Chapter 46
46
SAMANTHA
I ’m a little surprised he listens to me.
But Braiden stalks to the bedroom. I keep my distance as he ransacks his dresser, coming up with a clean black T-shirt. I watch him tug it over his head, and then I follow him downstairs as he heads out to manage his empire.
I told him I’d eat. So I go to the kitchen and make myself a plate—cold roast chicken and thick slices of cheddar cheese and a pair of tiny clementines. Rinsing the dish when I’m done, I discover it’s grown quiet outside. Both trucks are gone, along with all the firefighters.
I wonder what Braiden is telling his men. Whether he’s directing them to search for Madden elsewhere in Philadelphia. How long he’ll draw out the charade.
Glancing at my watch, I see that it’s well past midnight. I should be exhausted, especially after my frantic drive from Dover. But I’m not tired at all. Instead, I feel like I’ve drunk a vat of dark roast coffee. Like a million fireflies flutter inside my veins. Like I’m waiting for a starting pistol before a hundred-meter sprint.
I wipe my palms against my wool-covered thighs. I’m still dressed for the office, even though my work day ended hours ago. I should be wearing a skirt. I should be dressed in flowers.
My belly twists in a long, slow somersault.
I don’t want to change. I don’t want to follow the rules. But I’m willing to wait in the bedroom.
It’s another hour before Braiden returns. I hear him long before I see him. He locks the front door. He climbs the stairs. He makes his way down the endless hallway.
And he freezes in the doorway, when he finds me sitting on the edge of the bed. His hair stands on end; he’s been running his fingers through it again. Tight lines bracket his lips, frowning remnants of all the lies he’s told about Madden.
I don’t realize I’ve stood until his arms close around me. He grips me like a drowning man. I feel his heartbeat through his tight black T-shirt.
“Samantha,” he breathes against my hair, melting something deep inside me.
This is what I needed, the past week in Dover. The steadiness of his body holding mine. The strength of his certainty.
His fingers tangle in my hair. He brushes his lips against the net of scars at my temple. His soft caress sends a shiver down my spine, and he tightens his arms around me. I barely hear him when he whispers, “You’ve broken the rules, piscín .”
This is what I wanted. This is why I came upstairs. So I sink to my knees before him. I bow my head, like I’m waiting for a crown. When I look up at him through my lashes, I hear his breath catch in his throat.
“Please, sir,” I say, and the words sound right . They’re what I long for. They’re who I am. “Put me in my collar. Teach me the lesson I deserve.”
The platinum is cold when Braiden takes it from its velvet case. I shudder as he settles it around my neck, a delicious wave rolling from the crown of my head to my toes. He kisses my nape after he fastens the lock, and he makes a show of nestling the key deep in the pocket of his pants. To steady myself, I press the emerald into the hollow of my throat.
He pulls me to my feet and orders, “Out of those feckin’ clothes, piscín. ”
He watches me undress, really studies me. I’m suddenly shy as I slip out of my jacket. I’m awkward as I work the button on my pants, as I slide down the zipper. A smirk curls his lips as I shimmy out of the trousers and step free, right foot first, then left. He’s focused on the plain white cotton of my panties, at the suddenly damp V between my thighs. Embarrassed, I turn away to unbutton my top.
“Not on your fucking life,” he says.
I catch my lower lip between my teeth and work the buttons, one by one. The heat of his gaze unleashes a flock of hummingbirds in my belly. I loosen my bra and drop it to the floor. I step out of my panties. And when I’m standing in front of him, wearing only my shoes, I remember the words he told me the first time we met in the safe room, the morning after our wedding.
You’ll be terrified I’ll hurt you and petrified I won’t, and every time you come again you’ll thank God for the day you became my wife.
He’s never lied. He’s never hidden who he is. He’s never pretended he isn’t capable of doing horrific things.
So when he says, “Forearms on the bed,” I know exactly what he’s offering. I know what I’m accepting. My knees threaten to collapse.
I do what he says. I support myself on my arms, gripping the hunter green comforter with both fists.
