CHAPTER 9
A gentle hand on her shoulder roused Nora from sleep. She turned over and saw Griffin standing next to Michael’s bed holding out her cell phone.
The Pope, he mouthed.
Nora nodded and took the phone. She turned and saw Michael curled up in the fetal position with his long lush eyelashes resting on his cheeks. For nearly an hour after sticking her tongue down his throat to make him laugh, they’d lain in his bed and talked. Well, she’d done most of the talking. But he’d listened and asked a few nervous questions about what would happen with them this summer, what she expected from him, what he needed. Finally he’d relaxed enough to fall asleep.
Carefully Nora slid out from under the covers. Griffin stood staring, obviously transfixed by the curve of Michael’s pale bare shoulder peeking out from under the sheets and glowing in the moonlight. Nora grabbed Griffin by the shirt and dragged him into the hall. She closed the door behind her and gave Griffin a stern stare.
“Yes, sir?” she said when Michael lay safely out of earshot.
“How are you, little one?” came Søren’s voice over the line.
“Lonely for a certain six-foot-four blond Scandinavian guy I know.”
Griffin started to go back into Michael’s room and Nora barred the closed door with her body.
“Anyone I know?” Søren asked.
“Alexander Skarsgård.” Griffin feinted to the right before attempting to duck under her arm. She raised her leg and braced it on the door frame to block him.
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the gentleman.”
“He’s a Swedish vampire. Anyway, how are you, sir?”
She heard Søren’s quiet laugh on the other end of the line.
“Intrigued.”
Nora’s blood momentarily turned to ice at the utterance of that word. Intrigued. Søren intrigued? This could not even begin to be a good thing.
“Intrigued by what? Or by whom, should I ask?”
“By a certain reporter who appeared at Mass this evening. Suzanne Kanter.”
Nora groaned and not just with worry but reluctant pleasure. Griffin had taken a different tack and now kissed the sensitive tendon where her neck met shoulder. As he kissed her, he unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the expanse of his muscled chest and stomach.
“Oh, God, she’s pretty, isn’t she?” she asked, not feeling the slightest shard of jealousy, but only fear. An intrigued Søren was a distracted Søren. She needed him cold, calculating and detached so he could deal with the mess swirling around him in Wakefield. Not intrigued.
“Yes, she’s lovely. Dark red hair, dark eyes, quite tall,” he said and she heard the slightest amorous tinge in his voice. Griffin unhooked her bra and started sliding it down her arms. “She would look exquisite on my St. Andrew’s Cross.”
Suddenly visions of newspaper headlines danced through her head.
Respected Catholic Priest Exposed as S&M Lord
Catholic Priest’s Erotic Dungeon Found
Accused S&M Priest Defrocked and Excommunicated
Bestselling Erotica Writer Linked to Excommunicated Priest
Bestselling Erotica Writer Found Guilty of Statutory Rape
“We’re all going to jail,” she sighed.
“Eleanor, calm down,” Søren said, his voice now stern and commanding, just the way she liked it. “All will be well. I will handle Ms. Kanter. She came out of suspicion, not simple curiosity, and that is what intrigues me more than anything. For all of her smiles and polite posturing, she appeared to be absolutely terrified of me.”
“Terrified?” Nora repeated as Griffin nibbled at her hips while attempting to remove her underwear. Søren, unlike her, never exaggerated. She knew most people found Søren intimidating at first, what with his height, extraordinary handsomeness, his priest’s collar and his remote demeanor. And he could certainly scare the shit out of people when in the right mood. Zach Easton could testify to that. But terrified seemed uncalled-for unless this reporter had some sort of priest-phobia. She knew a few traumatized Catholic school graduates who nearly wet themselves around nuns and sisters.
“She must be Catholic,” Nora concluded.
“Lapsed,” Søren said. “Also, she’s a fan of yours. Or claims to be. Somehow she learned you attend Sacred Heart.”
“If she’s a fan then I have to like her,” Nora said, hating this reporter who’d come sniffing around Søren. Bad sign that the reporter already linked her with Søren. Things were getting sticky already.
