Chapter 7
7
SAMANTHA
H e locks the emerald around my throat. My pulse beats hard against the stone, telegraphing an awareness to every cell in my body.
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t give in to my body’s physical needs. But when Braiden issued his command— drop that goddamn shirt —everything became clear in my head. All the noise, all the doubt, all the questions I’ve asked myself since I first saw Birte in the dining room—everything dropped away, like sugar crystallizing at the bottom of a cup of too-sweet tea.
Braiden walks around me now, studying me from every angle. I want to say something, beg him to tie me up, plead with him to go down on me. But I’m wearing the collar now. I don’t get to speak.
No.
I don’t have to speak.
I don’t have to make any decisions. I just have to do what I’m told to do. That’s the bargain we’ve made .
But does the collar still work, now that I know he’s lied to me? He’s covered up his past. Can I forget that for long enough to silence the voice nagging at the back of my head—the one that says I need to take charge, need to put the world in order, need to advocate for everything I believe in?
What will happen if the paparazzi learn about the things I’ve let Braiden do to me? How many stories will I face in the press then? What if the ethics board concludes I’m sexually depraved? Will that be the last straw before they yank my law license?
Braiden snaps his fingers, a bare inch from my nose. “Stop thinking,” he commands.
He’s told me that before. Then, I didn’t think it was possible. I didn’t believe I could unzip my brain, that I could step outside my circling thoughts.
But now I try to focus on my body instead of my mind. My nipples tighten against the satin cups of my bra. A slow ripple of desire churns through my belly and tension tightens my thighs, settling into my knees’ soft ache.
A door slams somewhere in the house, a vibration I feel instead of a sound that I hear. I wonder if Birte’s up to some mischief with her newfound freedom from the attic. If Aiofe’s protesting her bedtime without saying a word. If Fiona’s marking her territory, or Madden’s making sure he isn’t forgotten in his brother’s house.
Or maybe it’s just the wind.
“Eyes on me,” Braiden says, and I realize I’ve been staring at the door, waiting for someone to turn the knob, to test the lock.
I swallow hard, but I do as I’m told. I meet his fierce gaze.
“My God,” he says. “You’re gorgeous.” His fingers find the sore spot on my throat, the place where Madden pressed his pistol. “What happened here, piscín ?”
I could tell him. I could let him know Madden threatened me. But if I say that, I’ll have to admit Madden still thinks I’m spying for Russo .
I don’t want Antonio Russo in this bedroom. I don’t want to think about what he did to my cousin. I don’t want to remember how he released my darkest secret to the entire world. I don’t want to wonder if the man who tried to kill me last night was sent by Russo, if the truce between the Mafia don and Braiden is over and now we’re back at war.
Swallowing hard to drown out the long-remembered scent of Russo’s Acqua di Parma cologne, I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.” He presses a little harder into the bruise.
“No. It really doesn’t,” I say.
“You’re the girl on her knees. You don’t get to decide what matters and what doesn’t.”
If I say what Madden’s done, Braiden will leave me here and chase after his brother.
And I don’t want to be left alone.
So I press my lips together, and I shake my head—one tense, tight toss.
Braiden strikes like a mamba. His fingers dig into my armpits, hauling me to my feet and shoving me toward the bed. I stumble a bit, which only seems to stoke his rage.
He folds me over the edge of the mattress, pressing my face into the dark green duvet. My feet are still on the floor, spread for balance. He kicks at my ankles, forcing them wider. He pushes against my ass, and I feel the swell of his erection through his pants as he leans over to whisper in my ear. “Tell me what Madden did, piscín . Or I promise you’ll be punished.”
Punished . The word sparks through my blood like a fever. He could offer me a million dollars now, say he’ll buy me a house, suggest a vacation to all the capitals of Europe, and I wouldn’t say a word. There’s something I want more than all that. Something I need.
He shoves off my spine, and for a devastated heartbeat, I think I’ve lost this round. But then I hear his belt slither free from his pants .
“You know the rules,” he says. “Say red, and we’re done.” My knees melt, even as I shake my head. I’m never saying red.
He backs off enough to grab the hem of my skirt, yanking the fabric over my ass. The backs of my thighs tingle at the touch of cool air.
“Oh, piscín ,” he says. “And here I thought you were a clever girl.” He plucks at the top of my panties, letting the elastic snap back. I catch my breath, surprised by the sharp sting, which must be why he does it again.
“I’m a simple man,” he lies. “With simple rules. And you should know by now that knickers aren’t allowed. Not with a skirt. You sat at my table for an entire meal, disrespecting me. And now you have to pay.”
He stalks over to the nightstand and yanks open the drawer. It only takes him a moment to find the shears he keeps there, the ones meant to slice through rope in an emergency.
The steel is so cold against my hip that my leg starts to spasm. He plants a hand on the base of my spine, calming me, stilling me, and then he makes a single, devastating slice. I hear each fiber of my panties shred, first on the right side, then on the left.
My thighs tremble as his fingers close over the ruined satin. He pulls the cloth at an angle, sawing against my throbbing clit, through the needy folds of my pussy, against the crack of my tightening ass. The pressure is nearly enough to break me, and then it’s gone too soon.
“Such a naughty girl,” he says.
