Page 33 of Irish Reign

“Not ones that make you feel like you’re in control.”

“You’re not dressed for a construction site.”

She looks down at her pink-on-pink clothes. “Whoops,” she says again.

When she kisses me, she tastes like honey and sweet cream and the coffee I poured for her this morning, when I pretended Aiofe’s school uniform wasn’t breaking my heart.

Lips still pressed to mine, Samantha leans into me. She tangles her fingers in my hair and walks me back to the unfinished wall. “You should wear jeans more often,” she says against my mouth.

“You should wear boots.” I close my hands on her hips, pulling her against my hard-on.

She laughs and reaches for my belt buckle.

I shift my fingers to her wrists. “You’re playing with fire,piscín.”

“Hush,” she says. With my buckle undone, she twists the button loose on my jeans.

“I’m your Dom.”

“And I’m your sub. I’ll always be your sub. But let me do this for you now. Let me help you. Just this once.”

She has my zipper down, and she’s reached inside my boxers. Her fingers are soft and hard, cool and hot, and she knows exactly how to use them. I drop my head back against the wall and she squeezes my cock, easing it over the elastic band.

“Sweet Jesus,” I breathe. “The men will be back any minute.”

“Then I guess we’d better hurry,” she says. Still holding my cock with one hand, she raises her skirt with the other. I get one quick glimpse of her bare hip—she isn’t wearing panties—and then she’s guiding me into her ready cunt.

My hands grip her arse, but that’s not enough. I spin us around so her back is against the Drywall. The hard hat topples to the floor, clattering on the concrete. She splays her knees, giving me a deeper angle, and I plunge into her like I’m trying to knock her through the wall.

She grunts, and I think I’ve hurt her, but then she groans, “More.”

I give her more. I give her six sharp thrusts, each one forcing air from her lungs. My bollocks rise, and the base of my spine burns, and I know I should slow down, should reach between us and find her clit, should give her a chance, a prayer to catch up, but she tilts her hips and flexes her thighs and I drive home one last time before I explode.

Her hand finds the back of my neck and her lips seal my mouth and she’s hotter and wetter than my dreams. Each pulse of my cock devastates the heat inside her.

She waits until I’m empty before she pulls her lips from mine. I’m still breathing like an overworked compressor when she slipsaway from the wall. Twitching her skirt back into place, she kneels and retrieves the hard hat from the floor.

As she settles the hat onto my sweaty hair, I try to catch her wrist. “Wait,” I say. “You didn’t?—”

Come, I’m going to say.

But she smiles like a saint and says, “The men will be back any minute.”

“Fuck the men.”

“You don’t really want me doing that.”

“Samantha…” Her name is part-warning, part-prayer, part-apology.

She tucks me back into my pants with an efficiency that should be embarrassing. Zipper up, button done, belt buckled, she brushes one more kiss across my lips. “I’ll see you back at the house,” she says. “Don’t be too long. Aiofe should be home by now, and Fairfax promised to make all her favorites for dinner.”

I check my phone after Samantha disappears up the stairs. The tracker in the backpack has safely returned to the new house in Ardmore.

14

SAMANTHA

When I get home from the construction site, I get past the paparazzi in record time. Maybe that means they’re getting tired of my story. Life might return to normal sometime soon.

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