CHAPTER 11
Once she arrived at Sacred Heart, Suzanne tried to figure out what the hell she was doing there. Her brief encounter with Father Stearns had only stoked her fascination with the man. As a reporter she had a highly sensitive internal bullshit meter. Father Stearns said he could spot a lapsed Catholic at a thousand yards. Maybe so. But she could tell the truth from a lie just by watching someone’s eyes.
I haven’t performed an exorcism in weeks.
Bullshit.
My office is always open, Father Stearns had said with far more sincerity.
Truth.
After dark on a Saturday night, Suzanne doubted anyone, including Father Stearns, would still be at Sacred Heart. Maybe she’d peek into his office and see if she couldn’t get a little insight into the target of her investigation. She parked on the street about fifty yards from the church. As she walked toward the side entrance she studied her surroundings. A lot of New York commuters lived in Connecticut towns like this one—they were safer, cleaner and had better schools. Wakefield seemed like a charming little suburb, the perfect place to raise a family. Small but well-appointed houses, orderly streets, historic shops and no real crime of any kind…such a perfect little town. Too perfect, Suzanne decided.
Suzanne didn’t trust perfect. Adam had been perfect—perfectly happy, perfectly content, perfect life—until he’d committed suicide.
Closing her eyes, she pictured Adam’s face, something she tried very hard never to do. They looked alike, really. Everyone always said that. But apart from their shared dark brown eyes, red-blond hair and oval faces, they had almost nothing in common. She was the skeptic, the cynic, the hot-tempered pistol in the family. Adam was the angel, her parents’ perfect firstborn. Sweet, kind, even-tempered and so devout she didn’t even tell him when she stopped believing in God, knowing how much it would break his heart. And all that time he had this horrible thing inside him that someone else put there…a darkness, a contamination, as the note he’d left behind called it. God, the note.
I’m unclean, contaminated. I can’t face taking one more shower knowing that no matter how long I stay under the hot water, I’ll still be dirty when I get out.
Suzanne forced the memories away. For Adam she would do this…for Adam and Michael Dimir and any other kid who’d been hurt by the Church.
She slipped through the side door into Sacred Heart and made her way past small classrooms. Even in the low light she could read the notices on the bulletin board:
Choir practice—7:00 p.m. on Tuesdays—Don’t forget your sheet music, Gina.
Suzanne laughed a little through her burning tears. Poor Gina.
The Knights of Columbus wants you! Email [email protected] for more information.
Her dad had been a Knight of Columbus. Such an imposing name for a group of usually overweight fathers who didn’t do much more than have charity barbecue cook-offs.
All couples planning to marry must meet with Father Stearns at least six months prior to their wedding. Make an appointment with Diane.
A celibate priest doing marriage counseling? Suzanne shook her head. What on earth would a Catholic priest know about sex or marriage or romantic relationships of any kind?
At the end of the hallway Suzanne found a closed door with an engraved nameplate on it. Father Marcus Stearns SJ, it read. SJ? She’d seen those initials before but couldn’t quite remember what they stood for. Pulling her notebook out of her bag, she jotted them down. With almost shaking fingers, Suzanne reached out for the door handle. It turned. So he had been telling the truth. His office really was always open.
For safety’s sake she left the lights off. From her bag she took out a small flashlight and shined it around the office. Immediately she gleaned Father Stearns was a neat freak. Nothing appeared out of place. Not a stray book or a single sheet of paper. A beautiful office really, Suzanne decided. The big rose window must cast glorious red-and-pink light into the room on sunny days. The ornately carved desk looked like old oak to her—probably weighed as much as Patrick’s Saab. The books on the shelves were lined up with military precision. She studied the titles and discovered she could read very few of them. How many languages could Father Stearns read? It appeared that in addition to the usual Biblical languages—Hebrew, Greek and Latin—Father Stearns had books in French, Spanish, Italian…and a lot of books that seemed to be in a Scandinavian language. She didn’t know two words of Swedish, Danish or Dutch but she could recognize the distinct characters—the a with a little loop on the top or the o with a slash through it. Suzanne picked up what appeared to be the oldest book on the shelf. From the shape and size of its worn leather cover, Suzanne guessed it to be a Bible. She opened it and saw an inscription on the front pages written in a woman’s elegant hand.
Min Søren, min søn er nu en far. Jeg er så stolt. Jeg elsker dig altid. Din mor.
The only word in the inscription Suzanne recognized was the name Søren. She’d taken a few philosophy classes in college and learned of Søren Kierkegaard, the Danish philosopher and theologian. But if she remembered correctly, Kierkegaard wasn’t Catholic. She pulled out her notebook again and carefully copied down the inscription inside the Bible. In addition she made a note to look up Søren Kierkegaard. Why would Father Stearns have a Bible inscribed to someone named Søren? A relative maybe? she wondered. He certainly looked as though he had Scandinavian blood. But her research had indicated he had an English father and a New England WASP mother. Another mystery.
