Page 93 of Dirty Mafia King
I don’t reply. How can I without giving myself away?
He raises the bottle again, and I catch his scowl. That smug woman is right. I feel his disinterest, his disengagement from the scene playing out at his feet. Irrational or not, I feel betrayed. Like I have some claim on him. Like he’s mine. “Next.”
Everyone jumps at his sharp command. The three women flee, and a new group assumes their position.
In a selection I’ll never be included in.
One day you might catch Sebastiano’s attention.
I gasp. Wait. She called him Sebastiano.
I stare at him for a long time, my thoughts in turmoil.
He glances my way, once, then twice.
That means something, doesn’t it? Surely, if she were someone special, she’d call him Bastian…
“Are you nuts?”
I freeze and face Zoey. “No.”
“Oh freaking hell. Sebastiano is still looking over here.”
“He is?” I breathlessly respond, then immediately glance in his direction.
He curls his fingers, signaling me.
“He’s gesturing for us to come over,” Zoey cries out, panicking. “What do we do?”
I hesitate. Part of me wants to test him. Pretend I’m sugar sweet and see what happens. But what if he does select me? What if I’m invited to play?
The bravado that accompanied me from my shopping spree to his party vanishes. I’m playing a dangerous game with serious consequences. Losing my innocence this way will shatter his trust in me. I can’t bleed on his big bull without him noticing, then disappear. He’s going to know it’s me. I mean, how many virgins did he invite to his party? Zero, no doubt.
Bastian stands.
If I understand one thing about him, it’s this—he takes what he wants when he wants it. And right now, that’s me.
I grab Zoey’s hand.
“Run.”
* * *
BASTIAN
“Next.”
I wave off the women at my feet and fall back into my seat as the trio scrambles from the dais. Large tits, small tits, round asses, tight asses—a feast at my disposal. Yet my bull isn’t hungry.
Is it that I’m jaded? Bored? After all, I’ve participated in every imaginable scene, most multiple times. Sex is half-physical, half-psychological. On paper, tonight was a smorgasbord of everything I like—or used to like.
The three women at my feet are an exact redial of the others. What’s the count now? Eight? Ten?
Fuck. Chiara doesn’t even spark my interest like she used to. A hard scene with an experienced submissive doesn’t stir my blood like it used to.
Even the whiskey doesn’t mellow my frustration.
The blond at my feet boldly stares up at me.
