29. Cora
Cora
I was an idiot to beg on my knees like that. That’s not how you gain respect from a man like Brady O’Sullivan.
When we get back to the penthouse in the small hours of the morning, I have a choice to make.
Go back to my own room, which would look like retreat.
Or sleep in Brady’s room like his true partner.
He didn’t agree to treat me like his equal, but I didn’t expect him to, not right away.
Hardheaded mafia man that he is, he’s not going to instantly share power with anyone, especially not a woman.
I just needed to plant the idea.
I decide to bide my time, to let Brady muse about what it might be like to have me at his side.
I bid him a succinct goodnight, then return to my room.
After I’ve changed into pajamas and brushed my teeth, I sit on the edge of my bed, watching the closed door.
Even though the mattress is expensively plush, my pussy is too sore to sit like this for long.
The way Brady works my body is so exquisitely, painfully pleasurable.
No man has ever given me anything close to that before.
Between all the grueling schoolwork and late-night serving shifts to make ends meet, I didn’t have time for real dating until after we opened the clinic.
I satisfied my needs with the occasional one-night stand, which were easy enough to keep discreet.
But as always, the connection was lacking for Samantha Greene.
I’m not sure I can call what Brady and I have a connection, not in the gooey traditional sense. But it’s become something more than just a shared penthouse and a signed piece of paper. I didn’t want this marriage, but it’s obvious I can use it to my advantage. If only Brady will let me in.
I stare at the closed door, shifting uncomfortably.
When no knock comes for several minutes, I realize how pathetic I’m being.
I flick off the lights and climb beneath the luxurious sheets.
Even after a few nights in this bed, my overstuffed down pillow is too new to be comfortable. I punch it, then punch it again.
Telling Brady I wanted to be his partner was foolish.
I punch the pillow harder. By letting him know my deepest desires, I’ve made myself vulnerable.
To him. If the idea I’ve planted doesn’t take root, I’m worse off than I started.
I punch the pillow as hard as I can, then flop down onto it. I have to be smarter than this.
I am smarter than this.
* * *
A few mornings after Brady gives me the switchblade, I wake up with a fun idea.
I take my new knife to the devastating red dress he tricked me into wearing.
I cut off the long skirt so it ends mid-thigh, pleased with how sharp the switchblade is.
When I pair the shortened halter dress with my tallest heels, I look quite fuckable.
Brady knows the weakness that is my desires, but I know some of his too.
My stilettos click across the marble floor as I make my way to the kitchen. Even though I’ve announced my approach, Brady doesn’t turn around from the dishwasher.
My eyes go wide at the sight. Not only is he wearing solely black sweatpants that sit low on his hips, he’s emptying the dishwasher. My billionaire husband with an army of housekeepers is unloading the dishwasher.
“Don’t you have people for that?” I ask. He turns around and gives my altered dress a once-over, frowning slightly.
“I did once,” he says, returning to his task. “A cleaning lady a couple years back.”
“Not up to your standards?”
“Given that my standards involve not selling my life’s details to my enemies, yes. You could say that.”
“And you’ve never trusted another cleaning lady again?” I ask, and he looks over his shoulder at me.
“I’ve never trusted anyone again.”
“Sounds lonely.” I should know.
“It’s part of the life.” Brady puts away the final mug and closes the dishwasher. “Besides, I have my family. They’re all the company I need, and I trust them completely.” He turns to fully face me, and my unasked question hangs in the sleek kitchen between us.
Will I ever count as your family?
I know I shouldn’t care. I don’t want to care. But as of that night in the pub’s back room, I’ve proven to both of us that I do. It’s only for the power, I remind myself. That’s all that concerns me about wanting to be his partner.
“Going somewhere?” He gives my outfit a slower look up and down this time.
“No,” I say, blasé. “This is my new nightgown.”
“And the shoes?”
“The floor’s cold.” I add a shrug, but the balls of my feet are already hurting.
“It’s Carrara,” he says. “It’s supposed to be cold.”
“Is that supposed to impress me?” I cross my arms, pushing up my breasts.
Brady purses his lips as he tries to think of a retort. He’s saved by a faint ping from his watch, and after a few taps, he raises it to his mouth.
“Send him up,” he says, then ends the call. To me, he adds, “You stay here.”
He wants me out of sight of the elevator.
I haven’t had my coffee yet, so I’m not as fast as I should be to conceal my emotions.
Brady’s excluding me, and I don’t like it.