She put the Bible back on the shelf and turned her attention to the desk. Something seemed off about it, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. Then she realized—no computer. Well, maybe he had a laptop. Although she didn’t see any computer accessories anywhere, either—no printer, no power cords, no internet router. She only saw Montblanc pens and high-quality writing paper on his desk. Father Stearns might be something of a Luddite. That would explain his lack of internet presence.
Slowly she opened the desk drawer and felt a distinct sense of disappointment as she found nothing but more pens and paper inside. A few file folders held nothing of interest—only schedules and lists of Bible verses in impeccable male handwriting. The other desk drawers produced no shocking revelations, either. In the bottom drawer she found dozens more Montblanc pens still in boxes. Briefly she wondered if Father Stearns had some sort of ink pen fetish. Then she noticed many of the boxes still had tags on them—gift tags from parishioners bearing messages of affection and appreciation. It reminded Suzanne of her friend Emily, a kindergarten teacher at a private school. Every Christmas her students’ parents inundated her with every conceivable sort of Teacher’s Apple product in existence. Apparently the people of Sacred Heart had learned of their priest’s fondness for high-quality writing instruments and showered him with them every year.
You bless us year after year, Father. Love in Christ, the Harpers, read one tag.
Thank you for saving our marriage, Father. Bless you, Alex and Rachel, read another.
Is it a sin to combine a priest’s birthday and Christmas presents? We’ll talk about it in Confession if it is. Merry Birthday, Dr. and Mrs. Dr. Keighley, read a tag on a box that held a Montblanc pen and pencil set.
Combine Christmas and birthday? With that sentence, Suzanne realized she’d been right. Father Marcus Lennox Stearns, born December 21st, 1965, was indeed the son of Marcus Augustus Stearns, the English baron who’d moved to New Hampshire and married money. Amazing. So her target had actually given up a title in the British peerage for the Catholic Church? Unbelievable. Not only did he give up his mother’s wealth and his father’s title, he’d given up women for the Church. Most priests she’d met in her day seemed of the “doomed to die a virgin” variety. Humorless, unattractive, socially awkward…the opposite of Father Stearns in every way.
Shaking her head, Suzanne pulled out one last box, this one red, and flipped open the card.
Meine andere Geschenk wird nicht in einer Box passen. AABYE
Good God, how many languages would she have to deal with tonight? Rolling her eyes in frustration, Suzanne pulled out her notebook and copied the words down. At least this language she could recognize—German. And for some reason the last word, AABYE, rang some kind of bell with her. She searched her memory for whatever it was that seemed so familiar about it but came up empty. Stuffing her notebook in her purse, she scanned the top of the desk once more with her flashlight.
On the desk Suzanne found one item of interest—a photograph. She stared at the picture for a long time. A young woman of only about seventeen or eighteen years old, she looked remarkably like Father Stearns—pale blond hair, gray eyes, strikingly attractive. Suzanne eased the photo out of the frame and flipped the picture over. Jeg elsker dig, Onkel Søren. Kom og besøg snart, Laila, it read. Again with the Scandinavian inscriptions. Suzanne opened her notebook again and copied every word. Briefly she wondered if she was staring at Father Stearns’s daughter. Had he fathered a child at some point during his years as a priest? Could that be the reason for the anonymous fax and its mysterious “Possible conflict of interest” footnote?
Seemed unlikely. After all, if he did have a love child, she doubted someone as obviously intelligent and well educated as Father Stearns would simply keep a photo of his teenage daughter on his desk. She shook her head in frustration. She’d hoped for answers. All she had now were more questions.
As quietly as she could, Suzanne abandoned Father Stearns’s office and returned to the hallway. For some reason she felt drawn to return to the sanctuary instead of her car. Patrick’s information from the Wakefield sheriff indicated that Michael Dimir had made his suicide attempt in the actual Sacred Heart sanctuary. Trying to kill oneself was the ultimate cry for help. Whatever had inspired it, something in Suzanne wanted Michael Dimir to know she heard it.
Suzanne found the doors that lead from the narthex and into the sanctuary. Easing the heavy wooden door open, she slipped inside. Upon entering the sanctuary Suzanne discovered someone had left candles burning on the altar and scattered about the sanctuary. She froze as her eyes took in the candle nearest her. The burning wick had only begun to turn black. From behind her she heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
She wasn’t alone.
* * *
Michael cast one last look back at Griffin before leaving the bedroom. Griffin gave Michael a little wink on his way out the door and a tiny part of him wanted to stay and keep talking. But he knew he wanted to spend the night submitting to Nora, needed it even. He just sort of wished Griffin could be there too.
For some reason, Michael had assumed he’d spend the night with Nora in her room. But Griffin’s butler led him instead upstairs to the third floor and all the way to a room at the end of the hallway.
The butler paused at the door, nodded politely to Michael and walked away. Michael took a deep breath, turned the doorknob and stepped into the room and into another time.
