Page 42 of Irish Brute

“Two.”

“I’m not saying no, I’m just?—”

“Three.”

“—saying not here.”

Before she finishes her protest, my hands are on the soft wool. I rip it over her head and throw it to the ground, tossing it beneath the bench.

“Take off your bra.”

“Braiden—”

“One.”

Slowly, she reaches around and undoes the clasp. I don’t realize I’m drooling like a dog until I swallow by reflex.

Her tits are high and proud. They’re larger than I thought they’d be, good for filling a man’s palm. The nipples are a dark rose-brown, still flushed from my earlier attention.

I want to roll them hard between my fingers. I want to bite them. But then I imagine Samantha crying out, and that merges in my twisted brain with the sound of Donny O’Keefe dying for me.

“Fuck!” I pound the heel of my hand against my forehead. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Braiden,” she says, obvious concern driving her toward me, just when she should run away. She raises a hand toward my face. “What happened?”

I bat away her fingers. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

I need her to say that. I’m afraid of her saying that. “Samantha?—”

She pulls me close, pressing those beautiful tits against my shirt.

“Dammit,” I snap, but she only tightens her arms. “Let me go,” I order.

She pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. She shakes her head, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “You need this as much as I do.”

“I can’t?—”

But she cuts me off. “You can. And you will. You know I want you, Braiden.” I can’t let myself believe her. “I want to feel the weight of you. I want to feel your cock between my breasts. I want to feel you come.”

She’s mocking me, or maybe it’s only teasing. I’m the one who told her she’d say the words. In the safe room, I warned her. But sitting here on this bench, holding her against me, every word she says feels like a revelation, like she’s honestly offering a prize I know I don’t deserve.

I just watched one of my most loyal men burn, and I couldn’t do a fucking thing to save him. I howl as a new wave of furywashes over me. I want to tear something, break something, destroy the world around me.

Samantha sees it. That’s real fear on her face, which only heats the thick sludge where my heart’s supposed to be.

I’m not the man she deserves. My fists flex, my fingers tight enough to crumble bedrock. I stumble toward the wall of honeysuckle, the scaffolding that sets off this corner of the hothouse. The vines resist for barely a second before they rip free. I toss them behind me and grab for more. The stalks bleed green sap onto my hands. Crushed flowers exhale their final sweetness.

More.

More.

I need to ruin more.

I only stop when the trellis is bare. When I whirl back to Samantha, I catch pity on her face, tenderness a man like me doesn’t deserve. She’s standing by the bench, bare-breasted, like one of those broken statues in a museum.

She reaches toward the last clump of honeysuckle in my fist. Toward my arm. My hidden scar.