Page 83 of Irish Reign

I make the water hot enough to fill the bathroom with billows of steam. I slip my hands to her shoulders to help her out of my jacket, and she surprises the hell out of me by reaching for my belt. I let her work the buckle, and the button too, but I step back when she goes for the zipper, because the last thing she needs right now is a cock that won’t mind its manners.

She feels it anyway, after I strip and take her into the shower. I’m at full mast when I stand behind her to wash her hair. And she can’t ignore me when I soap her body. She’d have to be pure senseless not to know what’s what as I take the spray in hand, as I rinse away all the suds.

“Braiden,” she says, as I towel her dry, and I hear the question she’s asking. But I try to be a gentleman as I take another towel to her hair. I find black silk boxers in the dresser and a plain white T-shirt, which should make her feel right at home. But when I hand them both to her, she shakes her head and says my name again.

“Not tonight,piscín.You’ve had enough.”

“No,” she says. “I haven’t.”

She walks to the dresser like she hasn’t been gone for the past month. She opens the top drawer and reaches in like she owns the place. I watch confusion bloom on her face, unfolding like a flower in the sun. “It isn’t…” But she’s brave enough to meet my gaze. “Where’s my collar?”

I could keep it from her. She’s exhausted, physically and emotionally. It’s not fair to lock that emerald around her neck, not right to make her do all the things I long for.

My job is to protect her. To set limits. To stop her when she’s too headstrong, too determined, too stubborn to take care of herself.

That’s why I make her eat breakfast.

That’s why I make her wear skirts.

That’s why I make her bend over a desk and take the spanking she needs, to understand that she’s bold and fierce and wholly, unshakably strong.

But she executed her enemy tonight. She destroyed the man who killed her family. So mypiscínis perfectly capable of making the decision to wear her collar.

I cross to my nightstand, where I’ve kept the box since the night she left. I place the black velvet on the bed. And then, before I can gather up the necklace, I reach for the second box I’ve kept hidden. The one I meant to give her the night we fought.

It looks small on my palm, like a soft, furry creature that could easily be stomped to death. I think about tossing it back it into the drawer forever.

But I want Samantha to have this. Even if she doesn’t agree, even if this isn’t the life she chooses, I want her to know I asked.

She’s still standing by the dresser, exhaustion and confusion fighting over her face. Confusion wins as I cross to her and kneel.

Me. Captain of the Fishtown Boys. On my knees.

But I open the box, and then she understands.

The emerald isn’t as large as the one in her collar, but it’s been cut by an expert and set in platinum to match the necklace I gave her months ago. Light catches on the stone, kindling a fire deep inside its green heart.

“Samantha Mott,” I say, because that’s her name, until she says yes. “I made a mess of this once. And I don’t deserve for you to give me the chance to make it right. But I’m asking you… I’m begging you… Will you do me the honor of being my wife? In the eyes of the law and standing before God, will you marry me?”

She didn’t cry when a madman used her body as a shield or when she put down that blighter like a rabid dog. But now tears sparkle in her eyes.

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, I will.”

That’s enough for me. I’m happy to call us married from this point forward. I don’t need a priest or a clerk, any eejit with a collar or badge to make this official. But Samantha will, and I can live with that. I can wait till morning, when I’ll drag her to a justice of the peace. I’ll wait even longer, if she wants us back in church, if she needs to stand in front of everyone she knows.

Standing, I take the ring out of its box and slip it on her finger. I say the words I had engraved on the gold band I never had a right to give her: “Is liomsa tú.”You are mine.

And then I wait.

She’s the one who was stripped naked. She’s the one who was used like a Kevlar jacket. She’s the one who shoved a shotgun into a man’s bollocks and had the nerve to pull the trigger.

I won’t risk pushing her too far. I won’t take the chance of losing her again.

But she pulls me close for a kiss. It starts sweet, like we truly do stand in front of an altar, with priest and congregation looking on. But when she opens her lips, I accept the invitation. And when she presses her body close to mine, I figure she has her own plan for recovery, her own recipe for healing mind and body and soul.

My hands slip beneath the plain white cotton of the T-shirt she wears. Even though it’s been weeks, my fingers remember the curve of her breasts perfectly, the weight of them, the jut of her nipples. I pinch hard, and I drink down her moan like a man dying of thirst.

My palm counts her ribs, then skims over the taut plane of her belly. She sucks in a breath like I’ve hurt her and I freeze, but only long enough for her to whisper, “No. Don’t stop.”

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