Holy crap, he thought as his eyes tried to take in the scene around him. He’d seen a lot of Griffin’s house by now. Every room matched Griffin—sleek and modern, minimalist, arty and sexy. But this room seemed as though it belonged in a medieval European castle. Plush oriental rugs covered the stone tile floors. Candles burned on every horizontal surface and a few logs simmered in a stone fireplace. In the middle of the room stood a bed, large and wrought iron, not unlike the one he’d lost his virginity in.
But where was Nora?
“Not bad for a dungeon, right?” came Nora’s voice behind him. Michael tensed, not knowing what to do. Was he allowed to talk? Move? He decided to stay frozen in place and not talk until Nora told him what to do. “Griffin’s dungeon at The 8th Circle is much more mod. I think he wanted a different vibe for his house up here. Like it? You’re allowed to answer.”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s beautiful,” Michael said, hearing the quiver in his own voice.
He felt Nora’s presence behind him and took in a quick breath.
“So are you,” she said, blowing under his ear.
Nora stepped in front of him and Michael’s eyes went wide. Nora had grown…a lot. She met him almost eye to eye before stepping away and walking toward the center of the room. He glanced down and saw she wore thigh-high platform boots with killer stiletto heels. His eyes grazed her body from foot to face—red leather boots laced up the back, bare thighs, red leather skirt, red-and-black corset… Nora looked back over her bare shoulder and crooked her finger at him.
He could barely feel his feet as he walked toward her. Suddenly the room and its beauty faded into the background and all he could see was her…Nora and the swell of her breasts over her striped corset…Nora and the heavy, dramatic eyeliner that made her look like Cleopatra…Nora and her hair that curled in wild waves down her back…Nora and the black fingerless gloves just like the ones she’d worn the night she took his virginity. He couldn’t wait to feel the soft supple leather against his skin again.
When he reached Nora she raised her hand to his neck and gently pulled his ponytail loose. Slowly, gently she ran her fingers through his hair.
“I read your checklist, Angel,” she said as he closed his eyes. If he’d been a cat, he would have started purring. “I found it very interesting. You want pain, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Michael breathed.
“Pain makes you feel better, doesn’t it?” Nora asked, her voice soft and hypnotic. “It’s like white noise…soothing, calming, blocks out the real pain, the bad thoughts, that other pain that you don’t want. Right?”
Michael’s eyes opened wide.
“Yeah. Exactly, ma’am. How did—”
“You aren’t my first masochist, Angel.”
Michael laughed a little. Griffin had told him Nora had hundreds of clients back when she was a dominatrix. Hundreds of clients who made her hundreds of thousands of dollars. Of course he wasn’t her first masochist. Just looking at her, feeling himself falling under her spell, he could easily understand how men would mortgage their souls just to be able to kiss the toe of her boot.
Nora’s fingers found that tight knot at the base of his neck, that place where he stored most of his tension. Michael tilted his head toward her, gave him better access to his stress.
“I think,” Nora began in a half whisper, “that I’ll beat you tonight. But I don’t think I’m going to punish you or be mean to you like I did with a lot of my clients. I think you’ve had enough people being mean to you in your life already.”
Michael’s eyes clenched tight as her words burrowed a hole into his heart. Ever since the night his parents had discovered what he was, Michael had suffered nothing but insults—freak, sicko, fag—from his father and abandonment by his mother. No one touched him anymore, no one hugged him, no one ever even wanted to talk to him except for Father S, and even he had to keep his distance because of the Church. But now the most erotic woman in the world was touching him, talking to him, making him feel like the center of the world.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said in a voice he could barely hear.
Nora caressed his face with the back of her hand. Leaning in she pressed a little kiss to his lips before moving her mouth to his ear.
“Take your clothes off,” she ordered.
Michael reached behind his head and yanked at his T-shirt, pulling it off with one swift motion. He unbuttoned his black plaid skateboard shorts and pushed them and his boxers off, kicking them off his ankles into the corner of the room. The night he and Nora met, he’d fumbled so nervously with his watchband that she’d had to take over and unbuckle it for him. Now he felt no such jitters. The watch and wristband that he always wore in public were off and on the floor in seconds.
“Your swiftness to obey is touching,” Nora said, smiling at him. “But you have to slow down and let me enjoy watching you undress. Your priest makes me strip for him, you know.”
Michael felt a coil of need begin to twist in the pit of his stomach.
“I didn’t know, ma’am,” he said as Nora looked his naked body up and down.
“We’ll be having a lovely evening at the rectory. He’ll be reading in his armchair, I’ll be sitting at his feet writing, and out of nowhere he’ll snap his fingers and order me to take my clothes off.”
Michael said nothing.
“Sometimes,” Nora said, pressing close to Michael’s body, “he doesn’t even look at me. He keeps reading. He orders me to do it just to humiliate me. Jealous?”
Once again Michael closed his eyes. He tried to imagine what it would be like to belong to someone, to be owned like Nora was. What would it be like to give his body to someone so completely that they could order him out of nowhere to strip naked. God, it would be so embarrassing, so humiliating, as Nora said. Degrading, almost.
