Page 40 of Irish Brute
When she finishes, she exhales with the satisfaction of relieving a long bout of constipation. “Usually, the wean feeds th’ fish,” she says. “But she’s fussin’ over a drawin’ wi’ her teacher.”
There’s something about her tone, or maybe it’s the way her face pulls into tight lines as she speaks. It’s clear, despite her grotesque manners. Grace Poole misses Aiofe, even if they’re only apart for the morning.
“You love her,” I say.
“I’ve known ’er fro’ th’ day she was born.” Grace actually crosses herself, those rough fingers curled into a claw. “Poor Aiofe and her brother both.”
“I didn’t know she had a brother.” Of course, I know virtually nothing about the child—why she’s living in Braiden’s house, what happened to steal her speech. But I won’t pass up a chance to learn more, even if I need a translator to make sense of what I hear.
“Aye,” Grace says. “Finn. ’E was a year older than Aiofe. Treated ’er like she was a daugh’er of King O’Hara, ’e did. And she loved him true, like ’e put th’ green in shamrocks.”
“What hap?—”
“Grace.” Braiden’s voice cuts through the thick hothouse air. We both whirl toward him like we’re children caught being naughty.
“Mr. Kelly,” Grace says, bobbing into an actual curtsey. I turn to face him like an equal.
“Aiofe should be finishing up her morning studies,” he says. “I’d like her to eat lunch in the nursery today.”
“Sir,” Grace says, with another deep bob. She pushes past Braiden, the rustle of her footsteps fading almost immediately.
“She wasn’t causing any harm,” I say once she’s out of earshot. Like Grace, Braiden seems to have braved the winter cold without a coat. Of course, he had to, since I wore his jacket to the greenhouse.
He’s angry about something, practically vibrating with rage. “What the fuck do you have in your hand?” he snaps.
I glance down, like I don’t know the answer. It takes all my self-control not to hide my cell in my pocket. “My phone,” I say.
“Did you not understand when I told you to take the day off?”
“I was just checking email.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Or that I wouldn’t care?”
“I…” I’m not sure how to answer. The lawyer part of my mind is building a case, detailing how my phone is different from my computer, arguing against his paternalistic, controlling house rules. But the woman in me—the desperate, needy creature I met when I was spanked yesterday—wants to answer with sass and boldness, even though I know that’s playing with fire.
“Why don’t we skip to the end?” I finally say. “You bend me over that bench and give me a quick smack or two.”
His eyebrows peak. “And why would I do that?”
“You get off on punishing me, don’t you?”
“Iget offon giving you what you want—whether you know it or not. Yesterday, you wanted to be controlled. Dominated. Punished. That’s why you broke the rules.”
I broke the rules because I want to know what’s behind that fucking door. But instead of launching an argument that I know I’ll lose, I ask, “So all this crap about house rules is formybenefit?”
“In ways you don’t begin to understand.” He looks straight at me as he says it. I’m astonished by the wave of heat that rolls through me, a swoopingzingthat literally steals my breath away.
I want to tell him I understand perfectly well what he’s doing. He’s an arrogant son-of-a-bitch who’s used to getting his own way. He’s a dominant asshole with a sadistic streak who’s willing to use my fear against me.
But that argument ignores the dampness gathering between my thighs. It overlooks the way my breath catches as I watch his hands, as I try to anticipate his next move.
How can Iwantto be punished? Am I really looking to be hurt? I’ve spent a lifetime making hard choices, managing tough situations, doing difficult things. But I can’t deny how satisfying it feels to be told what to do, for someone else to do the hard work of making decisions—not for everything, not forever, but here, now, at Thornfield.
Braiden hasn’t led me astray—not once. At my condo, he made me eat when I was close to collapsing. The next morning, he rescued me from Don Antonio. He put me in the safe room to protect me. I don’t know what he’s hiding behind that door in the house, but I suspect it’s some ongoing criminal enterprise, something that would cost me my law license if I found out about it and didn’t go running to the appropriate authorities. So my begging, his spanking me, those were for my own good too.
So much good.
The flutter between my legs makes it hard for me to concentrate. So I give in to the one thing I know I want. The one thing I need. The one thing I’m certain he won’t forgive.
