Page 17 of Irish Reign

She has to go into the living room. To be in full view of the door. For just a moment, I think I’ve found her limit. I think she’ll stop me—red.

But she nods. She stands. And she crosses to the well-stocked bar and pours me a generous whiskey. Four fingers. Neat.

I sip before I sit on the couch, knees spread wide. I want her skin against mine. I want to pull her onto my lap, to feel her wet heat against my thigh.

But more than that, I want to test her. I want her to follow the rules. And in this place, in this room, it will be infinitely harder for her to do that if I keep on all my clothes.

I snap and point to the carpet between my feet. “On your knees,piscín.”

I don’t know when I learned to read Samantha Kelly like a book. I don’t need to see her scowl to know she hates the symbolism of what I’ve just commanded. And I don’t need to hear her quickened breath to know she wants to do it.

She kneels.

I lean back on the couch and spread my arms wide. I nod toward the tent in my trousers, the hard-on she’s delivered. “Suck my cock.”

Her eyes narrow. She’s done it before, taking as much pleasure as she gave. But I’ve never pushed our roles so far, never forced the visual that I’m her Dom and she is very much my sub.

“Don’t make me ask again,piscín.”

“You didn’t ask,” she mutters. But just before I grab her chin, she ducks her head and whispers, “Sir.”

Her fingers shake—maybe with anger, maybe with excitement. She works my belt buckle, leaving the ends loose beside my fly. She turns the button. She slides the zipper and eases my cock free. And when her lips close over me, I groan like I’m breaking in two.

I’ve set a dangerous game for both of us. I’m closer to the edge than I imagined. The third time I hit the back of her throat, I clutch my glass of whiskey so tight, I expect it to shatter, but I find the will to order, “Stop!”

She freezes with her tongue still pressed against my bollocks. Gritting my teeth, I pull free, and for one dark second, I think I let her go too far. But I take deep breaths, and I tighten every muscle in my abs, and I hold onto the Jameson like it’s the last flask in a desert.

When I’m back under control, I say, “Stand.”

“I don’t un— Did I do something wrong?”

I push myself to my feet, which means she has to stand, or be edged into the coffee table. I hitch my pants up to my hips and close my fingers over her biceps, purposely gripping hard.

“Let’s go,” I say.

And I walk her to the corner of the room. To the pair of windows that meet in a single line of glass, rising from knee to ceiling. To the view of Philadelphia, spread out beneath us, the nearest building blocks away.

“Hands on the windows,” I order.

She’s covering herself, right arm across her tits, left fingers fanned across her crotch. The door behind us is no longer her greatest fear. She’s forgotten about maids and turn-down service and wayward Fishtown Boys. I’m telling her to show herself to the entire city.

“Piscín,” I prompt, my voice a dangerous rumble.

She takes a step forward. I can see her body reflected in the glass, her face torn between shame and desire. This is what I would have lost, if my eyes had never healed. This is what I would have dreamed about forever.

She braces herself with a full breath. She closes her eyes.

She can stop me. She controls this.

She takes another step and plants her hands on the glass.

I move behind her, pressing my cock between her legs until she shifts to let me in.

Her cunt is soaked, exposing the lie that she doesn’t want to be here. I penetrate her slowly, feeling the flutter as she melts around me. I spread one hand across her taut belly, holding her tight.

“Look at us,” I tell her. When she resists, I pull her closer, forcing her to straighten her arms. “Open your eyes,piscín. See what you’re doing. What you’re letting me do.”

She does it. She opens her eyes. She stares at our image in the glass, our reflection bright from all the lights behind us, her naked body framed by my clothed one.

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