Page 51 of Her Irish Savage

She shifts back to sit on her heels, easing my cock from her lips. “Why’d you do that?” she asks, looking up at me. “You were so fucking close.”

Fucking close.

I told her not to swear. And now, staring down at her past my raging hard-on, my fingers still wrapped in her hair, I realize just how much I hoped she’d break one of my rules.

Now, my little girl has to pay.

19

FIONA

“That’s it,” Patrick says. “On your feet.”

I’m so stunned, I don’t know how to respond. My lips tingle, like I’ve been eating shishito peppers. My eyes are tearing because he’s just so huge, and I wipe the back of my hand under my nose.

“Come on, Daddy,” I purr, looking up at him. I don’t want to follow his order. I want to finish him off. I want to feel him lose control.

But when I raise my hand to stroke his obviously eager cock, he tightens his grip on my hair. A lightning bolt sizzles from my chin to my thighs. He angles his wrist so I have no choice but to rise from the floor.

“No,” he says. “Youcome on.”

The pressure releases for a moment, just long enough for him to tug his boxer briefs from around his knees, to savagely tuck himself into his pants. Then, he’s pulling me around thekitchen counter, through the living room, and down the hall to the bedroom.

I finally realize what I said. But hewasfucking close. And if he thinks I’m going to change my entire vocabulary just to keep him satisfied, just to make him think he’s the boss of me…

“Strip,” he says once we’re standing in front of the bed.

“No fucking way,” I say, because I want to know what he’ll do.

I don’t expect him to dust his palms together, like he’s finished some dirty task. “No more games,” he says, stepping back. I must make some sound of protest, because he shakes his head. “I gave you three simple rules. And you couldn’t follow them for an hour. This was a bad idea. You’re not ready to be my little girl.”

A month ago, in Madden’s apartment, if you’d asked me if I got off on role-play, I would have laughed. Mind games like that are for weak, spineless men.

A week ago, in that joke of a hotel room, if you’d asked me if I liked calling Moran Daddy, I would have shrugged. It got him hot and bothered, and after everything we’d been through, we both needed to get laid.

But right now, at this very minute, in the bedroom of Aunt S’s apartment—where I first laced up a corset and figured out the pull I could have on men—I’m devastated.

I don’t know how this happened. I don’t know who I am. But at this moment, in this place, more than anything else in the world, I want to be Patrick’s little girl.

“Please,” I say. “Give me another chance.”

I’m wearing more clothes than usual. My lace bustier has opaque cups. My silk pants cover every inch from my waist to my ankles. My satin panties hide my bare pussy far more than the thongs I usually choose.

But Patrick’s eyes are as dark as charcoal, as hard and sharp as obsidian knives. And I flinch in front of him, because I’ve never felt more naked.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “Let me make you feel good. Let me help you finish.”

I don’t sayDaddy. I’m not allowed to sayDaddy.Not until I’ve made this up to him. Not until I’ve proven I can follow his rules.

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until my lungs start to burn. I’m stretched like a rubber band, almost at my breaking point. I’m waiting, waiting, waiting.

And finally, he turns to the bed. He grabs the duvet, the blanket, and the sheet, tugging hard enough to strip them all from the mattress at once. He snaps his fingers, the same way he did in the kitchen, kindling a tiny flicker of hope inside my belly.

“Strip,” he says again.

This time, I don’t weigh whether I should be sexy or sweet. I don’t debate wriggling my hips or fingering my nipples as I free them from their lace. I simply follow his command, shoes first, corset next, pants and panties last of all.

“On your back,” he says. “Middle of the bed.”

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