Page 57 of Irish Brute
She whines, deep in her throat, when I take my thumb away. I settle it near her cunt, close enough that I can feel her heat like waves rising off a summer motorway. “What am I doing now,piscín?”
I sink into her, shifting my wrist so I can press on her clit with the web between my thumb and fingers. She gasps, but she’s looking at me. She doesn’t lose her focus, doesn’t slip away. And she whispers, “Fucking me with your thumb, sir.”
“Mo chailín maith,” I say, because I know that was hard for her. And because I want her to feel good, because I need her to know how much we can give each other, I slide my thumb in and out of her. I maintain eye contact. I keep a steady pressure on her clit. I wait until her thighs grow tight, until she rocks her hips, fighting for a better angle.
“Oh yes,” she says. And, “That feels so good,” which I’ll allow. But then she says, “Faster, faster,” which I shouldn’t let her say. And, “Press right there,” which isn’t in the rules at all.
She’s shocked when I pull my thumb free, and she cries out a protest. I tap the emerald at her throat. “That’s topping from below,” I say. “And I should send you to your room right now.”
“No!” she says. “I mean, please, no, don’t do that. Please…” And then, after a flicker of conflict plays across her face, she looks up at me through her lashes. She whispers, “Master.”
My cock twitches so hard I grunt. For just a moment, I consider grabbing a johnny from the nightstand and fucking her now, hard enough and fast enough that I could get both of us off before she thinks to panic.
But my littlepiscínneeds more from me tonight. She needs to last longer. She needs to stay present. She needs to learn that panic never has a place between us.
So I show her two fingers. She tells me that I’m fucking her with both of them. I bring her to the very edge, stopping one quick stroke from granting her release, and she huffs and she writhes and she groans with need, but she finally manages to say, “Thank you, Master.”
I open the nightstand and take out a vibrator. I own a small one, meant to hold between two fingers so I can focus on her clit. But it’s not her clit that worries me tonight. It’s whether I can fill her tight snatch without losing her to the ghosts inside her head.
She tells me the vibrator’s in her pussy, but I make her go forcunt. She closes her eyes, which earns her another warning. But she responds to my threat by begging so prettily, by pleading so nicely that I take her to the very edge again.
Tears leak from her eyes when I stop this time. Her hands twitch, fingers reaching toward my enormous hard-on, but she’s learned enough not to touch without permission.
The room smells like honey and salt. Her thighs tremble as I stroke from her knee to her hip. Her lips move—oh God, please God, oh please, now—but she remembers not to make a sound out loud.
She’s almost there. Almost ready. But I need her to learn one more lesson, to conquer one more fear.
Her eyes go wide when I show her the dildo. It’s heavy and it’s veined and it must be larger than any boyo she’s bedded before. I pull out the bottle of Fuck Water I bought for her the week between my proposing and our crazy so-called wedding. I knew she’d be in my bed soon enough. I knew she’d need the lube, and I wanted to give her something she already knows.
She swallows hard. She chews on her lip. She braces her palms on the mattress, beside her hips. But she looks me in theeye as she says, “You’re fucking me with a dildo, Master. You’re filling me, sir. You’re pushing, you’re pumping, you’re…”
Her words die as she catches her breath, working hard to take the monstrous thing. A ripple crosses her belly, like she’s an Olympics athlete fighting for gold. She gasps, and she starts to say, “If you—” but she stops herself, because she’s a brilliant study, and now she knows better than to top from the bottom.
I lean in close. I rub my cheek against the tender inside of her thigh. I touch my tongue to the salty crease behind her knee.
And I stop just short of letting her come.
Four times, I’ve brought her to the brink. Four times, she’s accepted my control. I want her. I need her. Now.
I start to work the buttons on my shirt. I want to rip them free, but I’m trying to model some restraint. Trying, until Samantha touches the emerald at the hollow of her throat.
“Please, Master,” she asks, holding my gaze, because that’s what I’ve commanded. “May I do that? May I unbutton your shirt?”
She’s still trying to manage me. Still trying to retain control. But my aching cock insists I accept her offer. “You may,” I say. “Because you asked so nicely.”
She sits up on the edge of the bed. Her fingers shake as she unfastens the first pearl button. Her tongue darts out between her lips—she’s trying to be good.
I let her pull my shirttails from my trousers. When she finishes with the buttons, I shrug out of the shirt.
She’s drawn to my scar, like a woman dying of thirst aching for a long drink of water. I haven’t been embarrassed by that strip of puckered skin for decades. But this is the first time I can remember wanting someone to touch it. I want to feel that pressure, the solid weight of connection.
But more than that, I want to fuck my needy littlepiscín.
“On your knees,” I command, pointing to the floor beside the bed.
She sinks like a statue slipping underwater.
“Take off my belt,” I order.
