Page 42 of Irish Vice

I plug in my computer so it can recharge after the day’s work at the freeport. I skim through social media, but I can’t concentrate. All the colors are too bright. All the words shift together.

There’s too much space here for one person. I rack the balls on the pool table, and I select a cue from the rack. My break is decent, but I scratch on my second shot, hitting the ball too hard, without enough control.

I decide to take a shower, trying to drown the crazed restlessness that shimmers through my body. I’m not afraid to use the hand-held shower-head, focusing on my clit. I run myself to an orgasm in less than a minute, but my pussy’s mechanical clutch-and-release leaves me even more needy than before.

Braiden’s ruined me. All the things he’s ever done to me. All the things he was going to do this afternoon, before Alix came back to the conference room.

I need his fingers. I need his mouth. I need his cock, stretching me, filling me.

I need him.

I towel dry and dress for dinner. House rules. My shortest skirt is a riot of crimson roses and shiny green leaves that cuts off halfway down my thighs. I don’t have a top to do it justice, so I choose a black cami—soft silk with spaghetti straps. I don’t bother with panties.

When I look in the bathroom mirror, I see a stranger.

There’s something missing. Something gone astray.

I towel-dry my hair so that it falls in waves over my shoulders. That’s not it.

I add eyeliner and mascara until I look like a raging rock musician. That’s not it.

I slash lipstick across my mouth, the same deep red as the flowers on my skirt. That’s not it.

I go to my closet for the tallest heels I own—four-inch stilettos with a cuff around each ankle. That’s not it either.

But the cuffs feed the fire snapping deep inside me. They tell me what I really do need.

The air is cool as I walk to the main house. It’s only the beginning of April, and the sun glows scarlet in the west. I should have goosebumps. I should be chilled.

But there’s a furnace burning in me now.

I smell dinner cooking when I enter the house—grilled meat and fresh baked bread and something that might be melted butter. But I’m not hungry for food.

My legs flex as I climb the stairs. My shoes force my toes to grip, to anchor me, to dig in with every step I take.

I hear voices from Braiden’s office—Fiona, saying something low and urgent. Madden, cutting her off to make his own insistent point.

But I don’t go toward the office. I go toward the master bedroom.

How many times have I looked at that emerald? How many times have I put the collar around my neck?

This is the first time I’ve turned the platinum key. The first time I’ve sealed the lock myself.

A circuit closes, firing every nerve in my body. I can see more, hear more, taste more. My fingertips come alive, and when I press them to the pulse beneath my ear, I whine like an animal is chewing its way out of my heart.

The emerald pulls me down the hall. It drags me to Braiden’s office. It pins me in the doorway.

Braiden is showing Fiona and Madden something on his computer screen. He’s leaning forward, making a point with his index finger.

He doesn’t know it yet, but I’m about to make my own point. I’m going to show Fiona how to get a man like Braiden, and how to keep him. I’m going to prove to Madden once and for all that his backstabbing and his lies mean nothing.

Braiden glances toward the doorway, barely shifting his eyes. “Samantha,” he says. “Great. You’ll do a better job explaining this than I can.”

I don’t answer him. I don’t remember how words work.

Instead, I cross the room, my cuffed ankles steady in their wicked shoes. I turn Braiden’s chair so he can’t watch his screen. I straddle his legs with mine, and I sit on his lap.

His fingers close around my waist, more by reflex than intention. His head tilts up. He doesn’t understand, not yet. His mouth opens in surprise.