“Thank you, Daddy,” I moan, as the vibration makes my near climax return.
I moan and close my eyes as he sticks his finger inside my pussy hole while the vibrator shakes the outside of my clit.
“Come for Daddy now,” he says, taking his finger half way out of my pussy. “I want to see your juices running down into your daddy’s hand.”
My pussy quivers under the pleasure of the vibrator.
“That’s a good girl,” he says.
He takes the feather and runs it up and down my clit until I’m shaking.
“Daddy, it almost hurts…” I protest.
“I know, my sex slave. It’s too sensitive. I’ll give you a little break if you can answer my next question.”
He stops and I’m glad for the relief. My pussy is tingling and quivering still.
“Did you see anything in the alley?” he asks me.
I suppose my answer could do me in. But not answering could also do me in.
“I saw a man beating up another man,” I tell him.
“Good girl,” he says, stroking my hair while looking into my eyes. “I like these honest answers. Did you know either man?”
“No,” I tell him.
“Good girl.”
He spreads my legs even further open and gets down on the floor between them.
“Now I’m going to use my tongue to reward you for your honesty,” he says.
He licks all around my clit and into my pussy hole. I tighten my legs around his head because it feels so good. But he opens my legs back up wide and says, “Daddy likes to see your whole pussy while he eats its.”
I know now that everything will be okay. He isn’t here to hurt me. Somehow things will work out.
He nibbles and bites my clit and just as I’m about to come he stops and says, “Do you know what happened to either men in the alley?”
I shake my head, wanting him so badly to keep pleasuring me, but then I remember to say, “No, Daddy.”
He rubs my clit gently, and licks the entrance of my pussy hole.
“Two more questions and then I’ll let you come,” he says.
“Okay, Daddy.”
“Did you say anything to anyone at all about what you saw that day?” he asks.
“No, Daddy,” I answer, suddenly very glad I never told Monique or Tessa.
“Last question,” he says. “Do you plan to tell anyone?”
“No, Daddy,” I answer, truthfully.
I don’t want to talk to anyone about it. I don’t want to even think about it. If I could forget that night completely, I would be happy again. And I have a feeling that Gavin can help me do that.
“Good,” he says, nibbling on my pussy until I’m close to coming again. “I knew I could trust you to keep your mouth shut and your pussy open— only for me, of course.”
As his tongue pulses all around my clit I come again so completely and so fully that it feels like it might never stop. This feels like what love must be—emotionally, physically, spiritually. I am his and he is mine. I feel that in my core as I moan and say,
“I’m coming for you, Daddy. I’m coming for you.”
He puts his cock back in my mouth and I suck it again, feeling its wide girth filling up my mouth like it did my pussy earlier. He rams it down my throat while pulling my hair and saying, “You dirty, nasty little slut. You little sex slave of mine. For tonight. For always. You’ve gone and made me fall in love with you. And that fucking changes everything.”
His cock throbs in my mouth and I gulp down his come. Then he takes his cock out of my mouth and rubs his juices all over my face.
“I marked you, my sex slave,” he says. “You’re mine. For good.”
And I couldn’t be happier if I tried. This is the best St. Patrick’s Day ever.
Epilogue – Gavin
I wake up next to the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen: Jade with her hair all messy and my come still all over her.
I’ve taken her to my hotel, so that my dad can’t find us at the club. Last night after she’d fallen asleep I’d called trusted contacts and set up Plan As, Plan Bs and Plan Cs. All the stuff I’m used to doing— but usually I do it for my father. This time, it’s for me.
I know that I can make a successful break from him just as I’d successfully carried out all his assignments in the past. It’s time I put what he taught me to use for good in my own life, instead of bad.
I’m looking at Jade’s angelic face and thinking that I never even had the courage to act on my convictions until I met her, when she opens her eyes and looks into mine.
“Good morning,” I tell her, leaning down to kiss her hair.
“Morning,” she says. “Am I going to be tied up today?”
“Maybe,” I laugh. “But first I wanted to let you know some things.”
She leans into my chest and says, “Sure.”
“As you probably figured out, I came here to find out what you know,” I tell her. “I’m satisfied that you don’t know anything much. And even if you did, I’d protect you. Because, for reasons that are completely inexplicable to me, I love you.”
“I love you too, Gavin,” she says, looking up at me.
“What I was doing had way more to do with my father than it did with me,” I tell her. “But it was still wrong of me. I should have gotten out a long time ago. I didn’t know how good things could be until I met you.”
“I feel the same way,” she agrees. “You give me strength I didn’t even know I had.”
“I’m going to cut ties with my father,” I tell her. “I’ll reassure him that you don’t know anything but I’ll also make it clear that I’m done doing his dirty work. I don’t think he can do anything to hurt me from that far away. I have stuff on him. Stuff he wouldn’t want me to give up. But it probably means I can never go back to Ireland.”
