Page 16 of Irish Reign

Which means I can tug her panties over her hips. I can work the clasps on her bra with one hand, freeing her tits to dangle beside my knee. I can rub my palm over the warm, smooth skin of her arse, and then I can order, “Count.”

When I start, I’m not certain how many times I’ll spank her. But the first imprint of my hand flushes red, sending such a rush of blood to my cock that I have to catch my breath.

She’s so beautiful, spread across my lap. Her pale skin looks like milk against my charcoal trousers. The mark of my hand stands out like spilled wine.

I nearly lost this sight forever. One more minute in the fire, five, ten… I don’t know how long I had before the damage to my corneas would have become permanent.

My hand is dark against her flesh. Rough. And when I spank her again, she moans like she’s already on the verge of coming.

The scent of her blooms beneath my hand—a whiff of soap and shampoo from her morning shower, the punch of sweat as her body braces for another blow, and the sweet, salty tang of her cunt heating beneath me.

“Tell me you want this,piscín.”

She’s proud, though. Even after all these months, she still thinks it’s wrong to test her body’s strength. She bites her lip and closes her eyes, ignoring my command.

Of course she pays for her silence. Again. And again. A dozen times more.

“Tell me,piscín.Say it. Say the words out loud.”

“Yes!” she finally shouts. “Goddammit, yes! You win. You always win. I want you to spank me.”

But she wins too. Because I roll her onto the bed. I ignore her hiss as her well-tanned arse rubs against the comforter. I kneel in front of her, and I spread her legs, and I bury my face in her soaking snatch, fucking her with my tongue until she howls.

After I make her come, I bite the inside of her thigh, sucking hard so she’ll have my mark for days. She grabs my hair as I eat her out a second time, and she pulls hard enough to make my eyes water. I don’t stop until she breaks again, chanting my name like a prayer, squeezing my head between her trembling thighs.

I ease her knees off my shoulders and sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. When I think she can hear me, I ask, “Where’s your collar,piscín?”

I know she wore it from the fire. She needed the key from my pocket to set her free.

“I— It’s in the safe.”

I go to the closet. “What’s the combination?”

She shakes her head, as if she doesn’t understand the question. But she says, “Zero, one, one, zero.”

Beneath her lawyer grit, mypiscínis sentimental. That’s the date we stood in front of the altar at St. Columba’s.

I collect the collar from the safe and fasten it around her neck as she sits on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t…” she says. “But why…” And then she’s focused enough to say, “You already spanked me.”

“And now I’m going to do something more.”

“I don’t know how much more I can handle.”

“How much more I can handle,sir,” I prompt her.

The reminder makes her open her mouth to protest. But I plant a finger on the emerald, pressing it into her throat. She swallows hard and says, “Sir.”

I stare at her for just long enough to make her squirm. And then I say, “Make me a drink.”

“What?”

I wrap her hair around my fist. “Make me a drink,piscín.And don’t make me repeat any more orders.”

“Wh— What do you want to drink?” And then she remembers. “Sir?”

“Jameson. Neat.”

---