Page 99 of Irish Vice

The position is absurd. Because I wear heels, my ass is high in the air. My breasts hang above the mattress, weighed down by nipples that have gone rock-hard.

After an approving growl, Braiden moves to the dresser. Iknow the things he keeps there, the paddles and floggers. There’s a cat o’ nine tails and a riding crop.

And a cane.

I’ve tried to get him to use the cane on me before. Once, I moved it to the front of the drawer, tempting him, inviting him. It’s a wicked toy. It calls to me and it scares me and I want to know that I’m strong enough to take it, even though I fear I’ll break at the very first blow.

As I look over my shoulder, my knees grow weak when I see him take the cane from the drawer. He flexes it between his palms. It bends, but it doesn’t break. That’s what makes it dangerous. That’s what gives it strength.

For Braiden, I’ve flexed every rule I’ve ever had for myself. Don’t let a man control you. Don’t give in. Don’t let yourself be hurt. I’ve bent nearly double. But I haven’t broken. Not yet.

He hasn’t touched me yet, but I’m already wrapped as tight as an iron spring. He traces the backs of my thighs with the end of the cane, writing some secret message that sends me up on tip-toe. He rests the cane across the small of my back, letting it balance on my trembling flesh.

“Say red,” he says. “And I’ll stop.”

I know the rules. I know he gives me a safeword to protect me. And I know I’ll never use it.

But I nod, all the same.

“I need to hear you,piscín. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand. Red, and you’ll stop. Sir.”

I expect him to hesitate for a moment longer, to give me a chance to change my mind. But Braiden Kelly doesn’t pause for anyone.

The sound of the cane slicing the air is like Fairfax’s teakettle shrieking in the kitchen. I barely have time to brace my legs before the blow falls across the widest part of my ass.

I can’t keep myself from yelping. The cane is ice, melted immediately by fire. It bites into my skin, a white-hot laser. For a heartbeat, I think I’ve shattered like glass in the pool house door,but then Braiden’s palm smooths over the line, soothing me, calming me, bringing me back from the edge.

“You’re brave,piscín,” he says.

My knees sag toward the bed. My nipples brush the dark green comforter. My fingers clutch the fabric, grabbing so hard I hear my knuckles squeak.

He strikes again.

The second blow is lower on my body, closer to my thighs. I feel it all the way to the chambers of my heart—hot-white-ice-fire. But this time I know what to expect. This time I don’t cry out.

But I whimper a little as Braiden caresses me and says, “You’re so strong.”

I don’t feel strong. My ankles are shaking above my high heels. My breasts are crushed against the bed. I fight the urge to bury my face in the mattress, to scream and scream and scream, but I can’t do that, I won’t do that, because I need to prove to both of us that I can take it.

The third blow falls at an angle, crossing the other two.

Constellations spin behind my eyes. Sparks fly from the intersections of the marks, from the raw places where the cane has doubled its bite.

I scream. I have to. I’ve never felt a pain like this. Never felt such a ferocious fire banked inside me.

I’m suspended over a chasm, falling, spinning. I want him to go on. I need to sayred.

My mouth is open. My throat is stretched. Want. Need. Want. Need.

“You’re beautiful,” Braiden whispers as he slips one hand between my quivering thighs. One fingertip settles against my clit, and I’m instantly shredded. I transform into a messy, sobbing animal, a desperate creature who pushes back against that finger, who takes it inside, who rides its hooking pressure over an even higher cliff, spinning and warping and falling into wordless, mindless nothingness.

I’ll make you come so hard you’ll think you’ve gone blind. That’s another thing he told me in the safe room. That’s another thing he promised, and now I know he didn’t lie.

I moan when his hand slips free from the vise of my thighs. He bends over me. He brushes his lips against the burning stripes he’s left on my ass.

My arse, Braiden would say, with his Irish lilt.