Page 33 of Irish Brute
That surrender made her brave as a feckin’ warrior.
Ignoring my growling cock, I close my arms tighter around her. I press my chest to her back. I rock her slowly, gently, doing my best to ease her pain—both the fire of her arse and the ice of Russo’s crime.
“Mo chailín maith,” I say into her hair. “Mo chailín maith maith.” I say the words in Irish, because I know she’d hate them in her own tongue.
And as she calms, as she melts against me, I study the ring on her finger and think of all the ways I’ll make Russo pay.
14
SAMANTHA
Ienter the dining room with my stomach quivering, like I’m about to make an opening argument to a panel of critical judges. I’d be happy to skip breakfast, but rules are rules. I don’t want to invite any new punishment.
Who am I kidding? I’m absolutely dying to invite new punishment. But not until I can sit a little more comfortably in my tall, padded dining room chair.
And not until I can figure out why I froze when Braiden sank his fingers into me.
I was ready.
I wanted him.
I consented.
Until every cell in my body screamed that his touch was mortal danger.
Now, I’m grateful for the black cashmere sweatpants I found in my closet this morning, along with my softest grey sweater.Someone brought my clothes up from Delaware. They must have put them away while I was working in my office. Before Braiden came home. Before…
I shift to find a more comfortable position.
Fairfax is just setting out his endless display of plates—it’s just porridge this morning, he announces. Oatmeal, I would say. Complete with a dozen bowls of fruits and nuts and cream and three types of sugar.
I hate oatmeal. But I pretend my bowl is fascinating as I put my napkin on my lap. Pick up my spoon. Swallow hard.
And face Braiden Kelly.
“Sleep well?” he asks, when I finally meet his eyes.
The twist of his lips matches something curling deep inside me. My brain is flooded with sensation, the memory of his touch. The heat radiating off Braiden’s body as he half-guides, half-carries me to my own room. The rosemary-sage scent of the cream he fetches from somewhere. The sound of his breath catching as he rubs the salve into my bruised bottom.
“Very well,” I say, casting a quick glance at Aiofe. She’s the reason I slam the door on my other memories of last night—Braiden’s quick, competent hands stripping off my sweater. His efficiency, helping me into my grey cotton sleep shirt. His lips, feathering the web of scars on my temple just before he whispers, “Sleep,mo chailín maith.”
Realizing my eyes are closed, I open them with a start. Aiofe might be the reason I can’ttalkabout last night, but I’m very much able to remember it—every burning detail. Even that terrifying moment when everything stopped being a game and the connection severed between my body and my brain.
It’s all as clear as the window panes looking out at the sculpted back yard. As clear as the song that haunted my sleep, the one that woke me in the cold darkness after midnight. A solo voice pulled me out of my dreams.
But that can’t be right. It must have been a voiceinmy dreams, a woman singing in a language I can’t name. At first, it sounded like a prayer, and then like a lullaby. It eased me back to sleep.
Now, I shift uncomfortably on my chair, fully aware that Braiden is laughing at me. The winter sun streams through the windows, sparking off his eyes as he rises from his chair and asks, “Tea?”
No, you tormentor. Coffee.
But coffee isn’t an option. So dirty water will have to do. “Please,” I say, but he’s already filling my cup.
“So, Aiofe,” I say, desperate for something to think about other than Braiden’s hands. “Do you go to school?”
She shakes her head, which is practically a flood of conversation after her absolute silence yesterday. I’m surprised Braiden indulges her, allowing her the power play of refusing to speak. My Zia Sara would have put up with that for less than a day. No words, no food. No water. No…anything.
Braiden must have his reasons. He says, “Aiofe’s tutor comes here to the house.”
