The Irresistible Irishman: For St. Patricks Day (A Holiday Springs novel)

by MJ Fields

  “Think before you speak, Sarah. I can provide you with everything you want and more. And we both know that I was exactly who you were thinking about when drafting that email.”

  “I don’t want to be in a relationship. I don’t—”

  “Which is precisely why this is perfect, and, Sarah. It’s going to happen.” Before she can deny me, I shake my head. “Tell me you don’t want my hands on you.”

  She looks down submissively, and my cock swells.

  “Look at me.” I put my hand under her chin, lifting it gently. “Look in my eyes and tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “N-no.” She turns her head.

  “I’ll let it go this time. I won’t again.” I tilt her chin back up, keeping her eyes on mine. “I’ll have you on your knees, begging for my cock. I’ll have you in my bed, begging to come. And I will most certainly have you over my knee when you break the rules.” I lean in, my lips a mere inch from hers. “This, Sarah, is the look a man gives you while his cock is stiffening with desire to see you on your knees begging to taste his cum.”

  Her body trembles beneath my touch, and I release her, turn and walk over to grab the folder.

  Returning, I hand it to her. “Read it. Anything you care to discuss, we can. But once you sign it, I own your pleasures and your pain.”

  Hand shaking, she takes it.

  I step forward. My cock nudges her belly as I reach around and push the elevator button, my eyes not once leaving hers.

  “My car will be outside the employee entrance at five o’clock tomorrow night. We’ll discuss the particulars after dinner.”

  She clears her throat and looks up. “Are you asking as Beckett, or demanding as Mr. Hawthorne?”

  I run my knuckles over her cheek and watch her eyes grow heavy with lust as I answer her. “My sweet Sarah, you’ll soon discover we are one and the same.”

  I step back as the elevator dings announcing its arrival. “Make sure you take your lunch break.”

  She turns, steps in the elevator, and looks over her shoulder at me as the door begins to close.

  “Have a nice day, Caile.”

  At four o’clock my personal phone rings. I take a look at the caller before answering, “Hello, Ms. Newhouse.”

  “Just checking in, Mr. Hawthorne.”

  “Aye. What can you tell me?” I put down my newspaper, wanting to focus on what she has to say.

  “Well, she hasn’t reached out. And I have to honestly admit that after some thought on the matter, I’m not comfortable spying on my best—”

  “As my administrative assistant, there will be several things you may not feel comfortable doing, but it’s part of your job description. And, Ms. Newhouse, I’m not asking you to spy. I’m telling you that you are to let Ms. Golden know that you’re aware I am seeking an…unconventional and very private relationship with her. You’ll let her know that I approve dialogue between you and her once this comes to fruition, and, Ms. Newhouse, it will.”

  “And if it doesn't?” She has some edge to her voice, and for some reason, that makes me happy. I guess I’m glad Sarah has a friend who cares for her.

  Still, somewhat annoyed, I humor her. “Then you’ll be my administrative assistant who will never be tasked with such things as dress and shoe shopping for another. The only reason I require it now is that Sarah may need a confidante, and I would prefer not to ask her such things as her bra size.” I scratch my head in thought. “Although I am quite sure it’s a 34C.”

  “And her shoe size?” she asks with amusement evident in her voice.

  “Seven.”

  “You’re good. Very attentive and—”

  “Let’s keep this professional, Ms. Newhouse.”

  “Of course, Mr. Hawthorne. Is there anything else I can do from home?”

  “That is all for the week. The rest, I plan to handle.”

  Chapter Nine

  Yeder eyzl hot lib tsu hern vi er aleyn hirzet.

  (Every ass likes to hear himself bray.)

  -Yiddish proverb

  Sarah

  I get home, kick off my heels, and unbutton my blouse before dropping down on the couch like a rag doll. I need wine, stat. I pull myself up and walk into my kitchen, taking out a bottle of red from my cabinet and opening it with efficiency. Reaching up, I grab a glass and fill it up. Thank you, Napa Valley. Taking it back to the couch, I set it on the side table and finally whip out the contract from inside my purse.