The position is absurd. Because I wear heels, my ass is high in the air. My breasts hang above the mattress, weighed down by nipples that have gone rock-hard.
After an approving growl, Braiden moves to the dresser. I know the things he keeps there, the paddles and floggers. There’s a cat o’ nine tails and a riding crop.
And a cane.
I’ve tried to get him to use the cane on me before. Once, I moved it to the front of the drawer, tempting him, inviting him. It’s a wicked toy. It calls to me and it scares me and I want to know that I’m strong enough to take it, even though I fear I’ll break at the very first blow.
As I look over my shoulder, my knees grow weak when I see him take the cane from the drawer. He flexes it between his palms. It bends, but it doesn’t break. That’s what makes it dangerous. That’s what gives it strength.
For Braiden, I’ve flexed every rule I’ve ever had for myself. Don’t let a man control you. Don’t give in. Don’t let yourself be hurt. I’ve bent nearly double. But I haven’t broken. Not yet.
He hasn’t touched me yet, but I’m already wrapped as tight as an iron spring. He traces the backs of my thighs with the end of the cane, writing some secret message that sends me up on tip-toe. He rests the cane across the small of my back, letting it balance on my trembling flesh.
“Say red,” he says. “And I’ll stop.”
I know the rules. I know he gives me a safeword to protect me. And I know I’ll never use it.
But I nod, all the same.
“I need to hear you, piscín . Tell me you understand.”
“I understand. Red, and you’ll stop. Sir.”
I expect him to hesitate for a moment longer, to give me a chance to change my mind. But Braiden Kelly doesn’t pause for anyone.
The sound of the cane slicing the air is like Fairfax’s teakettle shrieking in the kitchen. I barely have time to brace my legs before the blow falls across the widest part of my ass.
I can’t keep myself from yelping. The cane is ice, melted immediately by fire. It bites into my skin, a white-hot laser. For a heartbeat, I think I’ve shattered like glass in the pool house door, but then Braiden’s palm smooths over the line, soothing me, calming me, bringing me back from the edge.
“You’re brave, piscín ,” he says.
My knees sag toward the bed. My nipples brush the dark green comforter. My fingers clutch the fabric, grabbing so hard I hear my knuckles squeak.
He strikes again.
The second blow is lower on my body, closer to my thighs. I feel it all the way to the chambers of my heart—hot-white-ice-fire. But this time I know what to expect. This time I don’t cry out.
But I whimper a little as Braiden caresses me and says, “You’re so strong.”
I don’t feel strong. My ankles are shaking above my high heels. My breasts are crushed against the bed. I fight the urge to bury my face in the mattress, to scream and scream and scream, but I can’t do that, I won’t do that, because I need to prove to both of us that I can take it.
The third blow falls at an angle, crossing the other two.
Constellations spin behind my eyes. Sparks fly from the intersections of the marks, from the raw places where the cane has doubled its bite.
I scream. I have to. I’ve never felt a pain like this. Never felt such a ferocious fire banked inside me.
I’m suspended over a chasm, falling, spinning. I want him to go on. I need to say red .
My mouth is open. My throat is stretched. Want. Need. Want. Need.
“You’re beautiful,” Braiden whispers as he slips one hand between my quivering thighs. One fingertip settles against my clit, and I’m instantly shredded. I transform into a messy, sobbing animal, a desperate creature who pushes back against that finger, who takes it inside, who rides its hooking pressure over an even higher cliff, spinning and warping and falling into wordless, mindless nothingness .
I’ll make you come so hard you’ll think you’ve gone blind . That’s another thing he told me in the safe room. That’s another thing he promised, and now I know he didn’t lie.
I moan when his hand slips free from the vise of my thighs. He bends over me. He brushes his lips against the burning stripes he’s left on my ass.
My arse, Braiden would say, with his Irish lilt.
Braiden would say that, and Madden too. I shouldn’t let the memory of Madden’s dying taunt into this room: He needed his cock to fuck my arse.