I’ve given him space the past couple days to consider the idea I planted.
Obviously, it hasn’t sprouted yet. My indignation must show, because he strides across the kitchen to grip me lightly by the throat.
“Stay. Here.” He gives my neck a cautioning squeeze, then disappears around the corner.
Rather than follow him, I slip out of my heels to pad silently across the kitchen floor.
As the elevator dings, I grab a chef’s knife from its magnetic strip, then return to the edge of the wall.
Using the wide blade as a mirror, I watch Brady approach the elevator.
The doors slide open, but Brady’s shirtless back is so broad that I can’t see the person inside.
Brady thanks whoever it is, then the doors close, and Brady turns around with something large and black in his hands.
I whip the knife out of sight, but too late.
“I saw that,” he calls, a reprimand in his tone.
I curse under my breath as he approaches the kitchen. Stepping back into my shoes, I decide to keep the knife in my hand, and I toy with it as if I just like playing with knives. In a way, I do.
He sets the black tote bag on the counter. It has a shiny black decal of one of his restaurants’ logo, and the subtlety and darkness of the black-on-black is very Brady. I twirl the hilt of the large knife between my fingers as I watch him unload takeout containers.
“Go sit at the table,” he tells me.
The man loves ordering me around. But I take no issue with this particular command, and so I make my way to the breakfast table, tossing the knife in the air as I go. Teaching myself how to flair bartend by flipping bottles and spinning knives was worth it for the extra tips.
Now it’s worth it just to show off in front of Brady.
When I’m seated, he places a large square plate in front of me. On it rests an Icelandic yogurt, a handful of strawberries, and a bowl of parsnip mash topped with a crisscross of bacon. He must’ve noticed how much I enjoyed the mash at the family dinner.
Brady takes the seat across from me, his own breakfast a quinoa bowl with a soft-boiled egg.
The breakfast bacon pairs well with the parsnip mash, but the strawberries seem like an odd fruit choice, given the level of detail he’s been paying attention to my preferences.
It’s part of his hyper-organization, absorbing every piece of knowledge he can and storing it for later.
“Not grapes?” I ask, which is what I’d selected for myself from our room service breakfast.
“I wanted to watch you eat a strawberry,” he says, completely without shame.
I cock my head at him, and he cocks his head to mirror me, being as condescending as possible.
Alright, I think, let’s play. With my oversized knife, I pierce a strawberry near its stem, then lift the fruit to my lips.
Closing my eyes, I suck on the tip and moan loudly.
Across the table, I hear Brady take a deep breath, like he’s trying to steady himself.
I flutter my eyes open to watch him watching me.
He looks ravenous, ready to sweep everything off the table again. As I take my time with the glistening red fruit, he leans back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. When I’ve finished my first strawberry, I flick my wrist so the green cap flies from my knife to the tip of my plate.
“Impressive,” he says, and I fight against grinning with pride.
“Was that a compliment?”
“Merely an observation.”
“And observation’s merely part of who you are,” I say. When Brady quirks an eyebrow at me, I elaborate. “Observation, calculation, preparation. You’re meticulous. You’re not the type to shoot first and ask questions later.”
“I can be. When it’s necessary.”
“When’s the last time it was necessary?” I spear another strawberry onto my knife, hoping to appear casual. Let me in, I want to say. I want to know every side of him, especially the dark ones.
“When’s the last time I shot a man?” he asks.
“When’s the last time you shot a man without thinking it through?”
“Never. I don’t kill on impulse.”
“Do you do anything on impulse?”
Instead of answering, Brady surges out of his chair and strides around the table toward me. I have just enough time to drop the knife before he seizes me and throws me over his shoulder like a fireman. My shoes clatter to the floor, and Brady kicks them out of his way without breaking stride.
The sheer level of his control over me makes me shiver with the anticipation of what he’ll do.
I’m bent helplessly over his shoulder, his bare torso warm beneath me, his muscular shoulder pressing into my belly.
As he carries me into his bedroom, he slides his free hand up my dress and tears off my panties.
Then he throws me forcefully onto his bed.
I wince at the impact, more out of surprise than anything, but Brady’s smoldering eyes go wide.
“Shit,” he says. “Your bruise.”
“I’m fine. Throw me down again and I’ll prove it to you,” I say, but it’s not the right kind of challenge for him. So I add, “For a big tough guy, your bed is astoundingly soft.”
He growls deep in his throat as I smirk up at him. He knows my buttons, and I know his.