  Contract of Voluntary and Total Submission

  No! I’m not ready to read this yet. I set it down on the coffee table and drink my wine like it’s water. I’m not going to do what he thinks I would do, namely, come home and immediately read this contract line for line, positively hanging on every word. Just because he’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and just because he reawakened me, and just because he’s smart and nice, doesn’t mean I’m just going to bend over and say yes, sir. I look up at the ceiling, praying I’ll have the strength to read this contract and have conviction about whatever decision I make.

  Oh, who am I kidding? If I’m going to read this, I need all the courage I can muster. When the wine is done, I breathe a sigh of relief. The day is finished, I’m alive, and I’ll be okay. I look around at my small studio, proud that it’s mine. No, it’s not fancy, but my rent is paid to the penny. It’s also very tidy, just like my parents always taught me to be. My bookshelves line the wall adjacent to my bed, filled with my favorite classics and the more recent books I’ve been reading, which I bought in paperback in addition to my ebook versions. Beside the television, I put up white shelves that are filled with photos of my parents and friends. It reminds me that I’m not some weak girl without any friends or family. I’m educated. I’m smart. And I have a job. Even if I decided to quit after reading this contract, I believe I’ll be able to find something else.

  Suddenly, I have a pang for my father. I pick up my cell and dial him.

  “Hi, honey!” he greets enthusiastically.

  “Hey, Dad. How’s Florida?”

  “It’s good. Spent the day at the golf course with Jim Hadanberg. Weather was perfect. How’s your new job going?”

  “It’s okay. One of the owners of Hawthorne Hotels & Resorts came to town, so everyone is on their best behavior.”

  “Is he American?”

  “Nope. Irish, actually.”

  “Huh. That’s nice, I guess. Tell him your old man would love to join his club in Palm Beach. It’s very exclusive, you know. Not for the likes of a man like me. But who knows, maybe if you have an in, you can ask him.”

  “Sure thing.” My heart warms. “He seems like a decent guy. You’d like him, actually.” I lift the hem of my blouse, gliding over it with my thumb.

  “Would I?”

  “Yes. He’s fancy but not pretentious.”

  My father is silent, and I hold my breath. My father has always had a sixth sense when it comes to me, and suddenly I’m wondering if he can tell through the phone line that I’m grappling with something—or thinking of something. Hopefully, he can’t tell that I’m about to read a damn Non-Disclosure Agreement given to me by said owner because he wants to dom—

  “Your mom hated pretentious.” He laughs. “Remember the steak house, Peter Lugers? She made that reservation two months in advance but forced us to leave early because of those asshole waiters.”

  I laugh out loud. “Yeah. I was so mad at the time. Embarrassed to leave the dining room.” I blink quickly a few times, picturing my mother so clearly. My father in his wrinkled suit, having come straight off the train to the restaurant. My mom wearing her best pearl earrings and a white dress with blue flowers, feeling weak from chemo but wanting us to have a night out on the town. She wore the brunette wig that night, the one that scratched her scalp but looked the best.

  “Me, too. We stayed long enough to see those thick cuts of steak make it to our neighbors but not long enough to enjoy it ourselves.” He chuckles.

&n
bsp; “We should go back sometime. Have a glass of wine and finally finish the meal. For her.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “We should.”

  “All right, sweetheart. The news is coming on, and I want to watch it. Crazy world we’re in!”

  “You got that right. Bye, Dad. Love you.”

  “Love you more.”

  Finally, I lift the pages in my hand. It’s time.

  Agreement between Beckett Hawthorne, the Dominant, and Sarah Golden, the Submissive.

  Forty minutes later…

  Jesus Christ. Moses. God. What is this? My fingers are itching to call one of my friends, but I’m not even sure that’s the right move. Strangely enough, I feel like regardless of whether or not I even entertain this contract, I don’t want to embarrass Beckett by having others know about his sexual desires. Clearly, this is a private thing. Dominant? Submissive? I mean, sure, I’ve read all the books. Basically memorized Fifty Shades. But could this really be me?

