Page 69 of Her Irish Savage

I wear them for three days straight, only taking them off to shower, every morning and every night.

When I come out of the bathroom on Wednesday morning, my body is wrapped in a towel. My hair, too. His clothes, the ones I’ve been wearing, aren’t on the bed where I left them.

Patrick leans against the closed bedroom door, his armscrossed over his chest. He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt that’s a twin to the one I’ve had on. His feet are bare on the hardwood floor.

My heart starts to jackrabbit, but I tell myself I’ll be fine. I’ll just get a different T-shirt. I cross to the dresser and open the drawer where he keeps his clothes.

“Don’t touch my feckin’ things.” His voice is mild, like he’s commenting on the weather.They say it might rain today. It’s hot for this time of year.

“I’ll wash them with my laundry,” I say. The cool khaki of a T-shirt and the clean white cotton of his shorts vibrate against my fingertips.

“Put those down, or there’ll be consequences.”

I snort a little, because the type of game he’s talking about seems ridiculous now. Turning my back to him, I pull the boxer briefs on under my towel. Once my ass is covered, I feel more comfortable baring my back so I can pull on his T-shirt.

I’ve dropped my towel, and I’m about to pull his shirt over my head when his arms close around me from behind. His fingers circle my wrists. “You’re not very good at following rules, little girl,” he growls by my ear.

I don’t fight him. I don’t want him thinking this is a game. “I’m not your little girl,” I say.

He kicks my towel out of the way. When he pulls me closer against his body, his abs flex against my back. His forearms tighten around my ribs, pulling my hands up to my chest. The storm clouds that surround his lighthouse tattoo look like they’re leaking from the side of my breast.

“Let me go,” I say.

He lowers his lips to my neck, to the pulse point beneath my jaw. I squirm to escape his kiss, twisting around to face him. The clean T-shirt I’m trying to put on is crumpled in my fist.

“Stop it,” I say, but he only pulls me closer. “Dammit, Patrick! Leave me alone!”

I push at his shoulders, and he lets me go. I take two stepsback, until the mattress hits behind my knees. I try to cover my chest with his shirt.

He asks, “What’s going on, little girl?”

“What’s going on?” I laugh a little as I repeat his question. He’s not going to leave until he makes me say it out loud, so I might as well choke out the words and get him to leave me alone. “I’m gross. That’s what’s going on.”

I don’t like the look on his face, the softness, the kindness. It scrapes something slimy that pools beneath my lungs. I’ve made a mistake these past few days, hiding inside soft clothes. Right now, I’d give anything to be laced into my sexiest corset, to be poured into one of my vinyl dresses. I need the armor. I need the defense.

It’s too late to build a wall with clothing, so I try for the next best thing: words. “The pussy you said was the prettiest you’ve ever seen? It’s disgusting.I’mdisgusting.”

“That’s enough,” he says, and I didn’t realize I was shouting until I hear how quiet he is.

I try to retreat when he closes the distance between us, but there’s no place left to go. I flinch when his palm cups my face, when his fingers frame my cheekbone. I try to turn my head away, but he won’t let me.

“You got sick,” he says. “And you did the responsible thing. You went to the doctor, and now you’re cured. You’re not disgusting. You just had sex with someone who’d had sex with someone else.”

“Fucking Madden Kelly,” I say, filling the words with ten days of venom.

“Language, little girl,” Patrick says.

It’s a warning. He’s told me he doesn’t want me swearing in bed. It’s a test, too, because we’re not in bed yet, and he wants to know if I’ll take the gift he’s giving me. And it’s a promise, because if I accept, he’s going to fuck me. And this time, there won’t be any sleeve of latex between us.

I lick my lips. I close my eyes. I feel him waiting, waiting, waiting. And finally, I force myself to say, “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

He shifts his hand to the towel that covers my hair and gently, gently, he works the terrycloth loose. Wrapping his fingers in my damp hair, he pulls me close for a kiss.

This time, I go. I let his mouth heat against mine. I let him tilt my head to a better angle. I let his tongue force open my lips.

My knees start to buckle, and he follows me down to the bed. He lets me pull his T-shirt over his head, lets me toss it onto the floor. But when I go for the zipper on his jeans, he pushes my hands away.

His denim-clad leg presses between mine, and my knees drop to either side. He tightens one hand on my hair and slips the other inside the fly of the boxer briefs I wear.

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