Nora glanced down and discovered Griffin had succeeded in getting her completely naked and himself half-naked in the hallway. He brought his hand between her legs and lightly toyed with the tiny silver hoop that pierced her clitoral hood. She attempted to slap his hand away but he carried on, impervious to her defenses.
“What are you going to do?” she asked as Griffin slipped a finger into her while his other hand expertly teased her nipple. Michael being denied to him, Griffin had clearly decided to take his frustrated lust out on her. Against her will, her body started to respond to his gentle assault. At least a couple hours of kinky fucking would distract her from Søren worries.
“Anything I have to,” he said simply, the threat of Søren’s deep darkness in his words. “Take care of Michael. Keep Griffin away from him. You will be home with me where you belong soon enough.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, her stomach tightening both with both nervousness and arousal. “I love you.” Tears pricked at her eyes as she said the words. Not good. Just a few days apart and she already missed him enough to get weepy.
“I love you too, little one. Nothing and no one will keep us apart. Know that and believe it.”
“Trying,” she said and took a ragged breath.
Griffin took her bra and panties and his shirt and started heading down the hall toward the east wing. He turned back around and beckoned her with the condom package between his index and middle fingers. Which reminded her…
“Søren?” Nora asked sweetly. “Beloved priest of my heart? Can I ask a little favor?”
* * *
Dinner with Patrick always started out with dinner but never ended with dinner. Suzanne lay underneath him as he pulled her panties down her legs. Bad idea, sleeping with an ex-boyfriend, even if he was helping her with her investigation. But she couldn’t deny she wanted this, wanted his warm mouth on her breasts and his fingers on her clitoris and…
“I want your cock in me, Patrick,” she gasped as he covered her naked body with his.
Patrick laughed softly and Suzanne’s body temperature kicked up a couple more degrees as his strong bare chest vibrated against her taut nipples.
“I’ll happily put my cock in you. Where did that come from?” he asked as he slipped on a condom. Reaching between her thighs, he caressed her wet folds with fingers that knew exactly where she liked being touched.
“Your fault,” she said as he traced leisurely circles into her with one and then two fingers. “You’re the one who told me Nora Sutherlin went to Sacred Heart. I’ve been reading her books…for research.”
“One-handed research?” Patrick kissed his way across her shoulders and neck and up to her mouth.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she teased.
“Wouldn’t I love to watch,” he said, pushing gently into her. She spread her legs and took him deeper.
She groaned in the back of her throat as Patrick started his slow forceful thrusts. Rocking her hips into Patrick’s, she tried to keep from dwelling on all the reasons she shouldn’t be—again—having sex with her ex. They weren’t getting back together. With her work, her traveling, she couldn’t have a real relationship. He wanted so much from her—commitment, promises, love—that she didn’t have to give. But at dinner they’d talked about Nora Sutherlin, how she had appeared almost out of nowhere six years ago and become the most celebrated dominatrix in the Underground. Patrick didn’t know too many specifics. Specifics were hard to come by where Nora Sutherlin was concerned. Still, that didn’t stop Suzanne and Patrick from wildly speculating about her personal life—who she slept with, who her clients were, what kinky people did behind closed doors. By the time they stumbled into Suzanne’s apartment after dinner, they were both flushed and breathy and ready to fall into bed together.
Closing her eyes, Suzanne felt the tension in her thighs that signaled she was close to coming. Patrick’s hands groped at her back as his mouth sought hers again and again. She pressed into the bed as she felt the familiar tightening. For one brief moment a vision of someone other than Patrick flashed across her mind’s eye—a vision of a man, taller than Patrick, more viscerally handsome, older, far more intimidating and significantly blonder. Suddenly she orgasmed, the vaginal spasms fluttering through her stomach. For another few seconds Patrick kept thrusting. He pushed one final time, gathered her to him and came hard. At the back of her mind she heard him whisper something into her ear. But shocked by the vision she’d just had, she didn’t understand the words.
“You’re not going to say anything?” Patrick said, kissing her cheek, her neck.
