Chapter 6
6
brAIDEN
T he valet takes the keys to my Jeep and hands me a claim check. The doorman greets me by name: “Good evening, Mr. Kelly.” The front desk clerk offers the same greeting, as does the concierge. A bellhop steps out of the elevator as I approach, and he holds the door for me, automatically reaching inside to press the button for my floor.
Other men get off on this kind of attention. They want to be fawned over. Told they’ve got the biggest dick.
I just want the peace and quiet of living in my own home. And I spent the last three hours hearing all the ways that isn’t going to happen, not anytime soon.
I wasn’t surprised by any of the details. Not when Philadelphia Fire Commissioner Warren K. Chesterton insisted on meeting in the back room of a manky restaurant on the furthest edge of the city’s northern suburbs. It turned out Chesterton’s daughter owned the place. She was the guilty party for the menu’s unholy fusion of Hungarian and Japanese cuisine.
Given the antacids Chesterton downed like popcorn, he’s not a fan of the food either. But he was more than happy that we had the back room to ourselves. That privacy gave him a chance to open the briefcase I brought him. He had the nerve to count the bundled bills, as if I’ve failed to honor my payoffs in the past.
Maybe someone else has been cheating the commissioner.
Or maybe he didn’t trust a man who’s come to bribe him twice in less than a year. Fair play to him, he didn’t mention the tiled room in the basement at The Hare and Harp, the downtown bar where I used to conduct my business. He didn’t say a thing about the over-size drain that survived Antonio Russo’s arson, or the charred metal tools that hinted at the room’s true purpose.
The same way he didn’t comment on an extra skeleton in the ashes at Thornfield.
He just texted a number to my personal phone. A very large number—four times what I paid for the Hare.
Feckin’ vulture. Another grab like that, and I’ll be forced to remind him he works in a dangerous business. Men die at fire scenes all the time. Even commissioners.
So, by the time I get back to the Rittenhouse, I’m feeling assaulted by foods that should have never shared the same kitchen, ravaged by a greedy man who’ll have my bollocks in a vise if I so much as light a candle for the next ten years, and worn to a nub by the worst rush-hour traffic I’ve ever seen in the City of Brotherly Love. It’s half past eight, and I should have been here by six.
No amount of arse-kissing from hotel staff will change that.
At least the living room is empty when I get to the suite. After a week of shoring up every possible gap in our security, I’ve sent all the Boys home for a long weekend. Nothing short of all-out war with Russo—or Boston—will make me call them in before Monday.
Stripping the knot in my tie, I head into the bedroom.
Samantha is pacing near the table in the corner. She’s wearing one of her suits, all black of course, with a white top that plunges dangerously close to an unprofessional V. Her feet are cased in heels that telegraph a message straight to my cock, and that’s before I catch a glimpse of their scarlet soles. She’s pinned up her hair with a single pencil, and from the way tendrils curl against her neck, she’s worn it that way for at least an hour or two.
“I don’t care, Mary,” she says into her phone. “Things are too busy right now. I’ll go over the Dubois contract tonight, and we can wrap up that regulatory review for Cole Wolf tomorrow. But I’ll need you in the office all day Saturday. Better plan on Sunday too.”
She notices me studying her, and she holds up a finger, telling me she’ll only be a minute. Apparently her assistant, Mary Rivers, has another complication.
“Well, have a courier deliver the documents tonight. Tell Rider we can talk at seven tomorrow. Before his other meeting.” She sighs in exasperation, shifting through the papers stacked on the table. “If I can make do with just coffee, he can too.”
Mary must have a problem with that plan as well. Samantha listens, a frown twisting her lips. “I know you can’t say it that way. But we can’t clone ourselves, and he’s being unreasonable.” With her free hand, she rubs her temple, as if a headache pounds there. “Okay. Send me the draft. I’ll read it tonight. After Dubois’ contract. It should only take an?—”
I’ve heard enough.
It’s easy enough to pluck Samantha’s phone from her hand. I don’t bother greeting Mary; we’ve spoken often enough. “Change of plans,” I say. “Samantha has a family emergency. Clear her schedule till Monday. She won’t be taking any calls.”
My fingers falls on the red button before either Samantha or Mary can protest.
The look Samantha gives me is pure outrage. “You have no right?—”
“I have every right, piscín . We have an agreement, you and I.”
She looks around the hotel room, gesturing as if I’ve lost my mind. “We’re not at Thornfield,” she says.
“Did I ever say my rules were limited to Thornfield?”
“ House rules,” she says.
“This is our house now.”
I watch her line up arguments. I won’t be surprised to hear that she’s memorized the entire Pennsylvania Code, or at least the sections that apply to the hotel industry. Fully intending to distract her, I pluck the pencil from her hair. As long black curtains fall around her shoulders, I step back to study her furious face.
“What time is it, piscín ?”
“I’m not your piscín . Not here. Not now.”
“You’re always my piscín .” I catch her wrist, so those kitten claws can’t reach my eyes. “What time is it?” I repeat.
She cranes her neck to look past me, to the clock on the nightstand. “8:52.”
