank you. For everything.”

I wait for her to whisper something back. But she’s already settled into the steady, deep breaths of sleep.

9

AERYN

Iwake to sunshine streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Gage’s side of the bed is cold, and the bedroom door is closed. I wonder how long he’s been awake.

Even more, I wonder how much I’d pay for a toothbrush, a steaming hot shower, and a pair of thick, fleece sweatpants.

I laugh when I stumble into the bathroom, because Gage has read my mind. A toothbrush sits beside the sink, still wrapped in its cardboard-backed plastic. It takes me more than a minute to pry the thing free, but it’s worth the effort.

A shower’s next, and Gage’s doesn’t disappoint. I shouldn’t be surprised by the plumbing a billionaire can demand, but the six adjustable nozzles leave me impressed. There’s a creamy bar of milk-white soap, and I lather up three times. He only has one of those feckin’ shampoo-and-conditioner blends that men seem to love, but I cut him a bit of slack. My hair comes away clean and sleek.

Back in the bedroom, I don’t even consider putting on mydress. Instead, I head into a closet that’s the size of some small European countries. It takes me a few minutes to sort through drawers, but I come away with a pair of sweatpants in Aces teal that I can cinch tight at the waist. Another field trip yields a purple sweatshirt that fits me like a tunic. I roll up the sleeves four turns and do the same with the pants. I have to raid the dresser to find a pair of thick, white socks.

Throughout it all, I’m aware of a dozen aches and pains in my body. My arms feel like I’ve done a thousand push-ups. My sides complain when I twist to either side and my thighs are tired, as if I’ve run every step in Wrigley Field.

But my arse feels fine. A little sore, if I push on it with my fingers, a little warm to the touch, but fine. That arnica cream always did work miracles…

Running my fingers through my damp hair, I make my way down the hall toward the front of this luxury home. Before I can step into the living room, though, I hear Gage’s voice, sharp with frustration.

“Jesus, Trap. Stop laughing. Trap! Christ!”

He must be talking to Trap Prince, the man who treated us to the Rockettes show and dinner on Thursday night.

Gage lowers his voice. “I’m just saying, I know you have a place here in the city.” He sounds like he’s explaining simple addition to a child. “And I know you bring Alix to that place. And I suspect you’ve bought her a present or two while you’re up here. So if you can point me toward wherever you’ve gone to find one of those goddamn presents?—”

Trap must take mercy on him, because Gage chokes off his explanation.

“Gallagher Samson,” he says after a moment, with a tone that says he’s repeating information from Trap. “Fifth Avenue. Do you know how late they’re open today?”

Even from my perch in the hallway, I can hear Trap’s explosion. He isn’t a cocksucking secretary. And he doesn’t have a motherfucking clue if Gallagher Samson is open. And if Gagewasn’t such a cheap-ass jizzstain, he would have done his shopping earlier than the day before Christmas.

“Thanks, Trap,” Gage says when the tirade runs down. “I appreciate the help. Yeah. Merry Christmas to you too. Give my best to Alix.”

He’s putting away his phone when I venture around the corner.

“Hey,” I say. This is the moment I’m supposed to feel shy. After all, I tied a feckin’ red bow around my neck and offered my body to this man. I let him tie me up and spank me raw. I called him Sir as he made me come in a spotlight in the center of a stage, surrounded by strangers.

But he’sGage. The first man who ever fucked me. The first man I ever loved.

The man I have a sneaking suspicion I might love still, because of everything that’s kept us apart for the last ten years, because of everything that ever brought us together.

“Hey,” he says.

I cross the room and kiss him. He tastes like peppermint and coffee. His hair stands up in short, sharp tufts, and I laugh when I finally step away. “Ireallymust have been out of it. I didn’t hear you shower.”

“I used one of the guest baths,” he says. “I wanted to let you sleep.”

“I needed it,” I say.

“You deserved it.” Andthat’swhat makes me blush, those three words in that rough tone—acknowledging everything we did together without apology or shame. He follows up with a grin. “Hungry?”

“I’m starving.”