Page 101 of Irish Brute

She strains for a moment, fighting to take all of me, but then she moans, “I’m coming again.”

She clenches around me, gripping as I move. I pull back almost to the gate, wild with the feel of her pulsing around me. Before I can slip free, I plunge forward again, harder than I mean to, fiercer.

“God, yes!” she shouts, and I ride her hard, no longer afraid of hurting her. I want to wait, I want to last, I want to keep doing this forever. But she’s quivering around me, pulsing hard, and I can’t help but explode deep inside her.

I taste stars. I see the music at the heart of the universe. I hear all the colors of the sky.

And when I finally come back to earth, finally rise up from the perfect woman beneath me, she’s waiting to kiss me, waiting to join in a new way, a different way, our lips and tongues and breath merging as I slip the blindfold from her eyes.

A lifetime later, I finally stagger from the bed. I get us both some water. I wait for her to drink, and then I slip my fingers beneath the curtain of her hair. I work the clasp on her collar and set the emerald aside.

Once I’ve rescued the duvet from the floor, we huddle beneath its feathered warmth. I pull Samantha close with my left arm, spreading my right hand above the bone of her hip.

I trace a finger along her arm. “Did I hurt you?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says. But before I can grimace, she adds, “As much as I needed. Not more than I could take.”

“Mo chailín maith,” I whisper against her hair.

She burrows in closer to my side. “Will you tell me what that means?”

I’ll tell her anything. She’s the woman I love. She’s strong and she’s brave and she’s smarter than I’ll ever be. When she was caught in the worst tangle of her life, she figured out how to break free, how to leave behind the childhood that left her scarred. I can’t believe I was foolish enough to ever let her leave me. I know I’ll never let her go again.

She traces my hand with her fingertip? “Braiden? What does it mean?”

“My good girl,” I say.

I wait for her to pull away. But she smiles as she lets my good arm take her weight. “I’ll beyourgirl. You’re the only one who can call me that.”

“Mo chailín maith,” I say again, nuzzling her neck.“Mo chailín maith.”

She falls asleep before I can speak my magic spell a third time.

44

SAMANTHA

When I wake, the sun is streaming through the bedroom windows. I’m alone in the massive bed; Braiden’s pillow is chilled when I touch it. I stretch beneath the duvet, discovering muscles I never knew I possessed.

I want to know how Braiden understands me so completely. He reads my body better than I can myself; he knows what I need and how much I can take and when I’m ready to break, like he’s been studying me his entire life.

But it’s not just my body. It’s my mind. He understands the darkness I’ve lived in. His rules heal me. They free me. We’ve wasted so much time—five weeks that I spent in Goldenrod Cottage, when I could have been with the man I love.

Last night at the freeport was madness. The waiter. The gun. How close I came to dying.

Braiden killed a man for me.

I should shower. I should get dressed. I should check in with the freeport, see what messages Trap has sent, figure out the legal repercussions of everything that happened in that tent last night.

But I’m not ready to be a calm and calculating lawyer, not yet.

I raid Braiden’s closet. I’m surprised to find all my clothes still hanging there; he didn’t pack them up while I lived at the freeport.

I could choose anything I own, but I opt for Braiden’s clothes instead. I pull on a pair of forest green sweatpants, cinching them tight over my hips and folding up cuffs at my ankles. There’s a burgundy hoodie on a shelf; I roll up the sleeves enough not to feel totally lost.

The dining room is empty downstairs—no newspapers on the table, no samovar on the credenza. I pad into the kitchen, and Braiden is standing behind the center island.

“Good morning,” I say.