“Sorry,” she said, panicking a moment. Had she said something when she came, said another name? “I just—”
“I said I love you, Suzanne.” Slowly Patrick pulled out of her and lay on his side. “No comment?”
“Oh, God,” she said, gathering the sheets to her chest. “I’m sorry. Good orgasm—I think it killed some brain cells.”
Patrick rolled onto his back. “I killed some brain cells. Nice. Well, not quite what I was hoping for but better than ‘I hate you. Get out.’”
Suzanne heard the hurt in his voice, the hurt she knew he desperately wanted to hide from her. Reluctantly she turned to face him.
“Patrick, we’ve had this conversation. Nothing’s changed since the last time we had it.”
“Right,” he said, dragging his lean, toned body out of her bed. Why did he always have to make sex about something more than sex?
He grabbed his jeans off the floor and pulled them on. “Work is your life. In Iran one month. In Cambodia the next. Can’t settle down. Unfair to me. Just won’t work. I’ve heard it all. What I haven’t heard is you looking me in the eyes and saying, ‘Patrick, I don’t love you.’”
He threw on his shirt and brusquely buttoned it.
“Waiting,” he said. “Can you say it?”
Suzanne rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I always make my declarations of love during post-sex fights. Maybe we should talk about this another time. When I have clothes on.”
“Yeah, that’ll make a difference. I’ll just go now so I can let you get back to work. Call me when you need more help digging up dirt on this priest of yours. Or when you want my cock in you again, as you so delicately put it.”
He slammed his feet into his shoes, grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the bedroom. Groaning, Suzanne yanked the sheet free from the bed and wrapped it around her.
“Patrick, please don’t leave. We were having such a good evening. Why do you always have to ruin it by starting a fight?” Patrick paused at her front door and turned around.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “And you’re brilliant. And you drive me insane. And I’ve been in love with you for a year. I didn’t sleep with a single person after you dumped me and ran off to Afghanistan—”
“I didn’t run off,” she countered angrily. “I’m a war correspondent. It was my job.”
“And I didn’t start a fight. I told you I loved you. Only you would hear ‘I love you’ and think I’m starting a fight. I’m leaving now before I say something really horrible, like ‘I love you’ again.”
Suzanne exhaled and ran her fingers through her hair.
“Patrick…” she began and could think of nothing else to say.
He stared at her a long time and shook his head.
“She left,” Patrick said as he turned the doorknob.
“What?”
“Nora Sutherlin. Her real name’s Eleanor Schreiber, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. Nora Sutherlin’s just a pen name.”
“Anyway, Sacred Heart keeps meticulous membership rolls. She left the church seven years ago, came back last year. Doubt it means anything. Meant to tell you that at dinner.”
Suzanne nodded. Patrick waited.
“Thank you,” she said, drawing the sheet tighter around herself.
Patrick only looked at her. He opened the door and walked out, leaving her alone in her apartment.
Frustrated and hurt, Suzanne headed back for the bedroom. On her way she paused by her bookcase and stared at her copy of Nora Sutherlin’s book The Red sitting on her shelf.
“All your fault, you slut,” Suzanne said, trying to make herself feel better. It didn’t work. She took the book off the shelf and leafed through it, hoping to distract herself from the fact that during sex with Patrick, she’d pictured the face of Father Stearns, the target of her investigation—the enemy. She stiffened her spine and pushed her shame aside. Father Stearns had shocked her by being so breathtakingly handsome. That was the only reason his face came to her while Patrick was inside her. That’s all.
Suzanne nearly shut the book and put it back on the shelf. The last thing she needed was to think about sex or men anymore today. But as the pages fanned closed her eyes fell onto the book’s dedication.
As Always, Beloved, Your Eleanor
She read it again. An odd phrase, oddly worded. It seemed to say more than it actually said. Nora was short for Eleanor. That part she understood.
But who was her beloved?
