The Mistress

“Fine, I’ll do it,” she’d finally said after arguing with him about it for an hour that night.

“Of course you will.”

“But I won’t like it.”

At that Søren had laughed and such a laugh that goose bumps had risen on her arms.

“This is Kingsley we’re talking about, Eleanor. You’ll like it whether you want to or not.”

With those ominous words ringing in her ears, Eleanor entered Kingsley’s town house behind Søren. Always she walked behind him when in submission. She walked behind him, she would speak only when spoken to, she wore her hair up as requested, wore white whenever they were together as a couple in Kingsley’s world. For all the restrictions on her, she loved those moments most—the evenings at Kingsley’s or the club, the few safe places she could be seen with Søren and know that everyone knew she was his property.

They found Kingsley in the front parlor sitting in an armchair wearing a black suit vaguely reminiscent of the Regency era and his black riding boots. He had a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever seen Kingsley simply sitting and reading before. Kingsley was the King of the Underground. He never simply sat and did nothing. If he wasn’t on the phone he was in a meeting. If he wasn’t in a meeting he was in a beating. Strange that she’d seen the man top and f**k a woman before but seeing him with a book on his knee and silver-rimmed eyeglasses on seemed more intimate, more revealing. Kingsley Edge, the man of secrets and mysteries, wore reading glasses.

He looked up from his book—Les Trois Mousquetaires—and met her eyes from across the room. His dark, shoulder-length hair had a bit of a wave to it, and every time she saw it unbound, she fought the urge to run her fingers through it.

“So glad you could make it,” Kingsley said, casual and debonair as ever. “Wine?”

He spoke only to Søren, who poured himself a glass and sat on the chaise longue. He tapped his thigh and Eleanor knelt on the floor and waited at his feet. Resting her chin on his knee, she listened in silence as the two men exchanged pleasantries. They spoke in French to each other most of the time, even in front of her. They’d always done that from the very first day she’d been in their presence. They rattled on and on in French while she sat there not understanding a word they said. Funny how hard it was to distinguish “Dominant” behavior from “asshole” behavior most of the time.

“Is your Little One in a mood to play tonight?” Kingsley switched back into English. Eleanor didn’t even look at him. If she looked at him, she might smile and that would ruin everything.

“No, she’s in a mood to play martyr tonight.”

“No martyrs allowed in my bed. Only satyrs.”

“Try telling her that.”

“May I speak to her alone for a moment?”

“Of course. I’ll see you upstairs.” Søren tapped the end of her nose lightly. Always he reserved his most affectionate advances when she was least in the mood to enjoy them. Again...Dominant and ass**le... She was starting to think those two words should be in the thesaurus together.

Søren left the room and Eleanor remained on the floor awaiting orders.

“You may sit,” Kingsley said as he took off his glasses and set them on the side table.

“I am sitting, monsieur.”

“On the chair.”

Eleanor moved from the floor to the chair and crossed her legs at the ankles. The heels of her shoes reverberated off the marble floor.

“You’re nervous.”

“What gave it away?” Eleanor forced her feet to rest firmly on the floor. The shaking continued but only inside her.

“You don’t have to be nervous, ma chérie.”

“You’re going to f**k me tonight.”

“More than once.”

“And that shouldn’t make me nervous?”

“You’ve been f**ked before.”

“Only by him.”

“If letting him f**k you doesn’t make you nervous, nothing should.”

“So—” she paused to laugh “—you might have a point there.”

Kingsley set his book aside, stood up and joined her on the sofa. He took her hand in his and rubbed her fingers.

“Your fingers are like ice.”

“I’m terrified.”

“No need for terror. All stops with a word. You know that.”

“I know but still...I don’t know.”

He gave her a smile and it felt like a gift. She saw a person in the smile, a person with a heart even if he tried to hide it.

“He was destined for the Jesuits, you know. Even in school, I saw it. I didn’t want to see it but I did. You like his motorcycle? The Jesuits, they hold all in common. He had to beg permission to keep his motorcycle otherwise he’d have to give it to the order to be sold. Everything he owns, he doesn’t. It’s the order’s or the church’s. You, chérie, you are the only thing he owns. You understand?”

“Then why does he want to give me away?”

“Because you he can take back.”

He raised his hand to her face to wipe off a tear she hadn’t noticed falling.

“Elle, I know you understand what he is. We both know being with him exacts a certain toll on a person.”

“He has to play hard to get hard, I know that. I’m okay with that. More than okay.”