  I think back on all the giddy laughter between me, Faith, and now Julia as well, about my favorite romance characters. All the dominant fictional men I’ve touched myself, thinking about. Is that fantasy really here? It’s like the most twisted up wish on earth, coming true. Should I say thank you and jump into this, if only for the experience? Clearly, Beckett is a beast in the bedroom. And that was without any play. Sure, it was hot. But it was normal. How would it be with this added element?

  Let me just go through each section bit by bit and see how I feel about it. I take out my phone and open up the notes section so that I can keep track of my thoughts, feelings, and questions.

  Reading through, it’s looking okay…well, actually, I guess it’s nice that he understands employment ranks above him. I can go with that. But I’ll definitely have to tell him that my friendships are still meaningful to me, and so is my private time.

  As far as the public part goes, I don’t mind dressing nicely when we’re together. Even without the contract, I would want him to feel proud to be next to me.

  Orgasm control? Really? I exhale, rubbing the back of my neck. I mean, clearly he’s generous with them, right? I let out a shudder, remembering just how generous indeed Beckett was. He was also generous with kissing me and going down on me...

  God.

  ‘You’ll soon discover, we are one and the same,’ rings its reminder inside my head.

  I read the punishment section and try not to cringe as my stomach flips. I unlock my phone 1-2-3-4, and type out: Punishment - this is scary. I need to know that I won’t actually get hurt. Nipple pinching? Slapping? My parents never lifted a finger to me in my life! The closest I’ve ever been to being slapped is reading about it. No, I don’t think that’s going to work for me. The whole bruised ass thing is just too much.

  I keep reading and pause, feeling ill.

  Quickly, I type out: Limits-everything listed should be considered hard. Too hard. No! Hell no! Fisting? Gross! Could Beckett really be into that kind of thing?

  I drop the folder onto the coffee table, needing distance from it, feeling…dirty.

  I need to take a shower. This is crazy. Am I nuts? Yes. No. Gah! I’m finishing this contract, damnit. And finish I do.

  When I’m done, I pour myself another glass of wine. I don’t normally do this…drink on a weeknight, but the circumstances feel warranted. I get that maybe God wants me to live life and all that, but I never signed up for a Fifty-Shades real-life enactment! I mean, isn’t it enough that I’ve just found out that the owner of one of the most expensive hotel chains worldwide is the same man that brought my libido back to life? Suddenly it dawns on me that Faith should have told me, shouldn’t she? I mean, who sets a best friend up with a guy without letting her know that he’s a gazillionaire! Maybe she doesn’t know about his fetishes, fine. But the money part? I sort of feel like I’ve been lied to.

  I pick up the phone and dial Faith, who answers right away. “Hey there! Tell me you’re calling to set up your next visit.”

  “Beckett Hawthorne,” I say his name like a curse.

  “Yeah, uh...That’s his full name.” She clears her throat like she knows something is about to go down.

  “You never told me that the Irresistible Irishman you set me up with was Beckett Hawthorne!”

  “Okay, that’s true. But if I gave you those details, you never would have let down your hair, or jeans for that matter, and just ‘Let it happen.’ You wouldn't have had your night of fun.” Pause. “Am I right, or am I right?”

  “Maybe you’re right, but I feel…”

  “You feel what? Who even cares, anyhow? He’s gone. He did his job to reawaken you, and then he left.”

  “Well.” I take a seat on my couch. “Not exactly.”

  “Is he still in the picture? Since when?” I hear something rustling in the background and then a door closing.

  “Well, you know how Julia got me the job at the Smithsonian hotel? Well, said hotel has now been purchased by Hawthorne Hotels & Resorts. And said owner of hotel flew to Aspen today to make sure that things were going as they should.”

  “Oh. My. God. He’s your boss?!”

  “Yes. Well, no, not technically just my boss. He is the owner of the hotel I work for. The one who makes the cogs go. The big man upstairs. The—”

  “Listen,” she starts, cutting me off. “It could be worse.”