“Very jealous,” he admitted and Nora laughed.
“Do you ever imagine what your priest and I do when we’re alone together?” she asked as she made a circuit around him. Her stiletto heels clicked against the stone floors.
A blush flared up on Michael’s cheeks.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, swallowing hard.
“Tell me what you fantasize,” Nora said and he heard the hard edge of the order in her voice.
His fantasies about Nora and Father S were beyond humiliating. Sometimes he saw them at church and Nora would be trying to annoy Father S. Nora would put her innocent face on and say something like, “Father Stearns, about St. Elmo…” And Father S would barely glance at her and say, “Patron saint of sailors. What about him, Eleanor?” And Nora would say, “Was he, by any chance, ticklish?” And Michael would hide in the shadows and imagine his handsome priest bending Nora over the back of a pew and brutally fucking her. That was just the PG stuff he thought of. When masturbating it got really intense—threesomes, foursomes, orgies, vicious beatings… The stuff that went on in his head freaked even him out sometimes.
“I…” he began and swallowed. His fingers clenched in nervousness.
“You can tell me,” she said, her voice coming from behind him. “Trust me, I’ve heard worse. And even if I haven’t, I’ve thought worse. Just say it.”
Michael took a deep breath. He hated disappointing Nora. He wanted to say it. Wanted to say everything to her. But the words turned to glue and stuck in his throat.
“I can’t,” he said, his voice flush with anguish.
Nora grazed his face with the back of her hand again.
“It’s okay, Angel. We’ll get there. If you’re going to be a sub you have to learn how to talk about what you want and need. This,” she said, indicating the room and then pointing at herself, “is a basic fantasy. Dominant woman, gorgeous dungeon full of S&M toys, big bed. Generic even. Start talking and tell me what you fantasize about in your most private moments, and we can change it. Do you want to see me in black instead of red? In lace instead of leather? Would you prefer scening outside at night? Do you have fantasies that take place in the kitchen? The shower?”
Michael shifted nervously from foot to foot.
“Maybe,” he admitted.
“You do know what you want matters, don’t you?”
Michael rubbed at his arms. “I guess, ma’am. Trying.”
“I’ll teach you that this summer. You’ve got a lot to learn. Let’s get your lessons started.”
Nora strolled off toward a table covered in a black cloth. Once she reached it she turned around and crooked her finger at him again, beckoning him to her side.
Naked but for his blush, Michael came to stand beside Nora. With a flourish she pulled the black cloth off the table.
“Wow,” Michael said at the sight before him.
“Thank you. I packed a few of my favorites. A few are Griffin’s he’s letting us borrow. Griffin’s very fond of you. You’ve made quite an impression on him.”
Michael’s blush deepened at the insinuating tone in Nora’s voice. Did she know he’d watched her and Griffin having sex in the dining room? Did she somehow intuit that ever since seeing Nora on her knees in front of Griffin, he’d been having trouble not imagining himself in that same position?
“He’s really cool” was all Michael could get out before clamping his lips shut. Nora only eyed him before turning her gaze back to the table.
“Do you know what these are, Angel?”
“Some of them…but not all, ma’am.”
“Let me introduce you then. This,” she said as she lifted the first object, “is a basic flogger. Six-inch handle, eighteen-inch suede thongs. Feel?”
Michael reached out and ran his fingers over the flogger. The suede felt so soft to the touch.
“Used lightly,” Nora explained, “it will feeling like a tickling sort of massage. Used with full force, however, the impact on your back will knock the breath out of you. Tricky thing. I could beat you with this until you cried and within the hour it would appear no one had laid a finger on you.”
She laid the flogger back on the table.
“And this…you know what this is, don’t you?” She lifted another object, this one similar to the flogger but more sinister looking.
“A cat-o’-nine-tails, ma’am,” Michael answered.
“Very good. This is a lighter variation of the kind used to discipline sailors in the British Navy. Even this lighter version could break your skin if I wanted it to. But if I use it on you correctly, you’ll have the loveliest freckle bruises on you tomorrow courtesy of these little knots on the ends of the cords. Here,” she said, handing it to him.
Michael accepted it with almost trembling hands. He touched the knots, hefted its deceptively light weight.
“You know, there was an even smaller version of this that was used on the cabin boys aboard ship,” Nora said with laughter in her voice. “Guess what it was called?”
“I don’t know,” Michael said shrugging.
“A boy’s pussy,” she said, grinning wickedly. She took the cat back from him. “You didn’t know you were going to get a history lesson tonight, did you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I believe in the value of a thorough education. Tawse,” she said, naming the heavy leather strap that lay next to the flogger. “Used to discipline schoolchildren in the nineteenth century. It won’t break the skin but it will burn like fire. And this,” she said sliding one more object off the table, “is exactly what it looks like.”
“A cane, ma’am.”
