CHAPTER 10
Nora checked the time on the clock in her bedroom and made a quick mental calculation. Sunset hit at about nine o’clock and it was just six. She still had three hours to kill before Michael’s first session. She didn’t want to have sex with Griffin first. Knowing him, he’d wear her out and she wouldn’t have as much to give Michael. Too wound up to write, she decided to do the next best thing.
Digging into her purse, she found her cell phone and hit number three on her speed dial. A slightly groggy voice answered after three rings.
“Nora, do I need to remind you that it’s midnight in England?” came Zach Easton’s sexy British accent over the line.
“Were you dreaming about me again?” she teased as she sat on the floor and stretched her legs out in a V.
“God, I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I?”
“Your fault for telling me you had a sex dream about me,” she said, leaning over to stretch her back. A few weeks ago, Zach had sounded a little odd on the phone when she’d called him one morning. He’d confessed he’d just woken up from an intensely sexual dream about her. They’d been back at her S&M club, The 8th Circle, and playing in her old dungeon. She never got it out of him exactly what they’d been doing, but it must have been pretty steamy for him to tell her he needed a good five minutes alone before they could finish their conversation.
“I shall never do it again, I assure you,” Zach groused but Nora heard the smile in his voice.
Nora flipped over and raised her hips off the ground.
“I had this dream the other night that I was eating oysters at Sacred Heart, and Søren rode in on a unicorn. I thought it meant something, but when I told him about it, he said I wasn’t allowed to eat Cajun food before bed anymore. That man has no respect for Jungian archetypes.”
Zach sighed. “Yes, well, Gracie and I have the same problem.”
“Speaking of your wife, where is she? I want to ask her how to say ‘Roughly from behind’ in Welsh.”
“Gracie’s in the bathroom taking her temperature.”
“She has to do that in the bathroom?”
Zach coughed. Nora understood.
“Oh…I see. Also, now I’m wondering if they make butt plugs with built-in thermometers. You know, for when you might have a slight fever and the urge for anal penetration.”
“Your mind is both fascinating and repulsive,” Zach said.
“Thank you. I try. I’m guessing you two are still attempting to conceive?”
“Hence the constant temperature taking.”
“Try dominating Grace in bed.” Nora lowered her hips to the floor and twisted her knees to the side.
“Is kink your answer for everything, Eleanor?”
Nora winced at the use of her birth name. Retaliation was in order.
“No, Zechariah. It’s just the answer for everything sexual. For male dominants, kink causes a testosterone surge. That can up your sperm count. For female submissives, kink can cause the body to release opiate-like hormones. She relaxes deeply. Makes conceiving easier when you’re less stressed. There is a method to my madness. Tie her up. Knock her up. Doctor’s orders.”
“You may very well be my new favorite doctor.”
“You’re welcome. You can borrow my speculum. Borrow only. You have to give it back.” Nora twisted her legs to the other side and let out a small grunt of pain-pleasure as her back loudly popped.
“Are you having sex right now?” he asked in response to the sound.
“Nope. Just doing some pre-sex stretching,” she said, turning over into a yoga downward-dog position. “I’m fucking a teenager tonight. Gotta be prepared.”
“Fucking a teenager?” Zach asked, laughing. “Good to hear both you and Wesley have moved on.”
At the mention of Wesley’s name, Nora dropped the phone and collapsed onto her side.
She heard Zach saying her name and she grabbed the phone off the floor.
“Nora? Everything all right?” Zach asked.
“What did you say about Wesley?” she asked, her hands almost shaking. “Do you talk to him?”
She heard Zach exhale heavily. “I’m sorry. I’m still half-asleep. I shouldn’t have said anything. Yes, Wesley and I exchange emails on occasion. He said you won’t answer his calls so he emails me to check on you.”
Nora pulled herself off the floor and sat on the edge of her bed.
“You still talk to Wesley,” she repeated, stunned by the news. It never once occurred to her that Zach and Wesley would stay in touch.
“Just an email every few weeks,” Zach said. “He worries about you.”
“Why?” she asked, her heart pounding against her rib cage.
“Why? Oh, I don’t know. You’re sleeping with a sadist?”
