Chapter 12
12
SAMANTHA
A s far as the freeport knows, I’m on my honeymoon. They don’t expect me to check my email for a week. My voicemail is being monitored by Mary Rivers, my perfectly capable assistant.
But Braiden and I never planned a lovers’ getaway after our spur-of-the-moment wedding. And even if we had, he wouldn’t be free to go, not with Don Antonio declaring open war on the Fishtown Boys.
So there’s nothing keeping me from diving into a stack of issues at the office. Actually, I’m still clearing away a backlog from the holidays. There’s a challenge from the Internal Revenue Service, questioning a quarterly filing. Kent County, Delaware has nearly quadrupled our real estate tax based on the freeport’s new racetrack, and I need to formally request a reevaluation. There are new insurance policies to review because of the track, and we have an ongoing dispute with the plumbing contractor. Trap has asked me to take his seat at the Chamber of Commerce, and I have a stack of reading to complete before our first meeting, in two weeks.
The mysterious Declan hasn’t configured my new office yet; Fairfax said he’ll be out this afternoon. I’m content to work on my new laptop; between it and my phone, I can access the majority of my files at the office.
I’m deep in the weeds of the IRS matter when my office door closes with a bang. Startled, I look up to see a furious Braiden.
His tie is loose at the neck of his white shirt. His hair is ruffled, as if he’s run his fingers through it multiple times. His lips are so thin they nearly disappear, which makes the glow of his eyes all the more striking.
With careful precision, he turns the lock on the door.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, springing to my feet. Sweat prickles in my armpits, and I have to remind myself to take a full breath.
“On your knees,” he says, pointing to the rug beneath his feet.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“On. Your. Fucking. Knees.”
The insane thing is, I obey. It feels like some force grabs hold of my body, like invisible strings pull my arms and legs. That voice of his, that low, brutal growl…
It’s the same tone he used when he ordered me to eat, back in my condo, the one that made me drink after Russo left my home. Something inside me is tuned to that frequency, something that was primed by his dirty talk yesterday, in the safe room. My heart goes wild, beating so hard I’m sure he can hear it where he’s standing, towering over me. My lips are numb, and I’m breathing too fast, too hard.
My brain knows I chose to play with fire, marrying this man. My body has just discovered it has to pay the price.
“One fucking rule,” he says.
Before I can ask him which one of his rules, because he’s issued plenty, he wraps his fist around my hair and yanks my head back to an almost-painful angle. His other hand thrusts a phone in my face.
The video is already running, like he’s been playing it on repeat. I see myself approach the forbidden door. I look over my shoulder. I test the knob and listen.
I can’t argue innocence; the footage on the camera is as clear as a feature film. I can’t argue mistake; that’s clearly my face on the recording, not anyone else in the house. Ignorance is out the window too—we both know the rule he set.
The video starts again. He tightens his grip on my hair. “Beg,” he says.
“For what?” His demand is so absurd my voice cracks.
“Beg to stay here.”
“On my knees ?” I scoff as something crackles inside me. I know what he means, but I can’t keep from fanning the dangerous flames I’ve kindled.
“Watch your smart mouth. Beg to stay at Thornfield.”
“You cannot be serious.”
He drops my hair and plants his fists on his hips. “I’ve never been more serious in my life, cailín beag .”
I don’t understand the Irish, but his tone is crystal clear. He truly intends for me to beg for mercy. But if that’s what marriage means to him, then he’s absolutely mad.
I’ll call Trap and Alix; they can be here within an hour. I can get an Uber even faster. I’ve got credit cards, and I can get back to my own private condo in Delaware. Hell, I’ll go to St. Columba’s—Father Brennan will protect me when I tell him what my so-called husband has done.
And the instant I’m out of this house, Don Antonio will track me down.
I’ll be trading this barely known Irish brute for an absolutely certain Italian murderer.
Closing my eyes, I hear the explosion over my phone again, the sound of Eliza being shredded by her husband. By the man who broke into my condo building and demanded I take my cousin’s place. By the animal who killed three innocent prostitutes yesterday, all while sitting in a house of God like a moral, upright man.
“I’m waiting,” Braiden says, pulling my hair hard enough to bring tears to my eyes.
“It’s a fucking door!”
“Did you know my rule?”
“Yes, but?—”
“Did you break my rule?”
“I didn’t?—”
“Did you touch my fucking door?”
He’s right. I did. And I was an idiot for thinking I could get away with it.
“Fine,” I say, and I give him what he wants. “Please don’t make me leave.”
His laugh sounds like the slipping gravel that starts an avalanche. “You can do better than that.”
I swallow my rage. I just want to get off my knees and be done with this embarrassing scene. “Please forgive me,” I say. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have touched the door.”
“Samantha…” he chides.
That’s when I get it, when I finally understand what he expects. He said it to me in the safe room. You’ll take my cock down your throat…
I reach for his belt buckle. I can suck him off fast and be done with this degradation. He said I’d have to ask for it. So I lick my lips and look up at him through my lashes and say, “Let me prove how sorry I am.”
He shakes his head like I’ve failed yet another test. “Not today, cailín beag .”
I’ve never known a man to pass up a freely offered blowjob. I ignore his words and try to work his zipper. Once I’ve got him in my mouth, he’ll forget how much he wants to humiliate me. “Let me make this right,” I say, stroking the heavy erection in his pants.
“There’s only one way you’re getting out of this. And sucking my cock isn’t it.”
“What do you want from me?” My voice goes sharp, and I’m horrified to realize I’m about to cry.