* * *
Michael woke up alone. The moon rested high in the corner of his window. Still night. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Part of him still couldn’t believe he was here spending the summer in a mansion and learning kink from the Nora Sutherlin. Before he’d fallen asleep, she’d interrogated him about his fantasy life, what he wanted to try, what he wanted to learn. Having a beautiful domme gently scouring his naked skin with her fingernails while telling him stories about her life as a submissive might have been one of the most erotic moments of his life. Unfortunately when she’d tried asking him specific questions about what he wanted to do, to try with her, he clammed up, too embarrassed to answer. He’d apologized for his inability to articulate his sexual needs to her. But she’d just kissed him gently and whispered, “We’ll get there.”
One thing they had been able to talk about was safety. Tomorrow he’d start taking the sub-cocktail, as Nora called it. vitamin K and zinc, to help his bruises heal faster. During their scenes he was to use the green/yellow/red light system to let her know how he was faring. And, of course, his safe word would still be what she’d given him their one night they spent together: wings.
Michael remembered that night, that moment when he’d told her his name. Nora had smiled and reminded him that Michael was the name of God’s chief archangel, God’s fiercest warrior. A fierce warrior? Whatever. His father had named him and obviously expected a different sort of son. His dad would have been much happier with a masculine, athletic son. Not the pale, thin, almost feminine-looking kid he’d ended up with. A guy like Griffin, that’s what his dad would have wanted in a son. With his sinewed muscles and powerful build, his strong nose and jaw, Griffin was the sort of man anyone would want—men, women, everybody. He’d said as much to Nora when she asked him about his parents.
“Your father would find as much fault with Griffin as he does with you,” she’d said, caressing his forehead with the loving touch of a mother checking for a fever. God, when was the last time his mom had even touched him? “Griffin was a hell-raiser of the highest order when he was your age, and didn’t even begin to settle down until his twenties. Plus he’s crazy kinky and bisexual.”
“Griffin’s bisexual?” Michael had asked, a strange thrill running through his body.
“He is. So, you know, watch your back, beautiful,” she said, winking down at him.
Michael had groaned. “Guys aren’t supposed to be beautiful,” he’d protested as Nora stroked the high arch of his cheekbone.
“But angels are,” she said and gave him another soft kiss. And then she’d brought her lips to his ear and whispered, “Saturday night.”
“What’s Saturday night?” he’d asked.
“That’s when I’m going to beat you and fuck you again. If you’re ready. Ready?”
“Very ready, ma’am.”
Michael exhaled loudly, irritated at himself. He’d grown hard again just thinking about Saturday night, which fell an agonizing two days from now. And Nora had already warned him he couldn’t come without her permission. Apparently Father S imposed the same rule on her during the two years he’d trained her before they became lovers. She said that being a madly-in-love eighteen-year-old virgin with a raging libido who had to get permission from her priest before she could even masturbate might have been the worst torture Søren had ever inflicted on her. Caning was a breeze in comparison.
Slowly Michael crawled out of bed, pulled on his boxers and T-shirt, and walked to his bathroom. No, he corrected himself. Griffin’s bathroom. Everything belonged to Griffin, and Michael was merely a guest in this house. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, get used to this luxury. At the end of the summer, he’d move from his mother’s small house to an even smaller dorm room where he’d go back to being alone. If he got used to this house and the people in it, it would hurt so much worse when he left it in August.
Leaning over the sink, Michael splashed cold water on his flushed face. He brushed his teeth and combed out his hair with his fingers—routine actions that helped his arousal die down a little. His stomach rumbled. How long had it been since he’d eaten? Yesterday maybe? Griffin had told him where to find the kitchen and that anything in it was fair game. Food. Food was good. Food would distract him.
He crept out of the room in the nursery wing and headed for the main stairs. He remembered Griffin’s rather idiomatic instructions—down the fuck-off big stairs in the middle, left at that stupid marble whatever that I want to get rid of but Mom would kill me if I did, past the dining room with the anal table, and the kitchen’s on the right.
“The anal table?” Michael had asked.
“Perfect height for anal sex,” Griffin explained.
So Michael descended the fuck-off big stairs in the middle of the hall and turned left at the marble statue, which was some kind of horse, he guessed. A door on the left side of the hall stood slightly ajar. From inside escaped soft sounds of pleasure.