“Søren’s the best man on the face of the earth,” Nora said sharply.
“You say that and I want to believe you,” Zach said. “And if any woman on the face of the earth can handle being with such a man, it’s you. But Wesley’s a teenage boy and rather romantically inclined. He simply sees Søren as dangerous and violent.”
Closing her eyes, Nora pictured Wesley’s face the last time she saw it. His beautiful golden-brown eyes had turned bloodred with unshed tears. His lips that she’d kissed too few times had gone bloodless. Her handsome, sweet-faced boy disappeared and was replaced by a broken man.
“He’s not a teenager anymore,” Nora said, her voice soft and hollow. “He turned twenty on September 9th. Did you know I’d already decided on his birthday present?”
“No, I didn’t,” Zach said, his voice flush with sympathy.
“I was going to surprise him with a trip to the Virgin Islands. Just me and him. I planned on teasing him that while we were there, we could change the island’s name.”
Zach laughed. “Why am I not surprised?”
“You said he moved on,” Nora said, suddenly remembering Zach’s words.
“Nora, let’s not talk about this.”
“What did you mean, ‘Glad to hear both you and Wesley have moved on’?” Nora demanded, putting her dangerously good memory to use.
“You’re sleeping with a teenager tonight. Yes? Or was that a joke? I can never tell with you,” Zach teased awkwardly.
“I am. I’m training a new submissive. The training will be rather thorough,” she said, matching false levity with false levity.
“Well,” Zach began and paused. And in that pause Nora’s stomach clenched into a knot so tight it formed a tiny diamond that shone bright with agony. “Wesley has a girlfriend. She’s a little older than he.”
Nora swallowed.
“Who is she?” Nora asked, trying not to let the sorrow and anger she felt with unreasonable force seep into her voice.
“I believe he said her name is Bridget. She’s his father’s secretary, apparently.”
“Bridget?” Nora repeated, snorting a little in disgust. “Sounds like a high-functioning moron. I’ve yet to meet a woman named Bridget who could read.”
“This isn’t some latent jealousy talking, is it?” Zach asked. Nora heard something in the background, the sound of a woman’s voice. She heard the soft sound of a mattress sighing and knew Zach’s wife, Grace, had gotten back into bed with him.
“No,” Nora said. “Of course not. Are they sleeping together?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him that. Have you considered answering the phone the next time he calls?”
Nora nodded and then remembered she and Zach were on the phone.
“I’ll think about it. Søren wants me to. He thinks I need to make peace with my past.”
“Then I’ll say something I never thought I’d ever say in my life—I agree with Søren.”
Nora gave a little rueful laugh.
“Here, Grace wants to speak with you,” Zach said and she heard him whisper something and pass the phone.
“Nora? Are you all right?” came Grace’s lilting Welsh-accented voice over the line.
“I’m fabulous. I was just flirting with your husband while you were out of the room.”
“I don’t blame you. He’s looking quite nice tonight. I can’t tell you what he’s wearing because he’s not wearing anything,” Grace teased and Nora smiled finally, a real genuine smile.
“You’re torturing me, Grace,” Nora said, impressed. She still couldn’t believe how cool Grace was with her continued friendship with Zach. The ocean between them probably helped. “I think you might be a sadist. I approve of this.”
“I really do want to meet this mysterious priest of yours.”
“We’ll have a foursome next time you and Zach come to the States.”
“Capital idea,” Grace said before bidding her good-night. Nora hung up and dropped the phone back into her bag. For a long time she stared around her room, stared without seeing anything.
Wesley…a girlfriend? An older woman? His father’s secretary?
Wait, Nora thought. From what Wesley told her, his father worked as a trainer on a horse farm. Horse trainers had secretaries? And gorgeous young men who could have any girl they wanted dated older women for one reason only—sex.
Nora heard a knock on her door. She turned her head and saw Griffin standing in her doorway wearing nothing but well-fitting dark gray boxer briefs.
“I’m going to go check on Mick, okay?” Griffin said. Nora vaguely remembered ordering Michael to stay in his room all day as a punishment for doing absolutely nothing wrong since arriving at Griffin’s. He needed to make some mistakes or she wouldn’t have an excuse to punish him.