I’ve never done anal before. I’ve never given any man the option.
But lying here, marked and bruised and already eager again, I know what I want. What I need.
“Fuck me,” I say to Braiden. “Take my ass.”
He runs his hand over the welts from the cane. He sounds amused when he says, “Already back to topping from below, piscín ?”
I’m not topping. I’m not playing games. I need to know this is something no one can ever steal from me, a threat no man can make again. I have to be certain the first man there is the one I choose, the man I’ve given myself to, heart and body and soul.
I push back from the mattress, just enough to drop to my knees beside the bed. At this level, I can see the bulge in Braiden’s pants, measure how much my orgasm turned him on.
But I don’t reach for his buckle.
He’s my Dom and I’m his sub, no matter how much he lets me break the rules. He taught me a lesson my second day in this house: How to beg.
“Please,” I say. “I’ll never ask for anything again.”
A smile breaks his stern lips. “I don’t believe that for a moment.”
But he gave me my response that first day in the safe room. “I’m girl enough to beg for what I really want,” I tell him. “And you’re man enough to give me what I really need. ”
I don’t know if he remembers the filthy words he burned into my brain that first morning. But he knows I’d never call myself a girl for any man but him.
Still, he’s holding back. He’s weighing whether to deny me for speaking out of turn. I have to convince him. I have to force a ghost into the room, make him see the reason why, same as I do. “Madden said he’d do it. Russo too. Madden can’t anymore. And you’ll never let Russo. You’ll protect me. You’ll keep me safe. That’s why I want you to be the one. I need you… Only you… You have to… Please…”
Sweet God, help me out here. I’ve lost my words just when I need them the most.
“You want me to be the first to fuck your sweet little arse.”
And those are words he said in the safe room too. He does remember. Those are words he promised.
“Yes, please,” I beg. “Sir. Master.”
He strips then, more brutally efficient than I was when he ordered me naked. His cock stands at full mast, for all our talk about topping and power, about who makes the rules and who gets to break them. I watch him stride to his nightstand and yank the drawer open, fishing around for something toward the back.
When he produces a bottle of lube, I see that it’s Fuck Water. That’s the brand I know, the one I chose, the one he learned about the first night he saved me from Russo.
It’s not just lube he’s found in the drawer. He’s holding a pair of handcuffs too.
He rips the comforter from the bed and throws it onto the floor.
“On your back,” he orders. “In the middle.”
He’s the one in charge now. His hands are firm as he closes my right wrist in one metal cuff. He loops the chain around one of the posts in the headboard, then secures my left hand.
“Red,” he growls again, like he hasn’t already reminded me of my power .
I don’t know why he tells me again. I know the rules. He’s made them clear from the very beginning. But I nod, never taking my eyes from his. “Red,” I say. “And you’ll stop.”
My knees are already bent, easing the pressure on my lower back. Kneeling between them, he uses one shoulder to angle them wide, baring me to his feral gaze. He’s already opened the bottle of lube, already covered one of his palms. He strokes himself twice, thoroughly bathing his cock.
My belly tightens at the sight of him, even larger than I remember, and harder too. He’s back to calling me piscín , telling me I’m beautiful, reminding me I’m strong.
Swiping between my legs, he makes me twitch when the back of his wrist finds my swollen clit. But his attention is focused on the rosebud beneath my fluttering pussy lips. Leaning forward, he slips in one drenched thumb.
I buck in surprise, gasping out something that isn’t a word. He grins wickedly and kisses the inside of my knee, pressing down with that unexpected thumb until my mouth stretches into a raw, needy O.
He strikes like lightning then, rocking back on his heels. His hands grip my ankles, bringing them to rest on his shoulders. I barely have time to curl my fingers around the posts of the bed, and then he’s easing into me, guiding his cock where his thumb just played.
He takes his time, giving me a chance to relax around him. He was generous with the lube and clever with his hand, but he’s so much larger than anything I ever imagined going there. I catch my breath, fighting the pressure, bearing down against the pain.