“And when does your work-day end?”
She’s sullen, but she answers. “Six.”
“So you owe me two hours and fifty-two minutes.”
“You weren’t even?—”
“And that’s ten more, for talking back.”
“There’s no rule that says?—”
“Twenty.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Glares at me with murderous intent.
The truth is, I’m short on tools to make my piscín comply. Floggers, paddles, canes, gags—they’ve all burned to ash at Thornfield. The bed here doesn’t help much—there’s no place to tie her up.
But playing with Samantha has always been more about her mind than my toys.
I sit on the edge of the bed. “Strip,” I say.
She glances at the open bedroom door. “Anyone can just walk in here.”
“That’s thirty extra minutes. Please. Keep complaining.”
“Braiden, be reasonable.”
“ Strip ,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve used my Captain’s voice in days. And Christ, it feels good.
She steps out of her shoes. She shrugs off her jacket, draping it over the back of one of the chairs by her papers. She shimmies out of her trousers and pulls her top over her head until she’s standing in front of me, wearing nothing but white cotton panties and a featureless bra.
Other women wear lace and silk. Other women long to be pampered.
But my piscín has rules for herself. She thinks she needs to be punished for the mistakes she made in her past. She doesn’t deserve soft things. She doesn’t deserve color.
She’s wrong. She deserves all those things and more. One day, I’ll make her believe that.
Until then, I’ll give her the punishment she craves.
“You’re not naked,” I remind her.
She looks toward the door again. “This is a hotel ,” she says, as if I might not be familiar with the concept. “There are maids. Turn-down service. Not to mention the fact that half the Fishtown Boys have keys to the room.”
It’s my job to make her forget all that.
My fingers close around her wrist, pulling her onto my lap. I’ve given her spankings before. That was the first lesson I ever taught my piscín. But I’ve never actually put her over my knee. I’ve never felt her fight for balance, squawking in embarrassment as my open-handed blow forces her belly against my swelling hard-on.
“Say red , and I’ll stop,” I promise.
She bites her lip, but she nods an acceptance to keep us safe.
Which means I can tug her panties over her hips. I can work the clasps on her bra with one hand, freeing her tits to dangle beside my knee. I can rub my palm over the warm, smooth skin of her arse, and then I can order, “Count.”
When I start, I’m not certain how many times I’ll spank her. But the first imprint of my hand flushes red, sending such a rush of blood to my cock that I have to catch my breath.
She’s so beautiful, spread across my lap. Her pale skin looks like milk against my charcoal trousers. The mark of my hand stands out like spilled wine.
I nearly lost this sight forever. One more minute in the fire, five, ten… I don’t know how long I had before the damage to my corneas would have become permanent.
My hand is dark against her flesh. Rough. And when I spank her again, she moans like she’s already on the verge of coming.
The scent of her blooms beneath my hand—a whiff of soap and shampoo from her morning shower, the punch of sweat as her body braces for another blow, and the sweet, salty tang of her cunt heating beneath me.
“Tell me you want this, piscín .”
She’s proud, though. Even after all these months, she still thinks it’s wrong to test her body’s strength. She bites her lip and closes her eyes, ignoring my command.
Of course she pays for her silence. Again. And again. A dozen times more.
“Tell me, piscín. Say it. Say the words out loud.”
“Yes!” she finally shouts. “Goddammit, yes! You win. You always win. I want you to spank me.”
But she wins too. Because I roll her onto the bed. I ignore her hiss as her well-tanned arse rubs against the comforter. I kneel in front of her, and I spread her legs, and I bury my face in her soaking snatch, fucking her with my tongue until she howls.
After I make her come, I bite the inside of her thigh, sucking hard so she’ll have my mark for days. She grabs my hair as I eat her out a second time, and she pulls hard enough to make my eyes water. I don’t stop until she breaks again, chanting my name like a prayer, squeezing my head between her trembling thighs.
I ease her knees off my shoulders and sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. When I think she can hear me, I ask, “Where’s your collar, piscín ?”
I know she wore it from the fire. She needed the key from my pocket to set her free.
“I— It’s in the safe.”
I go to the closet. “What’s the combination?”
She shakes her head, as if she doesn’t understand the question. But she says, “Zero, one, one, zero.”
Beneath her lawyer grit, my piscín is sentimental. That’s the date we stood in front of the altar at St. Columba’s.
I collect the collar from the safe and fasten it around her neck as she sits on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t…” she says. “But why…” And then she’s focused enough to say, “You already spanked me.”
“And now I’m going to do something more.”
“I don’t know how much more I can handle.”
“How much more I can handle, sir ,” I prompt her.
The reminder makes her open her mouth to protest. But I plant a finger on the emerald, pressing it into her throat. She swallows hard and says, “Sir.”
I stare at her for just long enough to make her squirm. And then I say, “Make me a drink.”
“What?”
I wrap her hair around my fist. “Make me a drink, piscín. And don’t make me repeat any more orders.”
“Wh— What do you want to drink?” And then she remembers. “Sir?”
“Jameson. Neat.”