“Fine,” Nora said as she rose off the bed.
“And then I’m going to tie him up and fuck him,” Griffin said, apparently deciding to press his luck.
“Fine,” Nora said again as she wandered around the room.
“Groovy.” Griffin started to leave but she stopped him when she remembered something.
“Yes, mistress?” he asked, smiling.
“This house. This place was a horse farm once, right?”
“Yeah,” Griffin said. “When my grandfather was younger, they raised Thoroughbreds here. I sold all the horses when I got the place. Horse racing can be pretty gruesome.”
“The horse trainers, did they have secretaries?”
Griffin furrowed his handsome brow at her.
“No. Not that I know of. Just my grandfather, but he owned the place.”
Nora nodded and Griffin left her doorway. She saw him heading toward the nursery wing. Shaking her head, she tried to dislodge the dark thoughts that fluttered around her mind like angry bats. She couldn’t dwell on Wesley right now. She had Michael to think of. Of course Wesley had a girlfriend now. Tall and handsome, smart and sweet, Wesley was a catch. What had she expected him to do? She had kicked him out of her house and given herself—heart, body and soul—back to Søren. Did she think Wesley would just sit around waiting for her to come back to him for the rest of his life?
No, she hadn’t thought that. But she had secretly hoped it.
Nora took a deep breath. Grief, she told herself, naming the sensation that took over her body at the moment. Søren had taught her this trick years ago. If she could name her feelings, enumerate them, label them, she could distance herself from them, make them objects separate from her. Burning. Stinging. Aching. Bruising. Giving her agony a name gave her mastery over it. An old S&M trick for controlling pain, she used it now. Sorrow, she told herself. Irrational, stupid, feminine sorrow.
An image flared up in her mind, an image of her sweet, virginal Wesley naked and burying himself inside another woman, thrusting into her, coming inside her.
Jealousy, Nora named the new feeling. Raging jealousy.
Nora took another deep breath. She sucked in her pain, her misery, held it in her stomach and pushed it out of her nose. Michael. She repeated his name in her head. He had to be her focus tonight. As she opened her eyes, she caught a glimpse of a bundle of white paper sitting on her bedside table. Michael’s checklist. Picking it up, she skimmed through Michael’s answers. Underneath the section on S&M, Griffin had left her a note.
Mick’s not just a sub. He’s a masochist too. Can I have him when you’re done with him?
A subtle line existed between submissives and masochists. Submissives enjoyed submitting even if they hated the pain part of the process. But masochists not only liked submitting to pain, they got off on it.
Good, Nora thought, putting the checklist aside. Tonight, for some reason, she felt like beating the holy living hell out of somebody.
* * *
Michael Dimir—Suzanne typed the name into her Google search bar and paused before hitting Enter.
For days now Suzanne had avoided researching the kid who’d tried to kill himself at Sacred Heart. It hurt too much to think about, hit too close to home. But she couldn’t avoid it anymore. After one meeting with Father Stearns, she’d discovered he was a man to be reckoned with. Even now, sitting alone in her apartment, her body recalled the fissure of shock she’d experienced upon seeing the priest for the first time. And when they’d spoken, she’d had the distinct impression he was playing her, toying with her. He’d been expecting a reporter—that much was obvious. And he hadn’t betrayed the slightest flicker of fear or nervousness around her. Even the purest innocent got a little nervous around a reporter. Who the hell was this priest?
Suzanne pressed Enter and started sorting through all the hits. She hated herself for digging up dirt on a kid. But she kept hitting a wall with Father Stearns. Maybe she’d have better luck with one of his parishioners.
Nothing came up about the suicide attempt, of course. A minor at the time, the newspapers would have withheld his name. His name—Dimir…young Michael must be of Eastern European stock, she decided. She’d known a couple of Dimirs during her two-month stint in Romania and Serbia. That’s it, she told herself. Keep it professional, keep it vague, keep it impersonal. Don’t think about him as a person, as a kid, as a Catholic kid who loved the church and trusted his priest and who…
With an angry swipe of her hand, Suzanne wiped tears off her face. She slammed her laptop shut before even getting one piece of information about Michael Dimir. Immediately she felt better. If Michael Dimir had attempted suicide for the reason she believed he did, then the last thing she wanted to do was violate him again. She had to keep her focus on her target, and her target’s name was Father Marcus Stearns.
