Page 39 of Sinful Mafia Santa

It’s so simple, what he’s doing, and so completely devastating. My fingers splay on the cabinet like broken branches. I’mbalancing on my tiptoes, desperate for release. I’m moaning every time I pant, so close, so very close, almost, almost there.

He stops.

“You goddamn, fucking shitehawk,” I start, the second I get enough breath to speak.

“Language, babygirl,” he says.

“How’sthisfor language? Let me come, you motherf?—”

I don’t know where he got the scissors—on the counter, or in a cabinet, maybe from one of the drawers. The cold steel against my right hip makes me shudder, convulsing almost double at the shock. I jerk back from the cabinet, unsteady with my arms above my head. Before I can find my balance, he snips again, pressing against my left hip.

Taking my knickers from behind, he tugs toward the small of my back. The cloth is soft enough to glide through the slickness of my soaked folds, but it’s rough enough to push my throbbing clit to the very edge.

If there was more fabric, if he held the pressure longer, if he went back to his ravaging assault on my neck, I could come. Instead, he strands me on the very edge of release again.

“Just do it!” I scream, when I realize he’s left me hanging. “Fuck me or?—”

He fills my mouth with cotton.

My knickers are already drenched, coating my tongue with honey and salt. I push with my tongue, trying to spit them out, but Gage is ready for that too. He doesn’t use tape this time. Instead, he grabs an elastic bandage, the type meant for splinting and sprains. It feels like sponge against my cheeks, pulling tighter with every round.

I try to buck him off, but he has all the advantage. I’m trussed up with the hockey stick, breasts bare, mouth so full I have to concentrate to breathe. But none of that keeps me from screaming my protest, even as he presses another bandage into my hand.

I try to throw the roll at him, angling behind my head, buthe easily side-steps my attack. He retrieves the bandage and curls my fingers around it, squeezing firmly. “That’s your safeword now. Drop it if you want this game to stop.”

Game.

I’m humiliated here—bare arse, bare breasts, arms stretched wide on the stick above my head. He’s brought me to the edge twice and left me dangling. He’s in charge of everything, in absolute control. He owns me.

And I have never been more turned on in my life.

I bow my head as best I can beneath the hockey stick, submitting.

He settles down to serious business then. He orders me to spread my legs, and when I don’t move quickly enough, he positions them with his own rough hands. He collects the other hockey stick, the one I foolishly forgot. He lashes my ankles to the wood, same as my hands, setting my feet further apart than I think I can bear.

While he’s down there, he bites my arse—not enough to draw blood, but enough to make me squeal into my knickers. He kisses the flaming mark he leaves behind, soothing with his lips first, then his tongue. As I press back into his face, his arm wraps around my hip. He finds my clit and reduces me to wordless pleading in seconds.

But still he doesn’t let me come. Instead, he throws me over his shoulder like I’m some crazy bendable doll. He carries me over to one of the massage tables and puts me on my back

The table takes the weight of the stick in my hands, easing the pressure on my shoulders. His fingers close around my waist, dragging my arse toward the end of the table, until I feel the edge just behind my knees. He strokes my thighs, then, saying, “That’s right, babygirl. Relax.”

I’d scream if I thought it would do me any good. I can’t relax with my arms stretched over my head. I can’t relax with my feet strapped to a hockey stick, dangling beneath the table. Ican’t relax with my knees spread wide, displaying my most private parts like a filthy invitation.

Gage has seen every inch of my body. He’s smelled me. Tasted me. But it’s still reflex for my knees to close, for me to hide from his burning gaze.

He hasn’t left me any room to maneuver. My feet are tied too far apart. I can’t pull away in shame. I’m forced to lie here, belly rising and falling like I’m a wild animal in a trap.

But I’m still holding my roll of adhesive bandage. I’m clutching it tight, against even the faintest possibility of it slipping out of my grasp. I’m dirty and I’m desperate and I don’t ever want this game to end.

Gage catches a rolling stool with his toes, pulling it over to the foot of the table. Straddling the feckin’ seat, he settles between my legs. I groan as he pulls closer, unable to stop him, unable to wait.

He hits a switch on the end of the table, and the surface lowers so I’m even with his mouth. “Finally, babygirl,” he says. “I’ve been dreaming of this for years.”

16

GAGE

She’s spread out before me, stretched, helpless. Her rib-cage rises and falls like she’s been skating lines for hours. Heat ripples from the tangle of her pubes, carrying the sea-salt scent of her pussy.