“I want to know you won’t stir up trouble the instant my back is turned. I want to know I can trust you. I want to know you’re safe.”
The intensity of his tone twists something beneath my breastbone. I stare at the rug, my thoughts as tangled as the complicated turns of crimson and bronze in the design. I can’t find a path through this. I can’t make a decision.
I’m lost.
I’m a frightened child and a dedicated student and a nameless fugitive and a fierce lawyer and a mourning cousin and a dazed wife. I’m paralyzed by everything I am, by all my choices, by all the ways I can possibly be wrong.
“Look at me,” he says, and there’s that tone again, the one I can’t deny. Once his eyes pin my soul, he says a single word, simple and unadorned: “Beg.”
And all my choices narrow down to one. Braiden makes things simple. Easy. Right.
I bow my head. I clutch his shoe. I lean my head against his knee, and when that isn’t enough, I look up into his proud, arrogant, handsome face.
And I beg.
“Please,” I say. “Forgive me. I was wrong. I understood the rule, but I thought you’d never know. I don’t want to leave here. Don Antonio will kill me—maybe not now, maybe not for years, but I know he will eventually. Please don’t throw me out. Please don’t make me leave. Please, I’m begging you. Please, please, please, please, please.”
The word becomes a mantra, a sort of prayer. It melts into every cell of my body. It fills me. It becomes me.
I’m disgusted with myself. I’ve never begged anyone for anything before. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want Braiden to forgive me.
But I’m strangely at peace too. He told me exactly what to do, and I did it. I didn’t have to make any more decisions, didn’t have to consider any more options. I just had to do the one correct thing.
His hand spreads over the top of my head. His fingers tighten, claiming me, branding me. He accepts me. He forgives me. I can stay.
But then he says, “Pretty words. And I think you think you mean them.”
“I do,” I whisper.
“But some proper punishment will help you remember today, the next time you consider breaking the rules.”
Punishment .
For one stuttering second, I don’t know what he means. But then his hand slides down my arm. He cups my elbow and helps me to stand.
His fingers make short work of the button on my jeans, and the zipper too. He glares at my sneakers like they’ve committed some capital offense.
“Shoes off,” he says. “Trousers, too.”
I obey, because I’m still in the channel he carved for me, the perfect space where there’s only one true way, one straight path, the simple road he makes. I toe off my shoes and step out of my jeans, leaving them puddled in the middle of the floor.
“Knickers,” he snaps, and my fingers move without thinking, hooking into my underwear and dropping them beside my pants.
I’m wearing nothing but my white cashmere sweater, and he’s still dressed for the office—navy suit, crisp white shirt, tie stripped loose around his throat. I should be mortified, but I’m not.
I’ve turned off my brain. I’ve stopped arguing right and wrong and yes and no and maybe. I’m following orders, and for once in my life, it feels amazing for someone else to be in control.
He nods toward my desk. “Forearms on the glass,” he says. “Hands flat.”
The position leaves me more exposed than I’ve been with any man. My hips tilt up. My bare ass is exposed.
“Spread your legs,” he says.
Good girls don’t do things like this. Smart women won’t. But I don’t have to think about whether I’m good or smart. I just stare at the ring on my left hand, at the golden band with the engraved words close to my flesh: Is liomsa tú.
I am his.
I spread my legs.
Through the glass desk, I see him step behind me. His feet angle toward mine. His weight shifts. And I only have a moment to think that I haven’t heard his zipper, that he’s still fully clothed, and then the flat of his hand smacks my bottom hard enough to make me yelp.
“Position,” he warns, and I realize I’ve pressed my belly against the desk. I’ve dropped my hips. I’ve tried to get away.
He waits until my arms are back where they belong. He nudges my ankles further apart with the toe of his shoe. “Say red ,” he says. “And I’ll stop.”
The next time he spanks me, I don’t give way.
The contact stings like a jalape?o pepper, surprising and hot and more exciting than I ever expected it to be. I tighten my legs, shifting my hips back and up, and the next blow is even better.
I’ve never been spanked before in my life. My own parents didn’t believe in corporal punishment. Zia Sara, Eliza’s mother, disciplined with harsh words and stolen privileges. I’ve never had a lover who wanted to play this game; I never dreamed I’d be willing to go along.
But Braiden spanks like he does everything else, with calm determination and an absolute certainty that he is right. He knows when to plant a hand on the small of my back, giving me a chance to catch my breath. He knows when to return to flesh he’s already made raw. He knows when my trembling legs are begging for more, when my whispered, “no, please, no more,” really means I’m braced for another blow.
And he knows when I’m stretched as far as I can stand, when one more swat will topple me over the cliff from throbbing, burning pleasure into unforgivable pain.
My sides heave like I’ve run a marathon. My calves ache with the effort to stand still. My chest collapses against my desk, and I turn my head to the side, gulping, gasping, begging for air.
Braiden palms my ass, his hand feather-light against my burning flesh. I mew, because I can’t take any more pressure, because I want it, because I need him.
He shifts closer, stroking the lips of my pussy. “You’re so wet,” he breathes.
I groan as he presses one knuckle against my swollen clit. I rock against him, needing more.
“You’re mine,” he says. “This soaking cunt is mine.” He stiffens two fingers and plunges them deep inside me, hard and fast.
I panic.
My throat works, but I don’t remember the word, the single syllable that will save me. My eyes squeeze shut. My mouth stretches open. And I wait for the terrible, horrible explosion that I know will end my world.