She stared at her closed laptop and knew opening it would be futile. Someone once defined insanity as trying the same thing over and over again while expecting different results. No amount of internet stalking would get her anywhere closer to the truth about Father Stearns.
Although she no longer believed in God, Suzanne knew she was doing His work right now. Someone somewhere knew something about Father Stearns, something bad enough to send her an anonymous tip about him. Why her, she had no idea. A thousand investigative reporters lived in the New York area. She’d never worked as anything but a war correspondent. Perhaps whoever sent the tip knew someone brave, someone unafraid of war zones would be needed to get to the truth. And war zones she knew. She’d been in a dozen of them—Sudan, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq… Bombs had exploded around her, she’d seen soldiers get ripped apart by IEDs right in front of her eyes. But never until now had she experienced the sort of real fear she’d felt when standing in front of Father Stearns. She wouldn’t let herself be intimidated. Not by one man. Not when she’d walked into battle zones wearing nothing but camos and a camera. She would go back to church. She had to.
The phone rang and jarred Suzanne from her dark, determined reverie.
“Patrick,” she breathed when she answered. “I’m so sorry—”
“Don’t,” he said sheepishly and she sagged with relief. For some reason, she’d been a wreck since her fight with Patrick. Now that they’d broken up, she stressed more about him than when they were officially together. “It’s my fault. You’ve been back in the States for like five minutes and I’m all over you to commit. That wasn’t cool of me, and I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I promise. You mean so much to me,” she said, knowing the words weren’t as good as “I love you,” but it was all she had for him right now. “Let’s forget about it.”
“No, I don’t want to forget about it. Let me make it up to you. Dinner? No sex required, I promise. But if you insist,” he said and laughed nervously.
Suzanne smiled, grateful beyond words for his call, his apology, for his presence in her life that kept her from succumbing to the grief that threatened to overwhelm her at times.
“Dinner sounds lovely. But actually, you can make it up to me in another way,” she said, staring at her closed and useless laptop.
“Anything,” he pledged.
She’d spent the past eight years in countries with bombs and guns and death all around her. If she could face enemy armies she could face one Catholic priest.
“I need to borrow your car again.”
* * *
Michael adjusted his position just slightly to better capture the fading evening sun. His pencil flew over the paper as he traced a series of curving lines. He paused, looked at his work, erased one line and redrew it. As he turned closer to the window he inhaled and caught a whiff of something in the air. He breathed the scent in again—sort of spicy but also subtle and masculine. It wasn’t cologne or anything that strong. Just…Michael inhaled again and closed his eyes…just mouthwatering. God, whatever it was, he wanted to smell it for the rest of his life.
“Damn,” came a voice over his shoulder, making Michael jump in surprise. He turned his head and came face-to-face with Griffin, who stood next to him wearing nothing but boxer briefs. At least he knew the source of that incredible smell now. Michael stared at him in silence for a moment and took in the lack of clothes and the wet hair. Griffin had just gotten out of the shower obviously, and that incredible scent came from his skin. “You drew that?”
Griffin took Michael’s sketchbook from him and sat opposite him on the bench in the bay window.
“It’s not done.” He reached out to grab his book back, but Griffin raised his finger at him, and Michael dropped his hands.
“Submit, submissive,” Griffin said, stretching out his legs next to Michael. “I’m not your dom, but I am a dom, so behave.”
Michael repressed the urge to do the Nora thing and growl at Griffin.
“It’s not finished,” Michael repeated, pulling his legs tight to his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees. Griffin looked at him, set the sketchbook aside and grasped Michael by the ankles.
“What the—?” Michael began as Griffin yanked Michael’s legs out straight in front of him.
“You are out of control with the fetal-position thing,” Griffin said with obvious exasperation. “You are allowed to take up space, Mick. Every time you get the least bit stressed out, you pull up into this tiny ball and practically disappear. An impressive feat considering how tall you are.”
