Page 52 of Entangled Mafia Princess

But he doesn’t come back soon. And all I can do is wait. I try to shift my weight around my one poor foot. Damn these heels. My bent leg is starting to feel sore. It’s probably fallen asleep.

Come on, Jack. Come back and get me off. Or let me get you off. Most of the guys I’ve been with usually can’t wait to feel the action.

I hate waiting. Not being able to do anything while I wait is bad enough, but he left me hot and bothered. That makes it ten times worse.

Where the hell is he? What if he doesn’t come back? No, he wouldn’t do that. What would be the purpose in that anyway?

I’m going to die of boredom if he doesn’t return in the next minute or so.

I’m not sure how much time has passed when the door finally opens. Footsteps enter. I assume it’s Jack, but I can’t be certain.

“Sir?” I ask.

The door closes. I hear a chair being lifted and set down. I hear Jack—I’m going to assume it’s Jack—sit down. He doesn’t say anything.

“Sir?” I prompt again.

Silence. Is this some kind of test? What if it’s not Jack? But if not him, who? It’s not likely that some random patron would wander into this room, right? Then again, I really don’t know this place. Did Jack send someone to look in on me? How long is he going to just sit there?

Chapter sixteen

Kai

From where I sit, I can tell she’s regretting the heels she chose to wear. I see small shifts in her weight, but she doesn’t have a lot to work with. I once had a sub wear heels so high she couldn’t walk without assistance.

Now that I see her whole body, practically nude, stretched before me, there’s more to appreciate. She has both tone and substance. The tits are nice-sized, not too small, not too large. And there’s a flare to her hips, which I prefer over stick figures. She’s had a recent bikini wax based on how smooth her skin is about her G-string, but she left a small patch of pubic hair, which I had felt earlier.

I adjust my crotch.

Any moment now she’s going to say something. Patience isn’t an attribute of hers. Yet.

“Admiring the view?” she asks.

I get up and walk over to her. Grasping her nipple, I twist it until she cries out.

“Admiring the view, sir,” I correct.

“I wasn’t sure it was you.”

“Excuses,” I dismiss and twist her other nipple.

“Shit!” she swears.

I release the tormented nub.

“Thank you, Sir,” she says.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

Going over to my bag, I retrieve a chain with nipple clamps, which I apply near the base of her rosy buds. She barely grunts, so I reposition the clamps closer to the tips of her nipples. She whimpers.

I tug on the chain. “Now you can thank me.”

She gasps. “Thank you, Sir!”

“Open your mouth.”

When she does, I place the chain between her lips. “Hold onto this. Drop it and we replace these clamps with heavier ones.”

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