She has to go into the living room. To be in full view of the door. For just a moment, I think I’ve found her limit. I think she’ll stop me— red .
But she nods. She stands. And she crosses to the well-stocked bar and pours me a generous whiskey. Four fingers. Neat.
I sip before I sit on the couch, knees spread wide. I want her skin against mine. I want to pull her onto my lap, to feel her wet heat against my thigh.
But more than that, I want to test her. I want her to follow the rules. And in this place, in this room, it will be infinitely harder for her to do that if I keep on all my clothes.
I snap and point to the carpet between my feet. “On your knees, piscín. ”
I don’t know when I learned to read Samantha Kelly like a book. I don’t need to see her scowl to know she hates the symbolism of what I’ve just commanded. And I don’t need to hear her quickened breath to know she wants to do it.
She kneels.
I lean back on the couch and spread my arms wide. I nod toward the tent in my trousers, the hard-on she’s delivered. “Suck my cock.”
Her eyes narrow. She’s done it before, taking as much pleasure as she gave. But I’ve never pushed our roles so far, never forced the visual that I’m her Dom and she is very much my sub.
“Don’t make me ask again, piscín .”
“You didn’t ask,” she mutters. But just before I grab her chin, she ducks her head and whispers, “Sir.”
Her fingers shake—maybe with anger, maybe with excitement. She works my belt buckle, leaving the ends loose beside my fly. She turns the button. She slides the zipper and eases my cock free. And when her lips close over me, I groan like I’m breaking in two.
I’ve set a dangerous game for both of us. I’m closer to the edge than I imagined. The third time I hit the back of her throat, I clutch my glass of whiskey so tight, I expect it to shatter, but I find the will to order, “Stop!”
She freezes with her tongue still pressed against my bollocks. Gritting my teeth, I pull free, and for one dark second, I think I let her go too far. But I take deep breaths, and I tighten every muscle in my abs, and I hold onto the Jameson like it’s the last flask in a desert.
When I’m back under control, I say, “Stand.”
“I don’t un— Did I do something wrong?”
I push myself to my feet, which means she has to stand, or be edged into the coffee table. I hitch my pants up to my hips and close my fingers over her biceps, purposely gripping hard.
“Let’s go,” I say.
And I walk her to the corner of the room. To the pair of windows that meet in a single line of glass, rising from knee to ceiling. To the view of Philadelphia, spread out beneath us, the nearest building blocks away.
“Hands on the windows,” I order.
She’s covering herself, right arm across her tits, left fingers fanned across her crotch. The door behind us is no longer her greatest fear. She’s forgotten about maids and turn-down service and wayward Fishtown Boys. I’m telling her to show herself to the entire city.
“ Piscín ,” I prompt, my voice a dangerous rumble.
She takes a step forward. I can see her body reflected in the glass, her face torn between shame and desire. This is what I would have lost, if my eyes had never healed. This is what I would have dreamed about forever.
She braces herself with a full breath. She closes her eyes.
She can stop me. She controls this.
She takes another step and plants her hands on the glass.
I move behind her, pressing my cock between her legs until she shifts to let me in.
Her cunt is soaked, exposing the lie that she doesn’t want to be here. I penetrate her slowly, feeling the flutter as she melts around me. I spread one hand across her taut belly, holding her tight.
“Look at us,” I tell her. When she resists, I pull her closer, forcing her to straighten her arms. “Open your eyes, piscín . See what you’re doing. What you’re letting me do.”
She does it. She opens her eyes. She stares at our image in the glass, our reflection bright from all the lights behind us, her naked body framed by my clothed one.
I grab her hips and start to pump.
The fact that she came twice in the bedroom means nothing. She’s primed by the heat of her well-spanked arse. She’s riding the terror-thrill of exposure. She’s arching her neck, stiffening her thighs, and when I shift one hand to find her clit, she breaks around me like a crystal cup.
Her fingers spread wide on the windows. She presses her tits against the glass. She pushes her arse against me, and I manage one more stroke before I’m shattering too, plowing deep, pulsing hard, pressing my cheek into her spine.
It takes a few minutes before I’m steady enough to lift my weight from her back. She sways as I slip out of her, a tiny wordless cry escaping her lips. I hitch up my trousers and then I half-guide, half-carry her over to the couch.
I don’t have chocolate. I don’t have arnica gel for the marks I’ve left on her body. I don’t have a fully stocked kitchen with food to restore her after all she’s given me, given us.
But I can cradle her body against mine. I can stroke the hair from her face. I can finger the emerald at her throat and tell her she’s magnificent, she’s my treasure, she’s mo chailín maith .
And when I carry her to bed and kiss the lace of scars above her temple, I can whisper, “House rules. Breakfast tomorrow.”
And I can wonder at her knowing smile, at the look of total satisfaction as she falls asleep inside the iron curve of my arm.
It’s not until I’m falling asleep myself that I realize my piscín has topped from the bottom again. She manipulated me like the expert attorney she is. She goaded me into enforcing the rules she knows by heart.
I’ll make her pay.
But for now, I can’t regret a single thing she’s done.