“Sorry,” Michael said, trying to relax. “I get nervous and I…” He tried to explain further but words failed him.
“You turn into a hedgehog,” Griffin said. “Self-protective measure. But you’re with me right now. Put the spikes away and chill. You don’t have to protect yourself. I’m not going to hurt you. Not even in the fun way, okay?”
Michael’s heart contracted and then expanded hard enough he felt it at Griffin’s words. He couldn’t believe someone with Griffin’s sheer physical presence, not to mention all his money, would treat Michael with such… Michael tried to come up with a good word for it. With such care.
Slowly Michael smiled. “Okay.”
“Good. Now just sit there and look pretty while I nose through your book.”
Annoyed and embarrassed, Michael started to cross his arms but Griffin glared at him. Obediently Michael relaxed his arms and legs.
Griffin leafed slowly through the pages of Michael’s battered Moleskine sketchbook.
“Do you just do pencil sketches?” Griffin asked.
“Mostly. Pen and ink, pencil and pen.”
“Charcoals?”
“Love charcoal but it’s messy.”
“So?”
“Mom gets mad when it gets on my clothes,” Michael said and then cursed himself for saying something so idiotically childish.
“What’s with all the wings?” That particular sketchbook had nothing in it but variations on a theme—angel wings, bird wings, insect wings. Maybe next he’d try griffin wings.
“It’s my safe word Nora gave me. I’ve been doing wing drawings ever since.”
Turning his sketchbook around, Griffin flipped to the drawing Michael had been working on all day.
“This is incredible,” Griffin said, holding up the open book. “You’re like John Coulthart, but softer, more emotional.”
Michael’s blush deepened. “You know Coulthart’s stuff?” Michael asked, slightly stunned.
“I know I don’t look it,” Griffin said, “but I’ve got a geeky side. Plus I majored in art history at Brown.”
“You went to Brown?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t graduate. Long story,” Griffin said with a note of something Michael had never observed in him before—discomfort. “But I do know art. I’ve got two Picassos in my bedroom, there’s a Kandinsky in Nora’s room and there are a handful of Delaunays around. I dig orphic cubism. And since I know art, I know talent. And you have it, Mick. I love this.”
Griffin stared at the drawing Michael had been working on. Nothing very fancy, it was only a picture of slightly gothic-looking angel wings stretched out across the page. The huge hulking wings were attached to the back of a frail boy who sat on the ground with his legs pulled in tight to his chest. A personal drawing. Michael had never intended anyone to see it.
“Thanks. Nora ordered me to do something today to make myself relax before tonight. Drawing usually works.”
Griffin closed the sketchbook with obvious reluctance. Michael took it back from him and walked over to the bed where he slipped the book under his pillow.
“Usually? Nervous about tonight?” Griffin stood up and started strolling around his old room.
“A little.” Michael sat on the edge of the bed and tried not to stare at Griffin. Griffin cracked him up. He just walked around in his underwear as if he couldn’t begin to care what people thought about him. Of course, Griffin had a crazy-good body, so why not walk around almost naked?
“When’s the last time you fucked?” Griffin asked as he sat on the edge of Michael’s bed and rolled onto his back. Michael shifted nervously. An almost-naked guy was lying on his bed. He should have disliked that, wanted to dislike that…couldn’t quite bring himself to dislike that.
“Um,” Michael began as he turned to sit cross-legged, his back to the headboard. Personal questions—he hated them. His dad always grilled him with personal questions. “Nora asked me the same thing yesterday.”
Griffin raised his eyebrow at him.
“You know what that means, right?”
Michael shook his head.
“She’s getting your sexual history. Means fluid bonding.”
“Fluid bonding?”
“Sex without condoms.”
“Wow,” Michael said, his stomach tightening a little. “Is that safe?”
“She’s clean. Gets tested constantly. All the 8th Circle bigwigs do, myself included. And she’s got an IUD so I wouldn’t worry about knocking her up.”
“So do you and Nora, you know, fluid bond?”
