Chapter 13
13
brAIDEN
A fter Russo’s little game at St. Columba’s, my first instinct is to lock Samantha and Aiofe in the Rittenhouse and keep them from the light of day until Aiofe’s old enough to drink.
But Samantha convinces me I’m wrong.
She doesn’t try to use her collar. Instead, she uses years of legal training.
The Rittenhouse is a public business. It can bar access to anyone it chooses, but I—as a guest—can’t force them to keep Russo outside. Even if I bribe the doorman and the front desk clerk and the concierge, they’re under no binding obligation to me. They might take more money from Russo, giving him access to the lobby. To the public corridors. To Samantha.
So I settle on a new house without delay. It’s in Ardmore, not far from Thornfield’s remains. It’s got five bedrooms, four baths, and it sits at the end of a cul de sac. Some architect I’ve never heard of built it on spec, layering in so-called biophilic designs, smart technology, and a hundred shades of beige. He’s been using the place as a showcase, trying to impress future clients, so it’s already filled with furniture, dishes, and enough stark, modern furnishings I almost wish my corneas were seared again.
All I need to do is overpay by a hundred thousand to get the closing done in forty-eight hours. I drag Sawyer Best’s guy up from D.C. to overhaul the security. Some of what he recommends will take time, but getting bullet-proof glass in the windows is an easy, if expensive, fix. I hire extra security from Sawgrass to police the grounds until satisfactory fences can be built.
Wolf comes up the Saturday after the title transfers. He reworks the security system, taking out some backdoor access to the code. While he’s at it, he looks at the firewall I’m running for all the computers on-site. In the end, it’s easier to trash my whole system and go with what he uses at his own home.
Samantha is happy—she’s out of the Rittenhouse for good.
Aiofe is happy—she’s got a room overlooking the garden, complete with a pink canopy over her bed.
Fairfax is happy—he’s got a bigger, newer kitchen than the one he had at Thornfield.
And I suppose I’m happy too. Almost ten million dollars poorer, but I’ve kept my promises to the woman I love. I’ll figure out some way to make the books balance. I always do.
I’m still not putting Samantha back in her collar. I’m her Dom. I have more control than she does. But it’s more and more difficult to ignore that emerald necklace—especially now that I have a bed with a cast iron headboard, perfect for securing cuffs. And a matching footboard, ideal for tying my sub spread-eagle. And a dresser drawer that I’ve already begun to fill with all the tools I need…
No.
Not yet.
But soon my own right hand won’t be enough. And God save Samantha Kelly when I put her on her knees.
Of course the house isn’t enough.
I’ve been played like an Irish fiddle—this time, by Fairfax. He’s the one who found the Ardmore house. He walked me through the property, pointing out how it meets every one of our needs.
But he waited until after we moved in to show me the church, one block west of our new home: St. Agnes. By sheer coincidence—some might call it by brutal manipulation—St. Agnes runs a school, kindergarten through eighth grade. And for a generous donation to their building fund, they can find an opening in their summer school program for rising fifth graders.
I dig in, even though I know I can’t win when Fairfax, Samantha, and Aiofe all join forces.
I tell Fairfax he can’t walk Aiofe to classes. I need him at the house. Aiofe is too frail to carry her book bag. The public streets aren’t safe.
Fairfax negotiates with Rory O’Hare, and O’Hare assigns his best enforcer to drive Aiofe to and from school.
I tell Fairfax Aiofe can’t manage speaking to strangers. She’s suffered more trauma in her short life than most adults. She’s only been talking for a month. She may not be able to communicate effectively with the sisters if anything goes wrong.
Fairfax meets with Sister Immaculata, the headmistress of the school, who administers a placement test, focusing on Aiofe’s language skills. Aiofe ranks in the ninety-fifth percentile for girls her age.
I tell Fairfax Aiofe faces too many threats. Paparazzi might follow her to the playground. Russo might get at one of the teachers, or a janitor, or even a parent of another student.
Sister Immaculata agrees to let O’Hare’s man sit outside Aiofe’s classroom. He can go to the cafeteria, too. He can stand on the playground at recess. The nun’s only restriction is that no student see any weapon he carries.
I tell Fairfax he’s overstepped his bounds. He’s in charge of the house only, nothing on the outside. He shrugs and bakes a batch of Aiofe’s favorite biscuits.
I tell Fairfax I’ll dock his pay. He whistles and shifts laundry from the washing machine to the dryer.
I tell Fairfax I’ll send him packing. He laughs and makes a sack lunch for Aiofe to carry the next morning.
I won’t tell Fairfax I can’t handle the donation. I shift funds about, borrowing from Peter to pay Paul—or Agnes, as the case might be. I write a check with far too many zeroes.
And on Monday, June 3, eleven-year-old Aiofe Máiréad Mason heads to St. Agnes for her very first day of school, ever.
Aiofe’s at her feckin’ school.
Samantha’s working in her office upstairs.
Fairfax is in the kitchen, clattering pots and pans like he’s trying to raise the dead.
I can’t take the noise. I can’t take the waiting. So I grab the keys to the Jeep and head downtown to the new construction site for the Hare and Harp.
When we found the location, I gave half a thought to renovating the old bar that already sat there. But there was dry rot in the joists and mildew in the walls. I had to finish the basement, building out the special room my business requires. So, in the end, it was easier to take the whole thing down and start fresh.
