Page 41 of Irish Brute
I raise my phone in front of my face. I open my office email. And I start to type a response to the first message on my list.
17
BRAIDEN
She knows exactly what she’s doing. Part of me admires her nerve. Another part is filled with rage—at her for blatantly disobeying, at myself for not anticipating her workaround, using her phone instead of her computer.
At Donny, for falling into Russo’s hands.
I won’t let myself see the fire, won’t let myself hear the screams.
I’m with Samantha. I sought her out because she’s the only one who can absorb my thirst for vengeance. She can take my fury. She can be my equal.
She grew up in the shadow of Russo’s savagery. She understands what an empire like mine means. It’s as familiar to her as breathing.
We have the same killer instincts slinking through our brains. That’s why she’s paving her own path at the freeport, instead of marking time at some fancy law firm. Why shetakes on clients like me, instead of sitting back in some posh partnership, staying safe and collecting a monstrous paycheck.
I don’t know what happened in her past to lock her down. Why she dresses in black and white, denying herself even a hint of color. Why she surrounds herself by hard edges and clean lines, without a bit of softness. Why she’s punishing herself, more than anything I’ll ever do to her body.
But Iwilldo things to her body.
The Dom in me recognizes the submissive in her. I sense it like a song that’s never been sung before, like a new color that’s just been invented. Samantha doesn’t just tolerate my rules. Shethriveson them.
And I recognize an invitation when I see one, a sexual offer she might not even understand herself. She’s typing on that phone because she wants me to pull down her plain silk knickers and smack the tight globes of her arse until she can’t breathe.
Which is why I have no intention of spanking her.
No sub of mine will be allowed to top from the bottom.
Instead, I close the distance between us in a single step. I snatch the phone from her fingers and toss it into the fish pond. She barely gets to yelp her protest before I wrap her hair in my hand. I pull hard, forcing her neck back before I kiss her.
Kiss.
That’s not the right word.
I fuck her mouth with mine. I crush her lips to get at her tongue. I tighten my grip on her hair to force the angle I crave. I make her take one step back and then another, using my weight to lower her onto the bench.
My free hand roams up her sweater. Her nipples are rock-hard, which makes them easy to pinch, and I’m ready to drink her yips of protest as I catch first one and then the other.
But when I close my eyes, I see Donny O’Keefe tied to his chair, the Irish flag turning to fire in his mouth. I hear himscreaming, deep bellows from his chest, because his throat is closed off with flame.
I’m shaking with rage, blind with the need to make Russo pay.
And that means I’m not any good for Samantha. I’m not in control. I’m not safe.
I shove her away with more force than I mean to use.
She catches herself on the arm of the iron bench. She’s breathing like a racehorse, spine hunched, back of her hand pressed against her lower lip. “What the hell happened to you?” she asks.
I want to tell her, but she doesn’t need that story in her brain. She already has her own horror stories about Russo.
So I opt for another reply. “Take off your sweater,” I command.
She looks around, like she expects to find a crowd. “Here?”
“I’ll count to three,” I say. “One.”
“Anyone can walk in on us!”