“So what are you going to do?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I hint. “But I hear it’s a lot easier to stay in the States if you’re married to a citizen.”
“Is that a marriage proposal?” she asks, shaking her head in disbelief. But I can tell she likes the idea.
“Not yet,” I tell her. “It’s way too soon for that. I need to tie you up at least 27 more times and make sure I still have your loyalty.”
“Sounds good to me,” she agrees.
“But I know I love you enough to make big changes to be with you,” I tell her, in all seriousness. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe with me. You don’t have to worry about anything you may have seen.”
“Okay, good,” she says, letting out an audible sigh of relief.
“I’m cutting ties with the club too, because I’m done with that—and there’s no way my dad would let me keep it anyway, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. But don’t worry. I have a lot of money in it I’ve gotten out. You’ll still get paid your money.”
“You don’t need to pay me money,” she says.
“Well, we’ll just share all my money then,” I tell her.
She laughs.
“Okay, but I only need enough to help out my mom and sister. I’m going to become a professor of Irish literature. Especially if I don’t have to worry about paying the bills.”
“You won’t,” I tell her, smiling at the mention of her family.
Back when I was spying on her, I had heard her talking to and about them and I think that was one of the things that made me love her before I even realized that I loved her. She’s so giving and selfless, and she inspired me to become a better person.
“First things first, I need to call my dad,” I tell her. “And then you and I are going to have more sex.”
“Good,” she says. “Works for me.”
She takes out her own phone and flips through her contacts.
“And what are you going to do be doing in the meantime?” I ask her.
“I need to call Monique and Tessa and tell them how losing my virginity went,” she says.
&nb
sp; “Oh, and how did it go?” I ask her.
“Perfectly,” she says. “I’m going to tell them I found a middle ground between their two experiences. I had good sex with a stranger who happened to love me. And it didn’t ruin our relationship because there was none to ruin yet.”
I laugh and wink at her.
“And it won’t be ruined,” I tell her. “Because I’ll do everything I can to protect it.”
THE END.
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JENSEN: Book # 1 in The Bradford Brothers Series
Chapter 1
“Hey pretty lady, what are you doing here?”
An inmate in an orange jumpsuit presses up against the gate of his jail cell as he spits this question at me. Then he spreads his index and middle fingers across his mouth and wags his tongue at me through them.
I try not to grimace as I recoil at his leering gaze. Then I quickly turn my head away so as not to display my disgust and fear to the man’s face.
But the prisoner’s question is valid, and one that I’m asking myself right now in fact.
What am I doing here?
I’m not the kind of lawyer who works in a jail. Correction: I wasn’t that type of lawyer. Yet the fact remains that here I am walking into a gritty jail instead of a fancy high rise like I have for the past four years of my legal career.
I’m supposedly an up and coming lawyer at the law firm of Holt, Mason and Davis. My goal has been to make partner within the next couple of years. And I think I’ve achieved my goal so far, since I’m not only on the partnership track but according to my bi-annual evaluations, I’m doing sprints around all my fellow associates.
Except for my fiancé Brian, of course. But he doesn’t have to make much of an effort, considering that he’s the son of the firm’s founding partner Jack Holt. He doesn’t think I should be volunteering here, but he doesn’t understand what’s at stake if I don’t.
“Ms. Morrell, keep following me, this way please,” says Tim McDonald— or is it O’Donald?— as he leads me through the prison complex I’d never before entered. “We’re almost there.”
He must know that I’m strongly considering turning around and leaving. Maybe Brian was right— I don’t need to go to these lengths to impress the firm. There has to be something I can do that doesn’t involve trips to the local jail where I’m accosted by lecherous criminals.
But ever since my latest performance evaluation at the firm, Jack Holt’s words have been ringing in my memory.
“Your billable hours are great, your work is solid, your networking is as expected,” he’d told me. “But your pro bono hours are not on track with the other associates’, and the only misgivings expressed by any partner have related to your fit here with the firm.”
“My fit?” I’d asked, squirming in the oversized leather chair in the large conference room that had been occupied only by Mr. Holt and myself.
I’d wanted to ask how I was supposed to find time to do pro bono hours— volunteering to represent clients for free— when I already billed more hours than any other associate, year after year. But I assumed he expected me to figure that out on my own.
And I was intrigued— if not dismayed— by his use of the word “fit.” I needed to fit in at the firm; I needed to make it work. My parents had spent a lot of money on law school and would be furious at me if they knew I didn’t make partner because I didn’t “fit in.”
“As you know, Riley, this firm has a strong and proud military tradition,” Mr. Holt had continued. “And you’re the only associate who doesn’t have some tie with the military.”
I’d thought about it and realized he was right: many of the partners had served in the military before going to law school, and many of the associates were in the Reserves. There were lawyers who had gone to West Point, the Air Force Academy, who had been in JAG before being hired by the firm, and who regularly volunteered at the VA, helping with disability cases or access to health care.
