Page 52 of Her Irish Savage

I do it.

He straddles me then. His jeans are rough against the sides of my breasts. He’s still erect, and he gets harder as he pulls my arms above my head, as he lashes my wrists together and ties me to the iron headboard with his belt.

I raise my head, craning my neck as he steps into the closet. I hear the thud of his shoes hitting the floor, and the rasp of his zipper. I think I’m prepared when he comes back to the room naked, but then I realize he’s holding two neckties.

The black one, the one he wore to Da’s wake, loops around my right ankle, securing me to the footboard. The Fishtown one, from the funeral, anchors my left leg. He’s ruthless as he ties his knots, brutally efficient.

Muscles ripple beneath his lighthouse tattoo as he clenches his fist after a job well done. The scars stand out on his body, evidence of all the years he’s lived in the mob. His cock stands proud as he studies me from the foot of the bed.

I’m used to men staring at my body. I do everything Icanto make men notice me.

But Patrick’s gaze is different from all those other men. He’s looking at something more than my exposed pussy. He’s staring into my soul.

So I’m more than a little surprised when he climbs onto the bed and kneels between my thighs. “Tell me what you did wrong,” he says.

Back in the hotel, I would have laughed. I would have said I don’t have to play by his rules. I don’t have to do anything he demands.

But now I say, “I broke one of your rules.”

“Which rule?” He strokes the insides of my thighs with his fingertips, striping me with velvet fire.

Go to hell, I could tell him. But instead I say, “I’m not supposed to swear.”

His fingers find my folds. I’m so slick. So ready. “Why aren’t you supposed to swear?” he asks.

Don’t ask me—you made the fucking rule. That’s the first thing I think. But I say, “Because I’m your little girl.”

He sinks a finger into me, and I shudder from my toes to the roots of my hair. “Who makes the rules, little girl?”

Anyone who isn’t tied to the goddamn bed!But I say, “You do.” And I swallow before I add, “Daddy.”

He gives me another finger. My hips flex, straining to take him deeper. I think he’ll ask me another question, make me pay with another truth, but I must be doing something to satisfy him, because he slips in a third finger, hooking me, stretching me.

He fucks me with his hand, and I’ve never felt anything like it before. He is absolutely, completely fixated on filling me with his fingers. My own hands and feet are tied; I can’t do anything to reciprocate, anything to escape.

No other man has done this to me before. Sure, I’ve beentied up. But that was only so someone could shove his dick down my throat. Pound my cunt. Come inside my ass.

This is the first time in my life a man has concentrated on whatIwant. What I need.

When I lift my head, I can see a bead of precum gleaming in the light. He’s primed. He’s ready. But he isn’t using me.

Instead, he curls his fingers. He finds that patch of nerves deep inside me, the place I can never reach myself.

He strokes me, pressing hard. My toes point. The arches of my feet scream on the edge of cramps. And then he whispers, “You’remygood girl.”

And I come. I come screaming. I come gasping. I come straining my hips against his hand, wanting his fourth finger, wanting his thumb, wanting him to fist me, but instead he says, “That’s it, beautiful. That’s right, gorgeous. You’re so tight,Scáthach.So strong.”

His words fill me more than his hand ever could. They wrap inside me, curling up my spine. They knit into my bones.

“Give it to me, little girl. Give me all you’ve got. My good, good girl,” he murmurs, and I crash into a second orgasm.

I don’t know why I need this. I don’t know what makes his words spin inside me. I don’t know how he understands exactly what to say, what to do, but he completes me in a way I can’t explain.

I think he’ll untie me, once I’ve collapsed back to the mattress. But Patrick is a man who doesn’t believe in part measures.

He cages me with his body. Squeezing my hips between his knees, he strokes my throat, from my chin to the hollow between my collarbones. He pets me like I’m an animal. I can smell myself on his fingers, as he paints with my arousal.

My lips purse. I want to be back in the kitchen. I want to feel my mouth stretched by his cock. I want to fight to swallow him.

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