Page 63 of Irish Reign

I tilt my head and raise my chin, finding his mouth.

It’s a sweet kiss at first. Chaste. A solemn pledge never to repeat the morning’s fight.

But the energy between us has never been innocent. From the moment we looked at each other in that elevator door at the Delaware Division of Revenue, I’ve been falling, tumbling, spinning out of control. Now I open my lips first, and he’s there, waiting to swipe his tongue deep. I moan because this is what I’ve always wanted—this power, this heat, this searing, overwhelming need.

The glass of whiskey clatters to the floor. Braiden tangles one hand in my hair, pulling my head back, arching my neck as if he’s a vampire ready to drink. His other hand presses my collar against my thigh.

His erection feels like a tree trunk beneath my leg. I shift my weight so I can stroke him through his pants. Before I can slip, he grabs me, clamping my collar against the small of my back.

I cry out as fire ignites my spine.

“What—” he asks, but his fingers are already moving beneath my silk top.

“I can ex—” I start.

“What the hell?” He’s found the bandage, the slick plastic Paolo used to cover my tattoo.

I tug my top down, but I’m not strong enough to defeat his grasp. He yanks up my shirt and twists my body like I’m a ratty scarecrow.

“Samantha?” he asks, the three syllables an entire treatise on disbelief. My collar clatters to the floor, freed from his loose fingers.

“Russo—” I start to answer, but he cuts me off by standing so quickly I have to scramble to keep from sprawling beside the tangle of platinum and emerald.

He grips my arm like he’s going to tear it off my body. “What did you let him do?”

27

BRAIDEN

Mypiscín.

My beautiful girl.

Ruined.

I rip the dressing off, ignoring Samantha’s hiss of pain, and her tattoo sours the whiskey in my belly. That woman’s face in a nest of snakes… Those three legs, bent like they’ve been cut off crazy circus girls…

Of course I’ve seen the mark before. All Russo’s men wear the monster.

But my Samantha…

I drop her arm and stagger back, putting the chair between us. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasthinkingI need Russo to trust me if we’re going to put him away.” She tugs her top back into place, yanking hard to emphasize her words. The fabric must be rough against her sensitive skin, because she winces.

I say with deadly calm, “If you want that shitehawk to trust you, then flatter him. Use your words. Not your fucking body.”

“Sometimes words only go so far. Sometimes people need symbols.” She bends at the knees, graceful as a swooping hawk, and she retrieves her collar from the ground. Holding it out to me, she adds a single syllable, pointed and heavy: “Sir.”

I swipe at the necklace, sending it back to the floor. It lands in the pool of whiskey that spilled from my glass. “Fuck symbols.”

“Braiden,” she says, her voice low and dangerous, warning me I’ve gone too far.

But she didn’t warn Russo. She didn’t tell that dry shite to stop before he marked her permanently. So, I point to the necklace. “Pick up your fucking collar.”

Her chin tilts up, and her shoulders stiffen. My cock presses against my zipper, even harder than when I held her on my lap. “Or what?”

“Or I’m shoving you out that door so fast you’ll be halfway back to your dago boss before you catch your fucking balance.”

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