“Exactly. Rattan cane, ten millimeters thick, seventy-six centimeters long. So painful that its use on prisoners has been condemned by the United Nations. It can not only permanently scar a person but permanently disable them as well. Even used lightly on the buttocks or thighs, the pain will be so intense that you will choke on it. Traditionally six strokes are delivered at a time; five horizontal and one diagonal. That is called barring the gate. It’s sadistic enough that your own priest rarely uses it on me. Although, admittedly, sometimes I do deserve it.”
Nora stepped back and with astonishing expertise twirled the cane in her fingers like a baton. He could hear the hissing sound as the reedy wood sliced through the air.
“Now…” Nora placed the cane back on the table. “Choose.”
“Choose?” he asked, unable to take his eyes off the dozen or so various kinds of floggers, whips and canes on the table.
“Yes. Pick one. Whatever you pick I will use on you tonight. So think about it carefully.”
Nora stepped away and left him alone at the table. He heard her opening a trunk near the bed to take out something. But he didn’t dare turn around to see what it was.
Michael raised his hand and passed it over the objects on the table.
I could beat you with this until you cried.
Loveliest freckle bruises.
It will burn like fire.
You will choke on it.
“This one, ma’am,” he said, picking up the cat-o’-nine-tails. He turned around and Nora gestured for him to bring it to her. She was standing at the foot of the bed. She took it from him. His pulse quickened as she twined the lashes through her fingers.
“Angel,” she said as she gripped the thongs and pulled them taut. “This will hurt you. Badly.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Nora raised her eyebrow at him.
“One for you. And one for me.”
She tossed the cat onto the bed and picked up the cane again. Michael swallowed hard but said nothing.
“Come,” Nora said. “Stand dead center between the bedposts. Face the bed. Back to me. Take heavy, deep breaths. Focus on the heat from the fireplace. Let it seep into your muscles.”
Michael obeyed as best he could. He knew he needed to relax. As he stood and breathed as instructed, Nora clamped leather bondage cuffs around his ankles. The tension in his legs started to dissipate. She grabbed his scarred wrists and yanked them behind his back. As she cuffed his wrists, the stress he carried in his arms and shoulders flowed through his veins and out of his fingertips. He inhaled sharply as she brought a black leather collar around his throat and buckled it at the base of his neck.
“Now, Angel,” Nora whispered in his ear as she ran her hand over the one part of his body that remained tense, “let’s spread your wings.”
She raised his left arm and bound it to a leather cord at the top of the bedpost. With his right arm she did the same. His arms stretched out into a full, wide wingspan.
“Breathe the heat of the fire into your arms,” Nora said as she strapped a two-foot spreader bar to his ankles. “Feel them getting longer with each breath.”
Michael pulled on his bonds and found he couldn’t move. They had no give at all. He couldn’t run away, couldn’t escape. Trapped, imprisoned, helpless…
Nora picked up the flogger from the bed.
There was nowhere else in the world he wanted to be.
“What’s your safe word?” Nora asked.
“Wings.” Michael answered.
“You’ll say that word if you want me to stop, yes?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good boy. Now take one more breath. This will only hurt a little bit. Oh, wait,” she said, laughing. “No, it won’t. It’ll hurt a lot.”
With that one last taunt, Nora took a step back and landed a hard blow right in the center of Michael’s back. He gasped from the shock of the pain. He had the time to inhale and exhale only once before the second blow hit. The third one struck his left flank, the fourth his right. Nora painted crosses across his back with the flogger and each slash left him crying out.
Fire…she’d lit his back on fire. When the blows finally ceased, Michael could do nothing but drop his head to his chest and pant. His heart raced, his blood burned. He’d never felt calmer in his life.
“Here,” Nora said as she brought a small glass of water to his lips. “Drink.”
She tilted the glass and he drank the water with a grateful gulp.
“You did very well,” Nora said. “You took a lot of pain for a beginner and didn’t even beg me to stop. Think you can take more?”
Could he take more? Did he want to take more? His entire back smoldered from neck to hip.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“God, I love masochists,” Nora said, setting the glass aside. “Such gluttons for punishment.”
Nora slid the cane off the bed and Michael’s body stiffened in fear.
“Six-bar gate,” she said. “Just one. Upper thighs. Then we’re done. Ready?”
He couldn’t bring himself to say yes. But he swallowed air again and nodded. Behind him he heard that hissing whistle again.
“You know, Angel, some people say it’s the sound of the cane that’s the worst part. Personally, I think that’s bullshit. What do you think?”
At that, he experienced a pain so excruciating that it would have dropped him to his knees had he not been tied up.
The second strike came before he could recover from the first.
“You see why it’s used for interrogations?”
“Yes—” he cried out as the third blow fell. The pain stabbed into his legs and shot through to his stomach. The agony was so acute, the pain so precise he could feel exactly where Nora placed each blow. Perfectly spaced, one inch apart.
The third felt like a knife on his skin instead of a cane.
The fourth and fifth he couldn’t even feel.
