Page 80 of Irish Brute
“What I’m thinking of won’t hurt my shoulder at all.” I sink to my knees in front of him.
“Samantha,” he groans.
I don’t have my collar. I’m not required to follow his commands. He can’t accuse me of topping from the bottom, of violating even one of his dark rules.
So I unzip his pants. I slip my hand through the slit of his silk boxers. I find the hot, heavy length of him, and I squeeze.
“Sweet Christ,” he moans as I run my thumb from his root to his tip.
Those words of raw need spark something deep inside me. I make short work of his belt, of his pants, of the boxers that pool at his ankles like abandoned giftwrap on Christmas morning.
I hold his balls with my good hand, squeezing just enough to make his breath catch. I taste his beautiful cock, tracing one thick vein with my tongue. I purse my lips and cover his head, sucking off a generous bead of precum.
He swells with the attention, and I know he’s long enough, thick enough that I’ll end up gagging. But I can’t keep from stretching my lips over him. I slide down his length, licking, teasing, a fire rising inside me as his hands grip my hair.
I can’t control his boss. I can’t run his summit for him. God knows I can’t guarantee the Sunday shipment at the port.
But I can take Braiden deep enough that my eyes begin to water. I can look up at him through wet eyelashes when his cock fills my throat. I can tongue the length of him as I rock back on my heels, tightening my lips, moving faster, stroking harder.
He calls me hispiscín. He tells me I’m beautiful. He says that I’m the one he needs, only me, always me. And when he groans that he’s about to come, I find a way to manage one more inch.
His spray is hot against the back of my throat. I swallow first by reflex and then with greed. I want every drop he can give me, every last trembling spurt.
When he finally stops pulsing in my mouth, I ease back, letting him go free. I wipe my mouth with the back of my good hand. I look up at him, as satisfied as apiscínwho’s downed a bowl of cream.
This time, I let his hand slip beneath my uninjured elbow. I accept his help in standing. I allow his fingers to tighten on my waist and his lips to crush against mine.
He’s fierce at the same time that he’s cautious. There’s a desperation in his kiss, a drive, a need, but he doesn’t fold his arms around me. He doesn’t trap my wounded shoulder. He doesn’t hurt me, even though that would be so easy to do.
He finally pulls back enough to press his lips to my temple, to the snarl of scars I’ll never leave behind. His grip loosens on my hips.
I hear men’s voices from the outside room, and I wonder how long they’ve been there. I step back so Braiden can pull up his shorts and pants, can fasten the buckle on his belt.
He settles his thumb against my lips and closes his eyes, whispering, “Mo chailín maith.”
I still don’t know the translation, but I understand the meaning. I fold my arms around myself as he opens the door and goes to war.
32
BRAIDEN
Standing in the Rittenhouse lobby, waiting for Kieran Ingram to arrive, I glance at my phone for the third time in the past minute. My ship should be docking any minute. The harbor master on my payroll should confirm the presence of my container-full of cocaine within the hour.
I’m tempted to call. To remind my man that his stash of kiddie porn can be revealed with a single email to his wife. Another to his boss, just to be sure. And a third to the US Attorney.
Dotting i’s. Crossing t’s. Guaranteeing a quarter of a billion dollars.
But I won’t risk talking to my man here, in public. If Russo ever found out about the leash I’ve got on this guy… I’d never squeeze another penny out of the Philadelphia port.
Madden edges up beside me. He’s still licking his wounds from the dressing down I gave him yesterday morning, when hefinally got his head out from between the thighs of his so-called contortionist girlfriend and showed up to our feckin’ war room. Perhaps I shouldn’t have given out to him in front of Patrick, but I need to know my Clan Chief will answer my call in an emergency.
Now Madden shakes his head, looking at the valet stand as if our combined attention can force Ingram to appear. Sounding like it pains him to speak the words out loud, he says, “Your woman.” And then, in case I don’t know who he’s talking about: “Mott.”
Her name’s Kelly. I’m tempted to remind Madden, using my fists so he doesn’t forget again. But we’re surrounded by civilians in the lobby of a world-class hotel, so I skip the grandstanding and go straight to what’s important. “What about her?”
“She belongs to Russo.”
“That’s a fucking lie.”
