Page 45 of Irish Brute
My third orgasm leaves me incapable of drawing a breath deeper than a gasp. I let my knees fall in, because I’ve had enough. I can’t handle more stimulation.
But this is punishment. This is how I pay for breaking Braiden’s rules, for thinking I could skate around the law, for using my phone. I’m not in charge. I don’t get to decide when I’ve had enough.
The fourth time I come, I plead: “No. Stop. Please. No more. Not again.”
But I don’t sayred. I don’t give up. I don’t give in.
My fifth orgasm leaves me blind.
I thrash. I beg. I plead. But Braiden doesn’t relent. And I can’t bring myself to say the word, to admit I can’t handle the fierce power between my thighs.
The sixth time I come, I’m an animal. There’s nothing human left inside me. I’m reduced to the hammer pulse between my legs and my endless howl, spinning out across time and space. My bladder lets loose. I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t control a muscle in my body.
I’m liquid. I’m air. I’m lost. I’m nothing.
Nothing but a single word. A single syllable. I shape it with my lips, because I don’t remember how to vibrate air through my throat. “Red.”
He rises up between my legs. He reaches above my head for something I don’t remember. His arms close around me and his legs close around me and I slip away to nowhere as he whispers things in Irish I’ll never understand.
I don’t know how long I’m out.
I smell the bruised plants first, the heavy blanket of honey beneath us. I feel his fingers, measuring my back in long, firm strokes. I hear his heartbeat, strong and steady beneath my ear. My arms are free, my wrists released.
“Braiden,” I croak.
His arms tighten around me. His lips brush my hairline, the knot of scars I hate. “That,” he says. “Was punishment.”
Centuries later, he helps me into my clothes. I watch as he dresses himself without a hint of modesty, without an ounce of shame. The fire he carried when he stormed into the greenhouse is banked now. His emotions are lashed tight. He’s under control.
Nevertheless, I can still see the restlessness deep inside him. There’s anger there too—not for me, not with me, but for something that might be larger than both of us together.
I want to touch the scar on his arm. I want to know the story behind it. I want to know who hurt him, and what he lost today, before he came searching for me.
But I don’t want to damage him more than he’s already been harmed.
So I look at the fish pond instead. I can just make out my phone, glinting on the bottom. “You know, that wasn’t actually my phone,” I say. “It belongs to the freeport.”
His lips twist. “I’ll send a message to Prince. Tell him to get you a new one. He can add it to my bill.”
But then his face sobers. “Come on,” he says. “My security team is waiting. It’s time to get you scanned for the safe room.”
“Is there a new threat?”
“No one will get to you, here at Thornfield.”
We both know that’s not an answer. But it’s all he’s willing to give. And as I realize just how shaky my legs are, I know I don’t have any fight left in me to push for a true response. A deep ache lurks in every muscle of my body, payment for absolute overuse.
Braiden doesn’t wait for me to agree. Instead, he drapes his coat over my shoulders. He doesn’t look back as we leave the Irish garden, doesn’t take in the ruined honeysuckle, the scuffed moss, the empty iron bench. I lean on him all the way back to the house.
19
SAMANTHA
When I wake on Saturday morning, I feel like I’ve been crushed beneath a tower of client files. Every muscle in my body groans when I try to shift position. My legs are so stiff I need to clutch the wall as I maneuver into the shower.
But I make it to breakfast on time.
Braiden sits at the head of the table in an immaculate charcoal suit. His white shirt looks freshly ironed. The knot on his dark green tie is perfect.