Griffin sat back up and scooted to the top of the bed, leaning back against the headboard right next to Michael. Once again Michael breathed in Griffin’s scent. Michael decided to find out what kind of soap Griffin used just so he could buy some and smell it whenever he wanted.
“Nope. I don’t with anybody.”
“How come?” Michael asked, genuinely curious. Guys at school were always bitching about their girlfriends making them wear condoms.
“Mick,” Griffin said, turning his head to stare into his eyes. “There is nothing, and I repeat, nothing I haven’t done. And I’m not talking just sexually. Every bad act on the face of the earth, minus murder and rape, I’ve done it. So there’s this part of me that wants to hold something back just in case I’m ever actually in a real relationship with somebody. Does that sound sappy and romantic? If so, don’t tell anybody. I’m supposedly l’enfant terrible of the Underground. I’d like to keep it that way.”
Michael grinned, not entirely sure what a l’enfant terrible was but deciding he liked the term.
“A little sappy. But not in a bad way,” Michael said, surprised that Griffin would have this sort of softer side to him. Art? Saving part of himself for a real relationship? “So you never, you know—”
“Come inside anyone?” Griffin finished for him. “No. Never. Sex talk from Dad, age thirteen. ‘Son, we have more money than God. You get a girl pregnant, and she’ll take half of it. Condoms every time.’ And then he gave me a box of Trojans.”
Michael burst out laughing at Griffin’s impression of his father’s stern voice. Remembering something suddenly, Michael stopped laughing.
“Wait. Nora, she went—”
“Nora went down on me. If you stayed and watched until the end you would have seen me put on a condom before I finished up.”
Mentally Michael dug a hole and crawled inside it. Griffin had seen him watching two nights ago?
“Griffin.” He finally choked the words out. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean… I was just on the way to the kitchen and heard—”
“Mick, calm down,” Griffin said, smiling at him. “I’m not mad. This is me. I fuck in front of people all the time. I was only irritated you didn’t come in and join us.” Griffin gave him a wicked smile.
Michael’s toes went a little numb.
“I think Nora might have not liked that,” Michael said, not entirely sure if that was true. He’d fantasized about threesomes before. Last night in fact his mind had wandered a little too far and he’d imagined Nora dominating him while Griffin watched.
“Your mistress loves an audience. In fact, I’ve watched your priest fuck your mistress after King and I fucked her.”
Michael felt his eyes wanting to pop out of his head.
“You’ve seen Father S…”
“Fucking? Yes. Back when your mistress was still just a sub like you, he’d do all sorts of shit to humiliate her at our club. Which she totally got off on. You know why me and King and your priest all fucked her once in the same night?”
Michael shook his head. He couldn’t imagine.
Griffin leaned in close as though he was about to share a secret. Every muscle in Michael’s body stiffened as Griffin’s tattooed, muscular shoulder pressed against his. Michael tried not to notice the drop of water sliding from Griffin’s hair down his neck and coming to rest in the hollow of his collarbone.
“It was her birthday. And that’s what she asked for,” Griffin whispered.
“Oh, my God,” Michael breathed, pulling his legs to his chest again. Not out of self-protection but to hide his sudden erection.
“I know. Awesome night.” Griffin gave a little wistful sigh. “Things went to hell shortly after that though. Nora dumped your priest and then she just disappeared on us. When she came back, everything was different.”
“She came back and started working as a dominatrix, right?” Michael knew a little of Nora’s story. Father S had given him the basics. He’d met Nora when she was fifteen and still just Eleanor. Love at first sight. Training at eighteen. Consummation when she turned twenty. Seven blissful years together before she left him for reasons unknown. Then she came back and joined forces with Kingsley, who turned her into not just a domme, a female dominant, but a dominatrix—a female dominant who charged for her services. A lot.
Griffin lowered his voice as though he was telling a ghost story around a campfire. “When she was a sub, your priest kept her on a pretty short leash. She only ever wore white at the club. And he only let her wear her hair down in private. And almost no makeup, either. She wasn’t allowed to speak unless he gave her express permission.”
Michael tried and failed to picture Nora as Eleanor wearing all white, no makeup, her long, gorgeous wavy black hair pinned up and hidden away. And not talking? Nora silent? So weird.
