Page 59 of Irish Brute
She nods, and I kiss her again. “Let’s go,piscín.”
We’re halfway out the door before she says, “What does it mean? Pish-keen?”
“Piscín,” I correct. “Kitten.”
She wrinkles her nose. But she keeps her claws sheathed. And we head downstairs to raid the kitchen, making up for the Valentine’s Day dinner we missed hours earlier.
23
SAMANTHA
After an improvised dinner filled with laughter and flirting—and more dishes piled in the sink than anyone should have to face in the morning—Braiden and I steal back upstairs. It’s dark in the corridor; the only light is moonglow from the window at the end of the hall.
I think I catch a moving shadow before we get to Aiofe’s door, but that might be my imagination getting the better of me. I take care, planting my feet on the thick carpet runner. The last thing I want is for the child to peek out, to pin me with her curious eyes, offering her silent assessment of what I’m doing with her guardian.
I don’t stop until I get to my own room. My door is ajar, the way I left it when I went to my office this morning, more hours ago than I care to think about. I can see the corner of my bed, neatly made with my soft white comforter.
I bargained for this room. I made it a term of our agreement. I insisted on the arrangement because I knew our marriage was only one of convenience.
And the thought of going in there, alone, makes my throat swell closed.
Braiden’s fingers twine with mine. “Come along,piscín.”
He leads me to his room.
The bed is more of a wreck than I remembered. Before we started…whatever he just put me through…the bed was made European style—no top sheet, just a winter-weight duvet. We kicked the burgundy-and-green comforter to the foot of the bed. Now, it’s slumped over the footboard like the carcass of a stag.
The room still smells like sex.
I pause, one step through the doorway. What am I supposed to do? Do I have to wear my collar? Does Braiden actually think we can go another round?
I know I can’t. My legs feel like they’re carved out of mahogany. When I take a deep breath, I find muscles between my ribs I never knew I had.
“Braiden,” I say, because I’m trained to confront challenging situations. That’s what law school was all about.
“Hush,” he says.
I watch as he crosses to the bed. He straightens the duvet with a single yank, letting its feather-filled chambers drift over the bed. He flips back the near corner and turns toward me.
“Are you taking the jacks first, or am I?” he asks.
“My toothbrush is down the hall,” I say. I don’t know if I want to move it. I don’t know if I want this change.
“Bring it here,” he says. “This is your room now.”
And just like that, my decision is made.
That’s what being with Braiden is all about. Hedecidesthings. I don’t have to question, don’t have to think.
But I always have my veto in my back pocket. I can safeword. I can say no.
I brush my teeth in my own bathroom. I change into my gray sleep shirt. I glance at myself in the mirror quickly enough to avoid a thousand questions—what the hell I’m doing here, what my future is with the Captain of the Fishtown Boys, where I think any of this is heading.
Padding down the hall holding my toothbrush, I wish I’d brought a pillow too. I want something more substantial to hold onto. Moral support.
Which is an awfully strange expression, when Braiden and I have just spent the evening doing a wide range of utterly immoral activities.
He’s standing by the bed when I return. He’s clearly splashed water over his head; his hair stands on end. I can smell the mint of his toothpaste.