There are perks to running one of the largest construction firms in town. I put my best foreman on the job, raised the budget by twenty-five percent, and told him to finish up six weeks early.
Money. It’s only feckin’ money.
The Hare is still a hard-hat site, and I’m not about to chance ruining a bespoke suit on a stray nail or two. It feels good to wear jeans and work boots. I like talking to Jack, the head carpenter, hearing his explanation for why they’re bumping the ceilings up six inches on the second floor. The electrician is there as well, excited to show off his wiring diagram.
Supervising new construction isn’t a complete distraction. I check my watch half a dozen times, noting when Aiofe’s in first period class, when she’s at recess, when she’s at lunch. I know the tracker I put in her backpack can’t confirm no one’s dragged her off school grounds, but at least the bookbag is still at St. Agnes.
When the construction crew takes their late-morning break, I head down to the basement. The drain there is deep and wide, just the way I ordered. The floor has a gentle slope. Once it’s tiled, with the grout sealed, it will be easy to clean. A network of pipes wait for heavy-duty shower curtains—more clean-up considerations—and the joists have been reinforced so a heavy man can be suspended two feet off the floor.
I’m just testing the pulley hanging directly over the drain when I hear footsteps on the stairs. “Jack!” I call. “You’ve done good work here.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But I’m not Jack.”
I knew it wasn’t Jack from the first syllable out of her mouth.
Samantha’s not as concerned about ruining her clothes as I was. She’s wearing one of her skirts—the first one I ever gave her. It’s pink and covered in flowers that match her soft short-sleeve sweater. She’s wearing knee-high lug-sole boots I’ve never seen before, which is an oversight, because they make me want to push her up against the wall and fuck her till she screams.
I clear my throat. “You’re supposed to have a hard hat.”
She crosses the basement floor, and there’s no reason her hips have to sway like that. “Whoops,” she says. Her fingers are steady as she takes the hat off my head. She puts it on, settling it too far back on her own head for any real protection. “It’s a good thing you always follow the rules.”
“How did you know I’d be here?”
“I figured you needed a little distraction on Aiofe’s first day in school.”
“I have a dozen projects in the city.”
“Not ones that make you feel like you’re in control.”
“You’re not dressed for a construction site.”
She looks down at her pink-on-pink clothes. “Whoops,” she says again.
When she kisses me, she tastes like honey and sweet cream and the coffee I poured for her this morning, when I pretended Aiofe’s school uniform wasn’t breaking my heart.
Lips still pressed to mine, Samantha leans into me. She tangles her fingers in my hair and walks me back to the unfinished wall. “You should wear jeans more often,” she says against my mouth.
“You should wear boots.” I close my hands on her hips, pulling her against my hard-on.
She laughs and reaches for my belt buckle.
I shift my fingers to her wrists. “You’re playing with fire, piscín. ”
“Hush,” she says. With my buckle undone, she twists the button loose on my jeans.
“I’m your Dom.”
“And I’m your sub. I’ll always be your sub. But let me do this for you now. Let me help you. Just this once.”
She has my zipper down, and she’s reached inside my boxers. Her fingers are soft and hard, cool and hot, and she knows exactly how to use them. I drop my head back against the wall and she squeezes my cock, easing it over the elastic band.
“Sweet Jesus,” I breathe. “The men will be back any minute.”
“Then I guess we’d better hurry,” she says. Still holding my cock with one hand, she raises her skirt with the other. I get one quick glimpse of her bare hip—she isn’t wearing panties—and then she’s guiding me into her ready cunt.
My hands grip her arse, but that’s not enough. I spin us around so her back is against the Drywall. The hard hat topples to the floor, clattering on the concrete. She splays her knees, giving me a deeper angle, and I plunge into her like I’m trying to knock her through the wall.
She grunts, and I think I’ve hurt her, but then she groans, “More.”
I give her more. I give her six sharp thrusts, each one forcing air from her lungs. My bollocks rise, and the base of my spine burns, and I know I should slow down, should reach between us and find her clit, should give her a chance, a prayer to catch up, but she tilts her hips and flexes her thighs and I drive home one last time before I explode.
Her hand finds the back of my neck and her lips seal my mouth and she’s hotter and wetter than my dreams. Each pulse of my cock devastates the heat inside her.
She waits until I’m empty before she pulls her lips from mine. I’m still breathing like an overworked compressor when she slips away from the wall. Twitching her skirt back into place, she kneels and retrieves the hard hat from the floor.
As she settles the hat onto my sweaty hair, I try to catch her wrist. “Wait,” I say. “You didn’t?—”
Come , I’m going to say.
But she smiles like a saint and says, “The men will be back any minute.”
“Fuck the men.”
“You don’t really want me doing that.”
“Samantha…” Her name is part-warning, part-prayer, part-apology.
She tucks me back into my pants with an efficiency that should be embarrassing. Zipper up, button done, belt buckled, she brushes one more kiss across my lips. “I’ll see you back at the house,” she says. “Don’t be too long. Aiofe should be home by now, and Fairfax promised to make all her favorites for dinner.”
I check my phone after Samantha disappears up the stairs. The tracker in the backpack has safely returned to the new house in Ardmore.