Everything about this is wrong. I should leave this room and go to the pool house, just like I did this morning. I should have more self-respect.
But my body’s demands are louder than my brain’s. I need to trigger him. I need to earn my release. So I fight back with words I know will earn me discipline. “I’m not a girl.”
He laughs. “You’re my girl,” he says. And before I can protest further he shoves the soaked scrap of satin against my face. I twist my head, trying to get away, but he easily overpowers me. My nose is filled with the scent of me, the salty, briny, slick he raised in me. I open my mouth to protest, and he pushes the cloth past my lips, driving it in with his fingers until I have to suck on my own juices.
I’m still working my jaw, trying to spit out the gag, when he lands his first blow. He uses the tongue of his belt, a full hand-length of leather. The end bites deep, and I feel the double slash from the sides, parallel stripes on my already overheated ass.
“Count,” he says.
“One,” I grunt. The word is muffled by satin, but it’s clear enough for him to know I’m counting. I’m not saying red. I’m not telling him to stop.
The belt lands again, lower this time. Twin lines of fire sizzle toward my clit.
“Two.” I know the word I’m saying. I know the sound he wants.
A third blow, across the tops of my thighs.
I hold off on the number because that’s not what I want. If he’s going to spank me, I want his attention on my ass.
“Count,” he says again, his voice deadly still.
I stay silent.
“Say it, lass, or I leave the room right now.”
He’ll do it, too. I have no doubt. Braiden Kelly is a master of control. Even if it means going without his own satisfaction, he’ll leave me sprawled here, desperate and alone, just to teach me a lesson.
“Three,” I say, the word almost lost in drenched cloth.
I don’t know why I want this. Why I need this. Why Braiden’s violence is the only thing that makes me truly whole. All I know is this is what I truly desire. This is right. This is me .
The fourth blow lands higher than the first. The fifth stripes my right ass-cheek. The sixth hits my left .
My eyes are closed. My jaw is stretched. I’m wound tight, waiting, waiting, waiting, knowing the next touch will send me over the edge.
I barely hear the rasp of his zipper. The belt trails between my shoulder blades and down my spine, over the arch of my hot, bruised ass. He pulls it away as he shifts his weight, leaning back from my body.
And when the belt falls this time, it’s the hardest blow yet, cutting deepest, slashing across all the other lines. My muscles clench. My nerves scream. My clit goes incandescent and there’s a word I’m supposed to say, a number I’m supposed to know, but I’ve forgotten how to count, forgotten how to speak, and all I can do is spin tighter and tighter and tighter.
Just as I fall off the edge of darkness into blinding light, Braiden presses into me. His cock fills me, completes me, merges into my spiraling spine. I’m seizing, sobbing, desperate for more as his fingers clutch my hips. His thumbs dig into the searing lines he’s carved into my flesh.
I drown in my orgasm, losing myself, losing him, and just when I think I must spin back to earth, he thrusts even harder, and I crest a brand new peak.
This time, I feel his cock in my belly, in my lungs, in my brain. He plows the deepest, darkest parts of me, pushing hard, moving fast, and when he comes—swearing Irish oaths I’ll never understand—I fold around him a third time, each ripple, every roll carrying me farther than the one before.
I black out, or maybe I really am transformed into something more than human.
When I come back to my senses, we’re both on the bed. Braiden leans against the headboard. He’s cradling me, my back against his chest, his arms tight around me. My soaked satin panties are nowhere in sight.
“ Mo chailín maith ,” he says.
His lips are lost in my hair, and he tells me I’m safe, and I don’t know why I was in danger, and he tells me he’s sorry, and I don’t know what he’s done. His thumb is soft on my cheek, and I realize he’s wiping away tears I didn’t know I shed.
I can’t tell how much time passes before he pulls a blanket up to my shoulders. He reaches to the nightstand and helps me with a glass of water. As I sip, he reaches into his nightstand drawer, coming up with arnica gel that smells like rosemary and sage.
He smooths it into my throbbing skin, the heat of his hand a second type of salve. He whispers as he tends to me, telling me I’m gorgeous, telling me I’m his.
When he’s finished with all the stripes he gave me, his hand moves to my throat. He slips past my collar, past the platinum that has heated to match my blood. He finds the bruise on my pulse point, the place where Madden pressed his gun, and he soothes that too.
I sleep for a while, but I don’t remember any dreams. When I wake, he’s sitting beside me, propped against the headboard, his hand splayed over my hip.
I reach for my throat, slipping a finger beneath the emerald nestled there.
“Go back to sleep,” he says.
But I shake my head. I tug at the collar, feeling the lock at the nape of my neck.
He sighs and finds the key. When the hasp springs loose I snag a deep breath.
“Sleep, piscín ,” Braiden says, setting the collar on the nightstand.
But I don’t sleep. I stand. I take a step in my bare feet. Another. I find the shoes I don’t remember shedding. I smooth my hands down my rumpled skirt.
Braiden could stop me. He could drag me back to bed. Tie me up if I fight him. Break my body and my spirit with another shattering orgasm .
But he doesn’t do any of that.
He lets me go.
So I unlock the door. I make my way through the darkened house to the mudroom. I cross the garden. And I enter the lonely pool house I now call home.