But the sixth landed diagonally across all five and the sound that escaped his lips sounded foreign to him, strange, like the cry of a wounded animal instead of a person.
Michael sagged in his bonds, barely aware of his surroundings. When Nora untied his arms, they dropped like dead weight to his sides. She unshackled his ankles and he hardly noticed.
Nora pressed her body into his burning back.
“Good boy,” she whispered. “I’m very proud of you.”
Proud of him? When was the last time anyone said they were proud of him? If Nora said she wanted to cane him again, he would have said, “Yes, ma’am.”
She stepped away and sat in a large leather armchair. She snapped her fingers and pointed to the floor by her feet.
Michael floated to her more than walked. A pleasant light-headedness gripped him. The sharp pains in his back and thighs had turned into a gentle throbbing. When he knelt at the floor by Nora’s feet, he half hoped she’d let him curl up in her lap and sleep.
“You did such a good job, Angel, that I’m going to give you a reward. Well, both of us a reward really.”
Nora’s shifted in the chair and draped one leg over each chair arm. Underneath her short, tight skirt she wore absolutely nothing.
“Do I need to tell you what to do?” Nora asked.
Michael licked his suddenly dry lips.
“Good start,” she said.
Heart pounding, Michael laid his hands on her inner thighs and brought his mouth to her. He’d dreamed of doing this to Nora, servicing her sexually. And now he could feel her swollen clitoris against his tongue. He took the little silver ring that pierced her hood between his lips as he brought his fingers up and slid two of them inside her. He had no idea what he was doing. Apart from a few awkward preteen kisses and gropings, he’d never been sexual with anyone other than Nora. He had zero experience with oral sex and nothing going for him but enthusiasm. From the sound of her ragged breathing, the enthusiasm seemed to be doing the trick.
She felt so wet and warm on his fingers, tasted so sweet and tart on his lips. How did Father S get anything done with this woman waiting for him back at the rectory?
Michael pushed his tongue far into her and her hips rose off the chair.
“Stop,” she ordered and Michael pulled away, wiping his lips off with the back of his hand. “On the bed. Now.”
He remembered Nora’s instructions and moved slowly, not hurrying too much to do her bidding. Kneeling on the bed, he waited as Nora came to him and shoved him onto his back. She grabbed his arms and pushed them over his head. Using a snap hook to connect his wrist cuffs, she secured his hands to the bars of the bed.
“Knees up,” she said. “Spread your legs.”
Just then he noticed the tube of lubricant in her hand.
“Forgive me,” Nora said. “I’m just a little a curious about something. Some men love this. Some hate it. Some are indifferent. I don’t care either way. Your order is to be honest and tell me if you like it or not. Say ‘yes, ma’am’ if you understand.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Michael said, his hands going numb with nervousness. He wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do to him. But if it involved lube he had a fairly good idea.
She rubbed the liquid over two fingers on her right hand, and with her left hand, moved his knees farther apart.
“Shallow breaths, close your eyes,” Nora said. “This won’t hurt but it will feel weird at first.”
Michael nodded and obediently closed his eyes. He felt Nora’s fingers on him. If he had any shame or pride left he would have been mortified by how ridiculously aroused he was. He inhaled sharply as he felt Nora’s cold, wet fingers on him. Gently, so gently he sighed, she slid one finger inside him.
“Okay?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She pushed in deep and went deeper. Michael fought the urge to tense, to push her out.
“Now you know what women go through every time we get penetrated,” Nora said. “Like it?”
“It’s…intense.”
“Good word for it. It’s about to get more intense. Ready?”
Michael nodded.
Nora slid in deeper and Michael felt her fingertip against what felt like a tight knot of tissue deep inside him. Gently she rubbed and Michael’s back arched off the bed as a lightning bolt of pleasure shot through him.
“Oh, God,’’ he thought he said but he wasn’t sure if he spoke any actual words.
“I’ll take that as a yes, you do like it. Yes?”
Michael swallowed and gasped.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The sensation of her finger on that spot inside him caused every muscle in his back to knot up. His heels dug into the bed and he panted as if he’d just run a mile.
Vaguely and in the distance he heard Nora laughing as she continued to knead him.
“Born to be a bottom,” she sighed. “Can’t wait to torture Griffin with this news.”
At the mention of Griffin’s name, Michael squeezed his eyes tighter. Nora had said Griffin was bisexual. He’d been with men…sexually. Even maybe done this to other guys. Maybe even more. And without warning an image came unbidden into Michael’s mind. Griffin over him with his eyes half-closed with desire, bracing his strong, muscular body over Michael’s slighter frame…Michael’s leg over Griffin’s back, Griffin’s hand in Michael’s hair, Griffin’s lips on Michael’s throat, and Griffin’s…Griffin inside him. And not just his fingers.
“Come, Angel,” he heard Nora order before she brought her mouth down onto him. Once more Michael arched, pushed his feet into the bed, and came with desperate shuddering gasps that left his chest heaving and the muscles of his arms straining.
