Page 38 of Sinful Mafia Santa
He’s faster than a lightning bolt, closing the distance between us. His fingers clamp on either side of my jaw, pulling my head to a sharp angle. Heat radiates off his body, sizzling my flank. “Drop. It.”
My fingers tremble as I release the sweater.
“Kneel,” he says, emphasizing the order by pointing with his free hand.
I drop to the floor.
My body remembers the rules. I sit back on my heels, my thighs spread. My spine is as straight as a hockey stick, my head perfectly level. The backs of my hands rest on my thighs, palms open in a gesture of absolute surrender.
I don’t understand why I need this, why I crave Gage’s commands. I’m a rebel by nature. When Da tells me anything, I parse his words to carve out every possible exception. My brothers know the quickest way to make me freeze is to order me to move. My teachers at culinary school despaired of my ever mastering the five mother sauces of French cooking; I was too intent on making my own variations.
But here, now, between us, Gage’s word is law.
Maybe it’s because he was my first. Maybe it’s because we needed to work together to hide our relationship from Logan. Maybe it’s because he’s built an empire reading reactions—on the ice, in the boardroom, at the club.
Whatever the cause, something inside me is tuned to Gage’s frequency. He pulls me like the North Pole draws a compass. He perfects me.
“Stay,” he says.
I watch him hungrily as he crosses the room, only my eyes moving so I don’t break posture. He takes his time, pulling his shirt from the waistband of his jeans. He works the buttons at each wrist, folding back his cuffs with a precision that drags a whine from my throat.
“Not yet, babygirl,” he says, chuckling as he pulls the shirt over his head. His belt is next, whispering through the loops on his jeans.
I want him to drape it around my neck and cinch it tight. I want him to flick the end against my pebbled nipples. I want… I lick my lips, fighting the urge to raise my hands.
“Stay…” He draws out the reminder as he steps out of his jeans, snagging silk boxers and socks with the same smooth maneuver.
Ten years out of the game, he still has an athlete’s body—broad shoulders, narrow hips, muscles sculpted like a statue of a Greek god. His cock is thicker than I remember. When his hands flex by his hips, something flips deep inside me, a switch he installed years ago.
“Please,” I beg.
“Not yet, babygirl. Not for a long, long time.”
I can’t help myself. I need to feel that velvet-covered steel. Rocking forward on my knees, I stretch to touch him, to taste him.
He pounces. For a moment, there’s a struggle. I’m frantic to prove that I can make him happy. His fingers close around one of my wrists, but he’s close enough that I can guide his cock to my mouth. He’s grappling for my other hand, though, the one that’s tight around him. When he squeezes the small bones of my wrist, I have no choice but to let him go.
As my lips slip off his reddened tip, I howl my defeat. “Let me do this, ya feckin’ shitehawk. Let me make you feel good.”
“Oh, you’ll do that, babygirl.” He grunts as he drags me to my feet. “But not untilIsay.”
He pulls me toward the wall filled with cabinets. Holding both of my wrists with one uncompromising hand, he scrambles for one of the hockey sticks he left on the counter. Settling my belly against the lower cabinet, he holds me in place with his weight against my back.
His cock presses against my arse. If I wasn’t wearing knickers,I could spread my legs and shift my hips. Push against him until he fills my needy core.
But Iamwearing knickers. And he’s bigger than I am. Stronger than I can ever hope to be. He fumbles for something in the cabinet beside my head, swearing as I shift under him.
It only takes him a moment to find what he needs and then he shifts his weight, pinning me with one carved hip. There’s a scream like an animal dying, but it isn’t coming from me. I realize he’s ripping athletic tape off a roll, wrapping thick white strips around my wrist, then around the hockey stick.
He binds my right wrist to the wooden shaft, then shifts his attention to my left arm. It’s awkward with the stick above my head. He positions my wrist nearly at the end, by the blade, cementing my grip with a dozen rounds of tape. He stops just short of dislocating my shoulders.
Before I can figure out the new weight of the stick, he snaps the clasp on my black lace bra. Reaching around from behind, he frees my right breast first, pinching the stony nipple hard enough to make me yip.
My bound hands are useless. I have no defense as he savages my left breast too. I howl as arrows of pure sensation shoot straight to my clit.
Caging my body with his, he gathers my hair off my heated neck. I lean forward from my waist, letting the cabinets take the weight of the stick and my arms. Gage moves with me, finding the pulse point beneath my jaw with his mouth. He sucks for a moment, which almost feels like comfort. Before I can relax, though, he starts to tongue my throat.
Every nerve ending in my body is tossed into a bonfire. I need to pull away, and I can’t, and the tension tightens the muscles of my thighs. He quickens his pace, licking, lashing, tearing me apart.