Page 99 of Irish Brute

“This is a holy show, isn’t it?” I say, because Samantha’s eyes are a little too wide.

She manages to ask, “Does it hurt?”

I lie and shake my head. “I’ve had worse.”

“Let me see. Do you need stitches?”

I don’t let her look. “I’m taking a shower.”

I don’t know how long I stand under the water. I scrub blood off my hands, my arm, my face. I wash my hair and I soap every inch of my body, taking a long time to rinse clean.

And finally, when there’s no trace left of the murderous gobshite who nearly won, I towel dry and knot the cloth tight around my hips. I find a roll of gauze in one of the drawers and wind it around my arm. The slash isn’t bleeding much anymore, just weeping a little. It throbs as I tuck in the tail of the bandage.

I open the door quietly, because I’ve been a long while. It’s well after midnight, and by all rights Samantha should be sleeping right now.

Samantha isn’t sleeping.

She’s pulled back the covers on the bed and pushed the duvet onto the floor. She’s found the rope I keep wound in my dresser drawer, the soft black cotton. She’s tied her feet to the footboard, spread-eagle, with decent knots. She’s got her arms flung wide above her head, one wrist fastened tight. Her other hand holds a loop of rope—a temptation, a promise.

Her collar glints around her neck, the emerald nestled against her throat.

“Sweet Christ,” I breathe, dropping my towel to the floor.

Her ribs rise and fall, faster as I walk around the bed. Her toes curl against their bonds, as if they’re too shy to take my hungry gaze.

Her cunt is waiting for me, slick and bare, the color of a secret flower.

“I got a second wind,” she says.

“I can see that.”

“I couldn’t fasten my left hand. Will you do it for me?” She pauses for a moment, and then she adds, “Sir?”

That single syllable goes straight to my cock.

Of course, she’s flirting with topping from the bottom again. I should tell her this isn’t right. She doesn’t get to decide when I tie her up.

But she’s too damn beautiful for me to let alone. Too damn brave, ending our conversation from the car like this, switching to a new language both our bodies crave.

I stalk around the bed and pull hard on the last loop, cinching a knot to bind her tight. Her gasp turns into a moan as I trace the line from her wrist to her elbow to the soft, vulnerable curve of her armpit. “You remember the rules? Say red and I’ll stop.”

“I remember,” she whispers, like it’s a new-learned prayer. And then she adds, “Sir.”

I turn to the dresser where she found the rope. When I slide open the drawer, I see she’s rearranged my toys. She’s moved the riding crop to the front, along with a bamboo cane.

My wicked littlepiscín. Still refusing to follow the rules.

I pluck the blindfold from the back of the drawer and stalk to the bed.

“What—” she starts to ask, but I pull it over her head before she can finish the question. “I can’t—” she protests, and then she must remember, because she licks her lips and lowers her chin.

Back at the drawer, I select the flogger. It’s softer than the tools she asked for. But the dozen leather strands are cut at an angle, sharp enough to sting if I want them to.

And I do. I want them to.

I move to the side of the bed, grinning as her head twitches, as she tries to measure where I am, what I’m about to do. I dangle the strands above her belly, barely making contact. She gasps, and then every muscle in her body stills, as if she’s concentrating, trying to learn new words.

I flirt with her nipples, teasing them from soft buds to tight, flushed stones. I dangle the strands above her lips, watching her mouth open like she’s thirsting in a desert.