Nora pulled her fingers out of him. Slowly Michael opened his eyes and saw his bound wrists, the leather of the cuffs dark against his pale skin. If only he could stay here forever, cuffed and safe, he would never have to see the scars on his wrists again.
As Michael came back to himself, he felt Nora beginning to stroke him again. So soon after coming, her touch felt almost painful. But a good pain, a pain that set his nerves on edge again.
Raising his head he met Nora’s eyes. She leaned forward and kissed him. The kiss turned into a bite that broke the skin of his bottom lip. In one kiss he tasted the copper of his blood, the sweetness of her body, the salt of his semen. Nora moved over him, straddling his hips with her thighs.
“Is it really safe?” he asked nervously as she took his bare penis in her hand and started to guide him inside her.
“Don’t worry,” she said, caressing his chest, his shoulders with her lips. “I’m on the world’s best birth control.”
“Okay,” he sighed. More than okay. Her body burned like fire around him and he groaned as her heat enveloped him. She moved and he moved with her, into her. “If you’re sure, ma’am.”
“Very sure,” she said, moving against him. “Learned that the hard way.”
* * *
Slowly Suzanne turned around and found herself face-to-face with Father Stearns. He stood there looking at her with barely concealed amusement.
“Ms. Kanter, how nice to see you again.”
It took Suzanne a good three seconds to regain her composure enough to even speak.
“Father Stearns…I’m sorry. I just wanted to check out the sanctuary.”
“At ten o’clock on Saturday night?” He raised an eyebrow at her.
Suzanne racked her brain trying to find the perfect lie. But nothing came to her. And something told her that no matter what she told him, he’d see right through it. So she decided to take a risk, a big risk, and tell him the truth.
“I’m investigating you,” she confessed.
“Yes, I know.”
“That doesn’t bother you? Doesn’t surprise you?”
“Neither.”
She raised her chin and stared into his steel-gray eyes. Steel, the perfect color to describe them. She’d never seen harder eyes in her life.
“They say you can tell an innocent man from a guilty one by arresting him. An innocent man panics and paces his jail cell. The guilty one relaxes. He’s caught. He’s done.”
She saw his eyes soften with a hint of amusement.
He stepped forward. As he brushed past her he dipped his head and whispered in her ear, “I’m not afraid of you.”
Suzanne shivered. For some reason nearness of his mouth to her ear and his fearless defiance did something to her stomach, something not entirely unpleasant. She spun on her heel and followed him down the center aisle of the sanctuary.
“I got a tip about you. A fax with your name and the names of the two other priests up for bishop. Next to your name someone put an asterisk.”
“A terrifying piece of punctuation to be sure.”
“It is when it indicates a footnote. And that footnote said ‘Possible conflict of interest.’ Can you tell me what that conflict of interest is?”
Father Stearns stopped at a brass plaque with a roman numeral I above it. She stood a few feet away from him. As tall as he was, the distance made it easier to meet his eyes.
“I’m quite familiar with all of my interests, and I assure you none of them are conflicted.”
“Being a priest and having an interest in children is a conflict of interest. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would agree if it’s an unhealthy interest in children. Something I don’t have. If you doubt me, you are welcome to talk to every parent at this parish.”
Suzanne’s certainty that Father Stearns was a sexual predator wavered slightly at his calm conviction. But she pressed on, determined to find some sort of chink in his armor.
“What about Michael Dimir? Do you have an unhealthy interest in him?”
“I cannot and will not discuss Michael with you. I am his confessor.”
“Are you Nora Sutherlin’s confessor too?” she asked, putting suspicious emphasis on the word confessor.
Finally she seemed to get a reaction from him. He sighed heavily and turned to face her again. Once more she felt overpowered by his incredible handsomeness. Why would any man that attractive choose the celibate life of the priesthood when he could have any woman on the face of the earth?
“I am.”
“Are you sleeping with her?”
“Not since last Monday.”
Now it was Suzanne’s turn to sigh heavily.
“I can’t get a straight answer out of you to save my life. It’s not helping your case any.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at her intently.
“If you asked me an actual question instead of simply making accusations, you might receive an actual answer. You’ve never met Eleanor Schreiber, the woman you know of as Nora Sutherlin, have you?”
“No.”
“Do you make it a common practice to pry into the personal lives of women you’ve never met before, women who’ve never done you any harm?”
Suzanne rolled her eyes.
“God, you Catholic priests. Masters of the guilt trip.”
“I’m very good at my job,” he said, mirth shining in his eyes. What kind of man could find a conversation like this funny? This priest had balls of steel to go along with his eyes. “I’m still waiting on a question, Ms. Kanter. If you can ask it without including an accusation, I might consider answering it.”
“Okay. Here’s one. Why are you a priest?”
“I’m glad you started with such a simple question.”
Suzanne couldn’t help but laugh a little.
“It was simple to ask.” She smiled despite herself.
He paused and seemed to mull his words over.