  “Could it, though? I left him a stupid note after our night together. And then I sent these emails to Julia…” I tell her all about the ridiculous emails we sent to each other, which of course, were never meant to be seen by anyone other than us.

  “Look—I get it. You’re embarrassed. But knowing Beckett, he probably read them and laughed his ass off. You’re not fired, so that’s good. Just don’t do it again.”

  “But—” I pause, the entire story sitting at the edge of my tongue. I want to tell her about the contract. I want to tell her to tell me what to do because clearly, I can’t make any rational decisions in my state. But the words won’t come.

  “But…” she parrots me, waiting for me to continue.

  “But nothing. I’m just embarrassed, is all.”

  “Well, it’s definitely an interesting chain of events. I’ll give you that.”

  “Look, I gotta get in the shower.” I look down at my feet, knowing that I’ve got some serious soul searching to do. “Let’s talk tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good. Bye, babe.”

  Chapter Ten

  However long the day, the evening will come.

  -Irish proverb

  Beckett

  “No kilt this evening, Mr. Hawthorne?” Alfred is completely expressionless, but I can tell that he’s being sarcastic with me. I don’t often wear a kilt, but I learned that it was something of a fantasy for her through that email. And the look on her face when she saw me wearing it yesterday made the whole thing worth it.

  “I’ve no idea why I keep you around, old man,” I grumble as I bend down to tie my shoe.

  He takes my jacket off the hanger and helps me to put it on. “You certainly do.”

  He’s right.

  Alfred is always right. He was my father’s driver and right hand. As I became a young man and raised hell with the lasses, my father insisted he accompany me—or at the very least be close by—to ensure I didn’t smear the family name.

  “Right you are. You’ve always been there to hand me a condom or an NDA.”

  “That’s what I’m paid for.” He looks at his watch. “And to make sure you’re on time. You have eight minutes.”

  I grip his shoulder. “Let’s not make her wait.”

  I watch behind tinted glass as she exits the hotel. She looks around nervously, worried someone will see her getting into my vehicle or perhaps she’s nervous about getting into the vehicle with me. Sure, I was a little aggressive yesterday. But I’m not a man who hides or pretends. I’m a dominant man as it is. When it comes to something I want? I don’t stop until I get it.

  When Alfre
d gets out and walks around the SUV to open the door for her, she straightens her back and holds her head high, her nose slightly in the air. I like seeing her walking with confidence nearly as much as I adore her blush.

  Alfred opens the door for her and steps back. “Good evening, Ms. Golden.”

  “Good evening, Alfred.” She slides in but takes care not to get too close to me. When the car door shuts, she looks at me and nods. “Beckett.” Then she looks straight ahead.

  Beckett, huh?

  “How was your day, Caile?”

  Still looking straight ahead and not at me. “My name is Sarah. And I would say it was productive.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  She clears her throat while placing her purse on her lap and then opens it. She proceeds to pull out the red folder, and my dick starts to stiffen in anticipation.

  Then she turns in her seat and holds the folder out to me.

  I take it, trying not to show her how nervous I am. It’s not usual that I’m met with resistance. “I assume it’s signed?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “I’ve made a few minor changes.”

  I open the folder and see a giant X over the first page.

  Not at all what I expected. I lean forward. “Alfred, we’re ready to go.”

  I sit back, loosen my tie, and flip the page.

  Another red X.

  Each page is X’ed out, and when I finally flip to the last one, I have to hold back a smirk. She’s drawn up her own. It’s handwritten on flowery stationery.

  “As you can see, I’ve taken the liberty to draw up my own contract.”

  “Oh, yes, I certainly can see that.” I toss it on the seat beside me as I turn to face her. “Tell me, what exactly were your issues with mine?”

  “I happen to like my name. I won’t presume being called anything else would turn me on. And there is nothing you could do to ever,” she pauses before emphasizing the word, “ever, make me lose my mind enough to enjoy being slapped, spat upon, or fisted.” Her cheeks instantly flush after the word fisted leaves her pretty lips. She swallows hard before continuing. “When it comes to our names, I have no issue calling you Mr. Hawthorne while at work, but if we’re in a sexual—”