Page 6 of Sinful Mafia Santa

She’s watching me too. We both know how to count.

I wish to God she’d taken me up on that escape to my office. Even more than that, I wish I drank while I was on the job.

I step closer to create an illusion of privacy. “Was it mine?”

She eyes me steadily. “It wasn’t anyone’s. It was stress. I wasn’t eating right, wasn’t sleeping right. After…”

Logan. So she’s not always comfortable saying his name.

She shakes her head, making her hair gleam in the club’s flattering light. “It was a long time ago.” She squares her shoulders. “So. Do you have time to give me a tour of this place?”

“With pleasure,” I say. And I mean it, even more than my tone can convey.

I offer her my arm as we walk the length of the Great Room. My years of owning Kynk have taught me that clients and staff alike will demand my attention if I’m not specifically attending to a guest. Besides, while Aeryn moves in those stilettos like a runway model, a little extra support can’t go amiss.

Plus, I want to feel her close by my side.

We make our way past the public playrooms. It’s busy tonight, the Friday before a holiday. From the lavish use of toys, it’s clear that many people have already opened their Christmas gifts.

Aeryn takes it all in with polite interest. The girl I knew a decade ago would have been shocked by some of what we see.

Not the basic bondage, though. I still remember how hard she came the first time I shoved a gag in her mouth. We had to keep things quiet at the house Logan and I shared in Atlantic City. That gag led to our exploring Aeryn’s submissive side—my belt wrapped around her wrists, her first spanking, her learning what good girls get after they drop to their knees on command.

But tonight Aeryn seems surprised by Mistress Cynthia’s wax play. And from her wide eyes in the rope room, she hasn’t seen a lot of shibari. She’s intrigued by the dais in the Heart, by the spanking table and the wide selection of impact toys for very public scenes.

Her glass is empty, so I look for the nearest waiter with a tray of champagne flutes. A quick jut of my chin, and Aeryn is sipping Moët & Chandon, her empty whisky glass spirited away.

She rolls her fingers on the stem of the crystal. I know what a woman looks like when she’s aroused, and the lace on that bra leavesnothingto my imagination. Ten years ago, I barely had a chance to explore my first love’s submissive side. Not the way I could do now. Not the way?—

“So,” Aeryn asks as I guide her past some of the private playrooms. “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

I laugh. It’s our old game, one we started the first night she slept in my bed. I was desperate to do anything, say anything to keep her from leaving.

Now, I survey the corridor lined with individual dens of depravity. “Right here,” I say. “In New York. I love owning the club. I have a company that manages my real estate holdings, so I can handle the hockey team, too.”

“The Aces,” she says, once again proving she won’t shy away from our past.

“What about you?” I ask. “Where are you in ten years?”

“In Chicago,” she says immediately. “To keep Da happy. But I’ll have my Michelin stars. Maybe a restaurant in New York too. Vegas, if I can find the right property.”

“Let me guess,” I say. “You’ll serve three dozen courses, each with one bite. And everyone who pays a thousand bucks for the pleasure will go home hungry.”

“Heathen,” she says, elbowing my side.

I resist the urge to catch her arm, to press her up against the distressed brick wall and make her pay for the familiarity.

Before my body overrules my brain, she says, “I’ve been collecting recipes for years. From Dublin. From every place I could get to in County Cork. I have more than a thousand of them. I want to introduce the world to real Irish food.”

“Corned beef and cabbage?”

She frowns. “The flavors, sure. But reworked for fine dining.”

She’s serious. So I say, “You’ll do it then.”

I snag another glass of champagne for her, and we head down the hall toward the Parlor. It’s a quiet room, a refuge from the rest of the club’s chaos. A discreet sign reminds members that this space is intended just for conversation and they’re welcome to take other activities elsewhere. Security circulates on a regular basis, inviting people who don’t read to move on.

I gesture for Aeryn to take one of the armchairs. My breath hitches when she crosses her legs, leaning back like she’s in some corporate boardroom. She raises her glass to me before she drains off half her bubbly wine.