Page 84 of Irish Reign

I know what I want to do to her, how I want to use her, but I still can’t believe she’s home. I need to know she wants it too, that she needs it as much as I do. I turn her around, her backto my front, and she lets me mold her to my body. I slip a hand inside the fly of the boxers she wears.

Her hips tilt like she’s a jointed doll, pulling her higher on my body, letting her ride the massive hard-on she’s raised on me. I cup her, pulling her closer, pressing hard. My fingers find her hot, soft seam and then the slick honey that tells me she’s mine.

“Braiden,” she breathes as she takes my first finger. “Oh, God,” she says when I give her the second. “Sweet Jesus,” she breathes as I slip in a third.

She doesn’t have words for the fourth, just stretches her mouth in a tight little O and I fuck her with my hand, driving hard, pressing her clit with the pulse point in my wrist.

I only slow my pace when she nears the cliff. I stretch out each stroke, lingering inside her, tapping my fingers against her deepest patch of nerves. She bites her lip. She holds her breath. She tightens her thighs and she waits, waits, waits.

But just before I give her what she longs for, just before I set her free, her fingers clamp around my wrist. She holds me fast, stilling my soaked fingers inside her. She whispers, her voice rough, like every syllable costs her a fortune: “Not yet. Not like this. I want to wear my collar.”

42

SAMANTHA

I’m greedy.

I don’t want to come now and be done. I want everything Braiden can do to me, every way he can use me. I want to know I have the strength—I have the power—to be the woman he needs me to be.

The heel of his hand rocks against my clit as he slips his fingers out of my drenched pussy, and the pressure is almost too much. I nearly tip over, nearly lose control.

But I hold my breath. I bite my lip. I stiffen my legs and I curl my toes and I shove back the wild flood of freedom.

He takes off my T-shirt like he’s worshipping at an altar. He slips his hands inside the waistband of my boxers, guiding them over my hips, past my knees, down to the floor. I step free, and I’m naked again, bare to the world.

Before I can think about it, before I can stumble over the memory of Russo—what he made me do, what I did to him—Braiden takes my collar out of its velvet case. He kisses the nape of my neck and then he fastens the platinum clasp. He presses the emerald into the hollow of my throat with this thumb.

He stares at me fiercely, as if he can read everything that’s written on the inside of my brain. “Mo chailín maith,” he breathes, and it doesn’t matter that I stripped for Russo. It will never matter again, because now I’m naked for Braiden, and Braiden is my heart, and Braiden is the only man I’ve ever loved.

I nod once, and then he snaps his fingers in absolute command. “On the bed,” he says. “On your back. Legs out. Arms out.” And when I don’t move quickly enough: “Now!”

I’m not surprised when he goes to the dresser or when he comes back to the bed with coils of cotton rope. He loops my left foot with an efficient knot, tying it off on the bedpost like he’s a sailor. My right foot too, and I’m spread in front of him, bare, displayed, without even my hands to cover myself, because he ties my right wrist, and my left wrist too.

It’s intoxicating to lie here. He has access to every inch of me. He can do whatever he wants with my body, and I’m powerless to stop him.

Except he says, “Red. Red if you want me to stop.”

I shake my head, because I know I’ll never say it.

But he grips my chin, tight enough to hurt. “This is important,piscín. This is how I keep you safe. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” I say, because that’s what he needs. I only want to please him, only want to make him whole. I’ll accept my safeword so he knows he can do everything he needs to do.

I expect him to go back to the dresser. To pick up a paddle or a cane. The riding crop. The cat o’nine tails, with its metal-studded leather straps. I know he’s going to hurt me, and I want it, Ineedit, so much more than I’ll ever be able to explain.

But he doesn’t leave the bed. Instead, he shifts his weight and straddles me, framing my hips with his knee. He looms over me, his heavy cock jutting toward my face.

As I watch, he strokes himself. Long and steady and hard, his fingers work his cock. I whine because I want to touch him. I want to be the one pulling on that velvet. I want to take him between my lips, to feel him hit the back of my throat. I want him pumping hard between my legs, pinning me, filling me, making me his.

I beg. I plead. I stretch my arms, fighting to free my hands. But I don’t control what happens. Not when I’m wearing my collar.

“Please,” I say, when a drop of precum spatters on my belly.

“Please,” I moan, when the tip of his cock flushes scarlet.

“Please,” I beg, when he hisses as if his own hand scalds him on one last pull.

He explodes over me, pulse after pulse of hot, wet cum. He paints my belly. He soaks my breasts. He stripes my chin, my cheeks, my lips.

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