Chapter 43
43
brAIDEN
A s I turn the lock on our bedroom door, my arm stings like I’ve dipped it in petrol. I push aside the torn fabric of my sleeve to see a long groove carved through the heart of my childhood scar. When I flex my arm, I swear, but it’s nothing serious, nothing I need to call Doc Kelleher for.
Still, I look like I’ve been through the wars, and a fair-minded woman would wonder if I won or lost. I pull my shirt over my head and use it to staunch the wound once again.
“This is a holy show, isn’t it?” I say, because Samantha’s eyes are a little too wide.
She manages to ask, “Does it hurt?”
I lie and shake my head. “I’ve had worse.”
“Let me see. Do you need stitches?”
I don’t let her look. “I’m taking a shower.”
I don’t know how long I stand under the water. I scrub blood off my hands, my arm, my face. I wash my hair and I soap every inch of my body, taking a long time to rinse clean.
And finally, when there’s no trace left of the murderous gobshite who nearly won, I towel dry and knot the cloth tight around my hips. I find a roll of gauze in one of the drawers and wind it around my arm. The slash isn’t bleeding much anymore, just weeping a little. It throbs as I tuck in the tail of the bandage.
I open the door quietly, because I’ve been a long while. It’s well after midnight, and by all rights Samantha should be sleeping right now.
Samantha isn’t sleeping.
She’s pulled back the covers on the bed and pushed the duvet onto the floor. She’s found the rope I keep wound in my dresser drawer, the soft black cotton. She’s tied her feet to the footboard, spread-eagle, with decent knots. She’s got her arms flung wide above her head, one wrist fastened tight. Her other hand holds a loop of rope—a temptation, a promise.
Her collar glints around her neck, the emerald nestled against her throat.
“Sweet Christ,” I breathe, dropping my towel to the floor.
Her ribs rise and fall, faster as I walk around the bed. Her toes curl against their bonds, as if they’re too shy to take my hungry gaze.
Her cunt is waiting for me, slick and bare, the color of a secret flower.
“I got a second wind,” she says.
“I can see that.”
“I couldn’t fasten my left hand. Will you do it for me?” She pauses for a moment, and then she adds, “Sir?”
That single syllable goes straight to my cock.
Of course, she’s flirting with topping from the bottom again. I should tell her this isn’t right. She doesn’t get to decide when I tie her up.
But she’s too damn beautiful for me to let alone. Too damn brave, ending our conversation from the car like this, switching to a new language both our bodies crave.
I stalk around the bed and pull hard on the last loop, cinching a knot to bind her tight. Her gasp turns into a moan as I trace the line from her wrist to her elbow to the soft, vulnerable curve of her armpit. “You remember the rules? Say red and I’ll stop.”
“I remember,” she whispers, like it’s a new-learned prayer. And then she adds, “Sir.”
I turn to the dresser where she found the rope. When I slide open the drawer, I see she’s rearranged my toys. She’s moved the riding crop to the front, along with a bamboo cane.
My wicked little piscín . Still refusing to follow the rules.
I pluck the blindfold from the back of the drawer and stalk to the bed.
“What—” she starts to ask, but I pull it over her head before she can finish the question. “I can’t—” she protests, and then she must remember, because she licks her lips and lowers her chin.
Back at the drawer, I select the flogger. It’s softer than the tools she asked for. But the dozen leather strands are cut at an angle, sharp enough to sting if I want them to.
And I do. I want them to.
I move to the side of the bed, grinning as her head twitches, as she tries to measure where I am, what I’m about to do. I dangle the strands above her belly, barely making contact. She gasps, and then every muscle in her body stills, as if she’s concentrating, trying to learn new words.
I flirt with her nipples, teasing them from soft buds to tight, flushed stones. I dangle the strands above her lips, watching her mouth open like she’s thirsting in a desert.
I trace her left leg, barely touching her damp skin, ankle to knee to the tightening crease of her thigh. I trace the right, moving even slower, keeping the touch even lighter.
She’s whining now, a trilling, purring sound, so far back in her throat she may not know she’s making it. I tease her belly, and her pitch moves higher. I hover over her clit, barely moving, and she arches toward me, shifting as much as her bound legs allow.
“No, piscín ,” I chide.
She pouts prettily, but she lowers her hips. She grips her bonds tighter. She waits.
And I start all over again—her tits, her thighs, the soles of her feet, her lips, her belly… I end by dangling the strands above her clit once more.
She tries to mind the rules. She bites her lip. She points her toes.
And I flick my wrist, bringing the strands down hard across her greedy cunt.