“I was not raised Catholic. I didn’t encounter Catholics until I was sent to a Jesuit school in Northern Maine at age eleven.”
Suzanne inwardly winced. She couldn’t imagine a child so young being sent away to a school in the middle of nowhere.
“The Jesuits priests, my teachers, were the best men I’ve ever known. Their erudition coupled with their kindness and dedication to their work humbled me. I felt called to join their ranks. I converted at age fourteen and at age nineteen I went to Rome and started my training.”
“That’s it?”
“I apologize for not having a Road to Damascus story to tell you.”
“You were only nineteen when you started seminary. You never wanted to get married? Date? Have kids? Have…” Her voice trailed off.
“Have sex?” he finished for her. “I’ll tell you something shocking if you promise not to share it with anyone.”
“Okay,” she answered nervously. “I can deal with ‘off the record’ unless you confess to a crime. What?”
He gave her a smile that if she saw it on the face of any man but a priest she would call it seductive.
“I’m not a virgin.”
His words and the gleam in his eyes left Suzanne’s hands trembling.
“You aren’t?” Now they were getting somewhere. Now maybe she could get something out of him.
“I wasn’t born a priest, Ms. Kanter. Any more than you were born an atheist war correspondent with a burning hatred of the Catholic Church.”
Suzanne’s spine stiffened.
“You’ve been investigating me, I see,” she said.
“Your opinions on the church and faith are matters of public record,” he said as he strolled toward her. “And I believe you may intrigue me nearly as much as I intrigue you. Since I answered your question, might I ask you one?”
“Ask.” She made no promise to answer it.
“You are an atheist. God is truth. Without God, all is chaos, all is relative and truth is meaningless. And yet you became a journalist who’s dedicated her life to seeking out the truth amidst the chaos, a truth you don’t believe exists. Why?”
“Diogenes traveled the world with a lantern by day looking for an honest man. I’m just Diogenes out with my lamp trying to shed a little light where I can.”
“Diogenes also slept in a barrel and masturbated in public. How deep does your metaphor run?” he asked, raising his eyebrow at her.
She opened her mouth and shut it again.
“You’re not a normal priest, are you?”
At that, Father Stearns laughed. A warm, open laugh, intoxicating and masculine. She wanted to hear it more, hear it again. It seemed so incongruous.
“What?” she asked.
“Eleanor asked me the very same question the day we met almost twenty years ago.”
“And what did you say to her when she asked that?”
“Exactly what I’ll say to you now—my God, I hope not.”
Now Suzanne laughed. Laughing with a Catholic priest…the last thing on earth she ever dreamed she’d do. Suzanne abruptly stopped laughing when she remembered her job, when she remembered Adam. Father Stearns seemed smart enough that he could manipulate anyone he wanted to. She couldn’t let herself get sucked in just because of his appearance and sense of humor.
“You speak of her very fondly. You two are close?”
His smiled disappeared and once again he gave her a steely glare.
“I could be a thief. Or the bastard son of the pope. Both would qualify as conflicts of interest. Why are you so certain the reason for my asterisk is sexual?”
Suzanne thought about lying then had the feeling he’d see right through it.
“I suppose it’s because you’re so incredibly attractive.”
He laughed again, this time far more subtly.
“Finding me attractive hardly qualifies as evidence, Ms. Kanter. Wishful thinking possibly, but not evidence.”
Suzanne flushed, suddenly remembering the last time she’d had sex and how for one brief moment it was this priest, this man, on top of her and inside her and not Patrick.
“I find you attractive as well,” Father Stearns continued. “But I shan’t accuse you of pedophilia and ephebophilia simply because I do.”
Suzanne swallowed.
“You find me attractive?”
“Very much so.”
“But you’re a priest.”
“Priests are required to be chaste. Not blind. I had planned on praying the Stations of the Cross tonight. I may pray the Lord’s Prayer instead.”
“Why?”
“‘Lead us not into temptation.’”
Suzanne’s breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t deny that she too felt led into temptation. Leaving…leaving would be good. Now.
“Then I should leave you alone and let you pray.” She took a step back.
“Will I see you again?” he asked, his voice perfectly composed. She detected no flirtation, no temptation at all in his tone. Only curiosity.
“You’ll see me every week until I find out what you’re hiding behind that collar of yours.”
He raised his eyebrow at her.
“I’m hiding nothing but my throat.”
“Saturday night. Empty church. Do you really wear the collar all the time?”
“Not all the time. I do sleep and shower.” The words, although plainly spoken, still conjured images in her head, images she didn’t want. What did he look like under his severe black clericals? What did his body look like dripping with water? What did his skin look like against white sheets?
“Right…of course. Only time I take off my collar too. Good night, Father Stearns. You’ll be seeing me again.”
Suzanne turned to leave.
“I look forward to it.”
Suzanne’s steps nearly faltered, but she kept walking.
“Ms. Kanter?”
Pausing, she slowly turned back to face him. God, had she ever seen a more beautiful man in her life?
“My collar…would you like to see me without it on?”