Page 17 of Irish Vice

If I say what Madden’s done, Braiden will leave me here and chase after his brother.

And I don’t want to be left alone.

So I press my lips together, and I shake my head—one tense, tight toss.

Braiden strikes like a mamba. His fingers dig into my armpits, hauling me to my feet and shoving me toward the bed. I stumble a bit, which only seems to stoke his rage.

He folds me over the edge of the mattress, pressing my face into the dark green duvet. My feet are still on the floor, spread for balance. He kicks at my ankles, forcing them wider. He pushes against my ass, and I feel the swell of his erection through his pants as he leans over to whisper in my ear. “Tell me what Madden did,piscín. Or I promise you’ll be punished.”

Punished. The word sparks through my blood like a fever. He could offer me a million dollars now, say he’ll buy me a house, suggest a vacation to all the capitals of Europe, and I wouldn’t say a word. There’s something I want more than all that. Something I need.

He shoves off my spine, and for a devastated heartbeat, I think I’ve lost this round. But then I hear his belt slither free from his pants.

“You know the rules,” he says. “Sayred,and we’re done.” My knees melt, even as I shake my head. I’m never sayingred.

He backs off enough to grab the hem of my skirt, yanking the fabric over my ass. The backs of my thighs tingle at the touch of cool air.

“Oh,piscín,” he says. “And here I thought you were a clever girl.” He plucks at the top of my panties, letting the elastic snap back. I catch my breath, surprised by the sharp sting, which must be why he does it again.

“I’m a simple man,” he lies. “With simple rules. And you should know by now that knickers aren’t allowed. Not with a skirt. You sat at my table for an entire meal, disrespecting me. And now you have to pay.”

He stalks over to the nightstand and yanks open the drawer. It only takes him a moment to find the shears he keeps there, the ones meant to slice through rope in an emergency.

The steel is so cold against my hip that my leg starts to spasm. He plants a hand on the base of my spine, calming me, stilling me, and then he makes a single, devastating slice. I hear each fiber of my panties shred, first on the right side, then on the left.

My thighs tremble as his fingers close over the ruined satin. He pulls the cloth at an angle, sawing against my throbbing clit, through the needy folds of my pussy, against the crack of my tightening ass. The pressure is nearly enough to break me, and then it’s gone too soon.

“Such a naughty girl,” he says.

Everything about this is wrong. I should leave this room and go to the pool house, just like I did this morning. I should have more self-respect.

But my body’s demands are louder than my brain’s. I need to trigger him. I need to earn my release. So I fight back with words I know will earn me discipline. “I’m not a girl.”

He laughs. “You’remygirl,” he says. And before I canprotest further he shoves the soaked scrap of satin against my face. I twist my head, trying to get away, but he easily overpowers me. My nose is filled with the scent of me, the salty, briny, slick he raised in me. I open my mouth to protest, and he pushes the cloth past my lips, driving it in with his fingers until I have to suck on my own juices.

I’m still working my jaw, trying to spit out the gag, when he lands his first blow. He uses the tongue of his belt, a full hand-length of leather. The end bites deep, and I feel the double slash from the sides, parallel stripes on my already overheated ass.

“Count,” he says.

“One,” I grunt. The word is muffled by satin, but it’s clear enough for him to know I’m counting. I’m not sayingred.I’m not telling him to stop.

The belt lands again, lower this time. Twin lines of fire sizzle toward my clit.

“Two.” I know the word I’m saying. I know the sound he wants.

A third blow, across the tops of my thighs.

I hold off on the number because that’s not what I want. If he’s going to spank me, I want his attention on my ass.

“Count,” he says again, his voice deadly still.

I stay silent.

“Say it, lass, or I leave the room right now.”

He’ll do it, too. I have no doubt. Braiden Kelly is a master of control. Even if it means going without his own satisfaction, he’ll leave me sprawled here, desperate and alone, just to teach me a lesson.

“Three,” I say, the word almost lost in drenched cloth.