She shrieks—a shocked sound, an indignant cry. Her knees fight to draw together, but she’s tied herself too well. Her arms jackknife in their bonds, trying to pull her to safety.
I wait for her to say it— red .
Her throat works. She darts her tongue past her lips. I’ll stop if she tells me to. That’s the only way this works.
But then she whispers, “Thank you…sir.”
Mo chailín maith.
“Count, piscín . Count out loud.”
I strike her pretty cunt again.
“One,” she says.
Two is a flick straight to her clit. Three is her left thigh. Four is her right.
Her voice is getting tighter, closer to release. This is the woman who keeps her personal life locked down, bound by more rules than I’ve ever dreamed of giving her. This is the woman who values control over all else. This is the woman who has tortured herself for eleven long years, denying herself anything soft, anything beautiful, all because she believes she’s damned.
“Tell me you want it,” I order, trailing the strands across her straining tits.
“Please,” she whispers.
“Make me believe you.”
“Sir…”
“Beg, piscín .”
She’s proud. She’s stubborn. I’ve offered her a bridge, but she has to be brave enough to take the first step. She has to shed her inhibitions, has to step out into the void, confident that I’ll meet her, that I’ll always be there.
I hold my breath, praying she can make the leap. I raise my hand, ready to give her what she truly thirsts for. But I’m just as prepared to strip loose the knots around her ankles, to free her wrists. I’ll finish the game on my terms—withholding the release she craves—if she won’t do as I command.
That’s why she wears my collar.
She groans first. But then she pleads: “Please. I need you, sir. I’ll do anything for you. Please. I need this. One more time, sir, just like the first time. Please, sir, please. Please, please, please…”
I land the blow with absolute precision. Every muscle in her body clenches. Her mouth stretches in an endless perfect O. I drag the leather over her wet, trembling folds, slowly, carefully, and then I strike one last time.
She soars. She shouts something that might be thanks, that might be praise, that might be the spirit rushing through her body. She strains against the rope, all four limbs fighting to meet, to close around the perfect space between her thighs.
My cock demands to be there, part of her joy, lost in her power. I keep shears in the nightstand, sharp-edged blades meant for an emergency. And I can’t imagine any greater need than this.
All it takes are four sharp slashes—left foot, right, right wrist, left. Then I’m kneeling between her legs, putting the head of my cock against her pulsing lips. I spread my fingers across her belly in a flash of warning before I slide into the heat, into the wet, into the heart of this magnificent woman.
She strains for a moment, fighting to take all of me, but then she moans, “I’m coming again.”
She clenches around me, gripping as I move. I pull back almost to the gate, wild with the feel of her pulsing around me. Before I can slip free, I plunge forward again, harder than I mean to, fiercer.
“God, yes!” she shouts, and I ride her hard, no longer afraid of hurting her. I want to wait, I want to last, I want to keep doing this forever. But she’s quivering around me, pulsing hard, and I can’t help but explode deep inside her.
I taste stars. I see the music at the heart of the universe. I hear all the colors of the sky.
And when I finally come back to earth, finally rise up from the perfect woman beneath me, she’s waiting to kiss me, waiting to join in a new way, a different way, our lips and tongues and breath merging as I slip the blindfold from her eyes.
A lifetime later, I finally stagger from the bed. I get us both some water. I wait for her to drink, and then I slip my fingers beneath the curtain of her hair. I work the clasp on her collar and set the emerald aside.
Once I’ve rescued the duvet from the floor, we huddle beneath its feathered warmth. I pull Samantha close with my left arm, spreading my right hand above the bone of her hip.
I trace a finger along her arm. “Did I hurt you?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says. But before I can grimace, she adds, “As much as I needed. Not more than I could take.”
“Mo chailín maith ,” I whisper against her hair.
She burrows in closer to my side. “Will you tell me what that means?”
I’ll tell her anything. She’s the woman I love. She’s strong and she’s brave and she’s smarter than I’ll ever be. When she was caught in the worst tangle of her life, she figured out how to break free, how to leave behind the childhood that left her scarred. I can’t believe I was foolish enough to ever let her leave me. I know I’ll never let her go again.
She traces my hand with her fingertip? “Braiden? What does it mean?”
“My good girl,” I say.
I wait for her to pull away. But she smiles as she lets my good arm take her weight. “I’ll be your girl. You’re the only one who can call me that.”
“Mo chailín maith ,” I say again, nuzzling her neck. “Mo chailín maith .”
She falls asleep before I can speak my magic spell a third time.