“The first night she came to The 8th Circle as a dominatrix, I was there,” Griffin said. “You can’t even imagine the shock on everyone’s face when they realized this smoking-hot new dominatrix wearing red leather on Kingsley’s arm was Søren’s ex-submissive. Once they did, it got ugly.”
“Why?” Michael asked, trying to picture the scene.
“They only knew her as a submissive, and there she was all decked out like a domme, trying to be tough. Even the submissives laughed at her.”
“Poor Nora,” Michael said. “What did she do?”
A smile crossed Griffin’s face, a smile that sent a thrill of something down Michael’s spine.
“You know how they say if a guy gets sent to prison and he doesn’t want to become the new bitch, he’s gotta find the biggest guy in the place and beat the hell out of him?”
“Right.” He’d seen movies with that plotline.
“There was this masochist at The 8th Circle named Trent. He was to masochists what Søren is to sadists. His nickname was Unbreakable. Your priest probably could have broken him, but Trent only let women top him. Anyway, Nora goes right up to him and asks him if he wants to play. He said yes and then tried to spit in her face.”
“Holy shit. What happened?”
Griffin laughed, low and throaty, and Michael suddenly felt the need to excuse himself for a few minutes. Instead he grabbed a pillow and covered his lap with it.
“Nora ducked. That woman’s got killer reflexes. She came up and slapped him so hard his nose bled. Then things got really interesting. She broke him. In one night. He safed out, started crying. She sent that big masochistic motherfucker to the hospital. After that, she owned The 8th Circle. No one ever questioned her dominant credentials again.”
Michael looked up at the ceiling. What on earth was he getting into? He didn’t know, but he suddenly couldn’t wait to fall at Nora’s feet and do anything and everything she told him to. Wearing bruises she gave him would be an honor.
Griffin stretched out his long tanned legs and crossed them at the ankles.
“Trent worshipped the ground she walked on after that. We all did,” Griffin said and Michael saw a shadow of something cross Griffin’s eyes. “Except Søren, of course. Those two were at war after that. But only because he wanted her back more than ever.”
“Can you blame him?”
Griffin said nothing at first and Michael saw all the fire and fun momentarily leave Griffin’s face.
“No. I can’t.” The spark came back in Griffin’s eyes. “Anyway, the domme training you is a real, live legend. Cool, right?”
“Very cool,” Michael said. “Can’t wait for tonight.”
“She won’t get you until sunset. She’s all about atmosphere and the mind-fuck. So you’ve got a couple hours. What do you want to do?”
Michael knew exactly what he wanted to do. He moved to the middle of the bed and faced Griffin.
“Tell me more about Nora.”
Michael listened in awe as Griffin regaled him with story after story about Nora’s legendary exploits as a dominatrix. He couldn’t believe some of her clients were so famous, so powerful. It made him feel a little better that so many men the world looked up to were sexual submissives just like him. Time passed so quickly in Griffin’s company that Michael barely noticed the room darkening as the sun sunk lower and lower in the sky. He couldn’t recall ever having so much fun actually talking to somebody. He hated talking. Or thought he hated it. With Griffin, however, things he never thought he’d like—answering personal questions, showing his art off, talking—he discovered he enjoyed. Griffin was a good two or three inches taller than him, had at least forty pounds of pure muscle on him and was a dominant. So why did Michael feel so safe around him?
“So if she ever gets arrested again,” Griffin concluded, “they have to call the paddywagon and get police backup since it’s on her permanent record that she can get out of handcuffs so easily.”
“That’s amazing. Does Father S—” Michael started but a knock on the door interrupted his question. He turned around and saw Griffin’s British butler standing in the doorway.
“Mister Dimir,” the butler said in his perfectly snooty accent. “The mistress requires your presence.”
Michael’s heart leapt in his chest. Thirteen months since he’d been with Nora. Thirteen months since he’d been with anybody. And now, right now, the one and only Nora Sutherlin had summoned him.
He turned to Griffin, who flashed him such a wicked grin that Michael, not even standing, felt his knees buckle.
“Go on, Mick. It’s showtime.”