Except for your son, I wanted to point out to Mr. Holt, because Brian was the only other associate with absolutely no connection to the military. But he didn’t count. Mr. Holt rarely spoke of my relationship with Brian at work, but when he did, it was to tell me that he’s glad his son hooked himself to a rising star: that I was good for Brian and could keep him on track.
The unspoken assumption was that the normal rules of associate standards did not apply to Brian. He was expected to go to happy hours and golf tournaments with the partners, not slave away as a billable hour drone like the rest of us. And apparently he didn’t need to have any military connection, although everyone else, including me, had to meet that requirement.
So it’s no wonder Brian doesn’t understand. When I began calling around to military legal service organizations where I could volunteer, the Veterans’ Legal Alliance was the only one that responded immediately. So I jumped on the opportunity to obtain a pro bono gig as quickly as possible.
Tim had explained to me that the VLA organization provides all types of legal services and representation to military veterans, and that usually means representing them in criminal trials. It’s a totally different world than I’m used to, but I’m open to anything that will help me become partner at the firm.
Now, Tim leads me to an open meeting room or visiting room of some type. A handful of inmates stand around speaking in hushed tones to each other, while others sit quietly by themselves.
“These are some of the men in our program, who are waiting to meet with their lawyers or be transported to the hearing room for their cases to be called,” Tim explains.
He sits down on a bench at one of the tables a few feet away from the men. I follow his lead and sit down at the bench on the other side of the table.
One of the prisoners catches my eye and I can’t help but stare. While the rest of the men have short, buzzed, military style haircuts, this man has a gruff, outdoorsy look: long hair and a long beard.
His short-sleeved jumpsuit reveals muscular pecs covered in tattoos. I can’t take my eyes off of a Día de los Muertos/ Day of the Dead tattoo on his right arm: it’s a colorful skull full of flowers and a cross.
The stranger returns my stare, his eyes the color of dark coal. I feel them burning into my pale blue eyes as if I’m Lot’s wife looking back on Sodom in a rebellious, forbidden act. I tear my eyes away from him and force myself to look at Tim, hoping that I won’t turn into a pillar of salt.
What in the world was that? I wonder, as a scourge of electricity curses through my veins. I cannot possibly have felt attracted to that… criminal. He’s not even my type.
I like nerdy, intellectual guys, not long-haired convicts covered in tattoos. And I’m engaged, I remind myself, as an after- thought. But I can’t seem to stop staring at his brown hair, brown eyes, and constantly flexed muscles.
“It’s amazing how many military personnel are arrested while serving or shortly thereafter,” Tim is explaining, handing me a thick binder full of information.
Veterans’ Legal Alliance, Inc., it reads on the front cover, and then: How to represent a service member or veteran charged with a crime in state criminal court.
“I’m not really knowledgeable about…” I begin, but Tim holds up his hand and smiles kindly at me.
“We know you don’t have criminal law experience,” he says, easing my fears. “But since you routinely handle complex commercial litigation and white collar crime- type fraud suits between business partners an
d the like, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it quickly. These kinds of cases are more difficult in some ways but the basic procedures will be a cakewalk for you. And we are here to train you and provide you with all the support and resources you need.”
“‘We’ being…?” I ask, looking around the room and noting the lack of any other lawyers.
I suddenly feel a presence immediately behind my right shoulder and jump, realizing that Mr. Not My Type is standing directly behind me. I’m not sure how long he’s been there. I feel goosebumps spring up all over my body, and it’s not because I’m afraid, or cold.
“Myself, as director of the organization,” Tim continues, “and all other staff and attorneys. I must admit we run a slim ship, which is due to the lack of willing personnel, but those that do help are incredibly passionate and talented at what they do.”
“I see,” I say, trying not to blush and hoping that Mr. Not My Type can’t tell what an inexplicitly powerful effect his presence has on me.
The inmate clears his throat and says, “Mr. McDonald?” in a polite yet bold tone of voice.
I can literally feel the hair standing up on the back of my neck, as if he had whispered his question right there in public, in one of my most intimate spots.
“Yes, Jensen?” Tim responds, with a smile. “Call me Tim. And this is Riley Morrell. She might be volunteering temporarily with our organization. Riley, this is Jensen Bradford.”
“Hello, Riley,” says Jensen, extending a well-built forearm in my direction. There’s something about the way he says my name that sounds so foreign and new, as if I’ve never been called it before in my life. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too,” I say, reaching out to meet his grasp.
He shakes my hand like a lumberjack and I wonder how tall he is. Definitely quite tall. But his eyes remain focused on Tim’s.
“Mr. McDonald,” he continues, dropping my hand and leaving it to feel suddenly completely empty. “I’m wondering if Dylan is here? He said he’d talk to me about my arraignment hearing before it starts, and that’s relatively soon.”
Sold on St. Patrick's Day: A Virgin and a Billionaire Romance Page 5
