Page 51 of Irish Brute

Again, I grant her the freedom to express herself. I can afford to be generous. I know I’m winning this round.

I hand her the shopping bag I had one of my men drive down from New York. I relied on the same boutique that supplied her wedding gown. They have all her measurements.

She reaches past several sheets of silver tissue paper. When she pulls out the skirt, she looks like she’s never seen one before. “What the hell is this?”

“Consider it an early Valentine’s Day present.”

“Valentine’s Day is tomorrow.”

I resist the urge to check my watch. She might well be wrong, given how late she finished work tonight. Instead, I skip to the part she’s really going to fight. “Starting tomorrow,” I say. “And every night after. At six o’clock, you change from your office clothes into a skirt. That’s the end of your work day. No excuses. No exceptions.”

“I don’t wear skirts,” she says, like she’s teaching me how to add one and one.

“You do now.”

She shakes the garment like spiders might fall from the folds. “And I never wear flowers.”

I repeat myself, knowing it will annoy her. “You do now.”

“They’repink.”

“Ballet slipper blush, according to Martha Gallagher.”

“Braiden…”

“Samantha.”

“I’m not going to wear this.”

“You will,” I promise. “Because if youforget, I’ll remind you. I’ll interrupt whatever you’re doing at six o’clock and put it on you myself.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

I want her to test my new rule. I want to work the lock on her office door with my master key. I want to stride to her desk while she makes excuses to whomever she has on a conference call. I want to slam her computer closed, to bend her over her chair, to strip her out of her trousers. And I want to watch her face flush when I fuck her after she’s dressed in flowers.

Which reminds me…

“One more thing,” I say. “You won’t wear knickers with this.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“If you do, you’ll be punished.”

“Braiden, that’s absurd. I’ll get cold.”

“I’ll tell Fairfax to raise the heat.”

“It’s not sanitary.”

“I’m not forbidding you to bathe. And I trust you learned how to manage things in the jacks a lifetime ago.”

“Do I have to remind you we aren’t alone in this house? You have staff. There is achildliving here.”

“What exactly do you think will happen when you come to dinner in a skirt? Are you afraid I’ll sweep the dishes to the floor and fuck you on the dining room table? Or maybe I’ll crouch beneath the table and eat you out while Fairfax carries food in from the kitchen?”

Actually, either of those sounds like a fine way to spend a meal. I consider ordering Aiofe to be fed dinner in the nursery every night, effective immediately