Quietly he crept to the door. Inside the expansive, opulent dining room Michael saw Nora and Griffin. Nora lay naked on the center of the enormous table. Long cords of red silk bound her wrists to the table legs while her own legs lay splayed open at the edge. Griffin, wearing nothing but leather pants that rested low on his trim hips, stood between her knees as he worked his hand into her. Carefully he pushed first three, then four and finally all five of his fingers inside her straining body. Michael winced but Nora seemed to enjoy it. Her back arched and her hips rose off the table as Griffin’s entire hand disappeared inside her.
If a cannon had gone off behind Michael, he still wouldn’t have been able to look away. Nora had such beautiful breasts, and they rose and fell with her every ragged breath. The sight of Griffin’s muscled, tattooed arm wrist-deep in Nora brought Michael nearly to orgasm from watching alone. He never thought he had a leather fetish or anything, but for some reason the sight of Griffin in leather pants, looking like some kind of rock star bathed in sweat and candlelight, brought every part of Michael’s body to full attention.
He heard Griffin whispering carnal encouragements to Nora, who rode his hand with hungry undulations of her pelvis as she pulled at the scarlet scarves. Her breathing grew harsh and labored. Griffin’s fingers massaged her swollen clitoris until her entire body went rigid for what seemed like an eternity before she released an exalted cry.
Her orgasm over, Nora lay still for a minute panting and laughing a little as Griffin gingerly worked his way out of her. He untied her wrists from the table and used the scarf to clean his hand. Reaching out, he grabbed Nora’s spent body and lifted her off the table with a casual display of strength. A small puddle of fluid glimmered on the table’s polished surface right where Nora’s hips had rested.
Pulling Nora to him, Griffin hissed a harsh command into her ear as he took the silk scarf and tied her wrists behind her back. Nora protested, pouted, begged a little. But Griffin only took her by the neck and pushed her onto the floor. He leaned against the table as Nora sunk to her knees in front of him. Michael nearly moaned out loud as Griffin freed his erection from the confines of his leather pants. Good God, Griffin was seriously well hung. Michael couldn’t tear his eyes away as Griffin grabbed the back of Nora’s head and forced her to take his impressive girth into her mouth. Griffin braced himself on the table with one hand as he moved in and out slowly.
Michael knew he shouldn’t be watching this. Griffin and Nora were having sex. No way would they want him gaping at them the whole time. But he couldn’t leave, couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop staring at the line at the center of Griffin’s chest, the line that started at his strong neck, trailed down his broad chest, divided his ridged stomach and led down all the way into Nora’s mouth. Griffin’s stomach tightened further as a little grunt of pleasure passed his lips.
The hand in Nora’s hair now caressed her face, her cheek, and Griffin stared down at her with hooded, lust-filled eyes. He playfully tapped her on the chin and winked. Winked? At the wink, Nora’s rather occupied mouth twitched with a little smile. Until now Michael had always thought of kink as something dark and dangerous, something for fetishists and freaks like him. Now it suddenly dawned on him. BDSM was a game—a game where both players won.
Griffin returned Nora’s smile before another desperate breath escaped his lips. Michael’s heart clenched at the obvious affection Griffin felt for Nora. Would someone ever do that to him—smile at him like that, touch him like that, with affection, with love during sex? He worried constantly he would never find anyone to love him. Finding someone who understood his sexuality and didn’t judge him for it seemed a near-impossible dream. Nora had Father S, and surely Griffin had tons of lovers who satisfied all his wants and desires. Would Michael ever have that? Surely most girls would make a run for it the second he told them he needed to be dominated in the bedroom. And Nora sort of seemed like one of a kind.
With a heavy heart, Michael finally pulled away from the cracked-open door and headed back to his room. Once again the demon of envy danced in his chest. He stopped and rested his head against the wall to breathe for a few seconds.
The scene he’d just witnessed flashed in front of his mind’s eye again, but this time it was him in the dining room. He could feel the plush Persian rug soft but prickly under his knees, the cord taut around his wrists. In shock, Michael’s eyes flew open as he realized for one second he didn’t envy Griffin because he got to be with Nora.
He envied Nora.