Page 37 of Sinful Mafia Santa

The place looks worse than when we left it. It occurs to me that I should be ashamed of what I’ve done, but I won’t waste a second on that. I didn’t hurt anyone else. I didn’t hurt myself.

And for the first time in a decade, I feel like I can truly breathe.

Back to my knees in front of her, I strip my double knots from her laces. I tug off the skates, then the socks, setting everything aside before I take care of my own boots.

It’s time to return to the real world. I have to drive us back to New York. She needs to fly home to Chicago in the morning.

Before I can stand, though, she reaches out one steady hand, settling it in the center of my chest. My heart rate doubles, igniting an invisible spark between us. She feels it, I know, because her lips curve into a smile.

“Thank you,” she says. “For bringing me here. For taking me out on the ice.”

I want to grab on to the electricity sizzling between us. I want to tell her it was nothing, but that isn’t true. It was almost more than I could handle.

You’re welcomeisn’t enough. Thanking her in return would almost hit the mark, but that isn’t right either.

She takes away my decision before I settle on a response. Flattening her palm against my chest, she leans forward to press her lips against mine. The spark between us flares into something bigger, something that burns off all the oxygen in the room.

“Let me do something foryounow,” she whispers. “Sir.”

15

AERYN

His fingers close around my wrist, holding my hand over his heart. His gaze comes to a sudden boil, pouring off heat as he studies my face.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “We can take things more slowly.”

“We’ve had ten years of slow. I want this. I want you. Tonight.”

He brushes my hair off my face. “Tiramisu, if things get too rough.”

“Cranberry tart,” I say. “All night long. Take me to your office. Please.”

A wicked light flares in his eyes. “We won’t get that far, babygirl.”

His kiss is danger and desire, longing and sin, his tongue challenging mine for control. His teeth catch my lower lip, closing hard enough to make me moan. He growls when he frees me: “On your feet,babygirl.”

Gripping my elbow with one hand, he edges me toward the door. He snags a couple of hockey sticks from a dense tangle before he marches me into the treatment room.

It’s a large space, part sterile medical office, part high-tech spa, part professional-grade gymnasium. A counter stretches along one wall, with cabinets above and below. The opposing wall is filled with gear—crutches hanging on hooks, braces for every part of the body, support belts and weighted vests and equipment bags. A treadmill hulks beside an elliptical. A lightbox on the wall waits to display X-rays. A hip-deep tub sits beneath a heavy plastic cover in one corner, next to an industrial-size ice-making machine.

This is the opposite of Kynk. At the club, everything was designed to signal sensual decadence, with an undercurrent of wealth. This treatment room is a place of business. Everything is cold. Unemotional. This is where men come to be healed.

“Strip,” Gage says.

My arms automatically cross my chest, startled into defense by his harsh tone. Something twists inside me, a viper of warning. He said we should take things more slowly, and I didn’t believe him. Now I’ll pay for my over-confidence.

“This isn’t a good beginning, babygirl,” he warns. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

I swallow hard, trying to master the roller-coaster swoop in my belly. When that doesn’t help, I close my eyes, bending to capture the hem of my knit dress.

“Eyes on me, babygirl,” he says. “You don’t get to slip away like that.”

I take a steadying breath while my face is hidden by the dress. I toss my hair as soon as my head is free. My fingers clutch the soft wool to my chest as if I can hide my mis-matched lingerie, the rose-studded black lace bra I wore to seduce Gage at the club and the simple cotton knickers Martha Gallagher provided.

“Drop it,” Gage commands, nodding toward my dress.

He sounds like he’s ordering a dog to give up a tennis ball. Before I can think about consequences, I say, “Woof.”