“Easy, piscín ,” he murmurs, turning his head to kiss my ankle. “Breathe, sweet girl. You can do this. Breathe…”
I still feel the stripes from the cane, and maybe that’s a good thing, because they distract me from the pressure of what he’s doing now. I breathe like he tells me to, shallow at first, but deeper when I realize that a long, slow exhale lets him fill me more.
“You’re so tight, piscín . So beautiful. So strong.” His fingers close around one ankle, feeding me determination.
One breath. Another. One breath more. And then I feel the heat of his body pressed against mine.
“ Mo chailín maith ,” he breathes. My good girl . I am his good girl. I’ve taken every inch of him. I’m stretched more than I ever imagined I could be. I’m more full than I ever dreamed.
“Eyes on me, piscín, ” he says, and I didn’t know I’d closed them. But I find his burning ocean gaze, and neither of us blinks as he starts to move.
I’ve never felt anything like this before. He’s strung a harp to play every nerve in my body. He’s gliding between my legs, but I feel him in my chest, in my throat, in my skull.
My arms arc over my head, secured by the cuffs. My belly grows taut, so close, so close, almost there. My toes point. My thighs turn to steel.
I want him to move faster and I want him to slow down and I want this endless spiral of sensation to last through the cold death of the universe.
But it can’t. Nothing stays forever. His own jaw is tight. The cords in his neck stretch like lines on a sailboat. He drops one hand from my ankle, slips a knuckle against my clit, tapping once, twice, three times.
I shatter.
Every nerve he’s kindled bursts into holy flame. The lines from the cane ignite, incinerating every last shred of my reserve. I call on God. I call on Braiden, screaming his name until my throat is raw, and then I whisper it, over and over and over again.
And as the waves of sensation roll inside me, echoing at the backs of my eyes and down my spine again, Braiden loses his own control. He spills inside of me, pulse after pulse, somehow driving deeper when every cell in our bodies is already perfectly matched.
I lose every one of my thoughts. I forget every word I’ve ever known. I’m pure pleasure… I’m pure… I’m…
Legs. I have legs.
Arms. I have arms.
Lungs. I have lungs, and they’re pumping and breathing, bringing me back to life after I don’t know how long.
I hear Braiden, whispering to me in Irish, calling me mo chailín maith , his piscín , other sweet half-swallowed words I’ve never heard before.
I smell sex on the sheets and sweat on my skin and the cedar-and-spice that is Braiden.
I taste ambrosia melting across my tongue, a food of the gods, and it takes me a lifetime to remember that this joy is called chocolate.
I feel Braiden’s fingers on my face, coaxing me to sip from a smooth, cool glass. And then I feel a warm cloth between my legs, gentle, gentle, cleaning me. There’s the soft glow of arnica melting into my stripes, smoothing away the cane’s remembered fire before I’m gathered into the velvet-steel circle of Braiden’s arms.
I open my eyes. Moonlight seeps in around the curtains at the window.
Braiden’s back is against the headboard. He’s cradling me inside the V of his legs, arms around me, my head nestled against his chest.
“Braiden,” I whisper, surprised that I can’t manage anything more.
“Shh,” he says, pulling me a little closer. And then, so low I barely hear him, “Stay here?” he asks. “Don’t go sleep in the pool house? ”
The pool house. I can remember how important it was not to spend the night in Braiden’s bed. How I needed to maintain my own territory.
But that was a lifetime ago. I can’t imagine wanting to sleep anywhere but here.
“I’m staying,” I whisper. “ Is liomsa tú, ” Those are the words inside my wedding band, the ones he used to claim me. I’m staking the same claim. I’m demanding the same rights. Braiden is mine, and I’ll never leave him again.
“ Is liomsa tú, ” he agrees. You are mine.
“I love you,” I tell him. The words are simple and clear. Easy to say because they’re a perfect truth.
“I love you .” Then, “Close your eyes. Rest a while.”
I do what he says. I close my eyes. And because he’s Braiden, because I trust him, because I’m still wearing his collar, I sleep.