The Saint

“Only the last fifteen hours of your shower. I thought you might have washed down the drain.”

He’d changed from his clerics into normal clothes—jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. He had the sleeves pulled up enough that she could see his wrists and forearms. Muscular forearms and large, manly adult hands. No playful tattoos or punk nail polish for him. His hands were serious and dignified—all work and no play. And now those hands toweled the water out of her hair, swiped droplets off her face. She imagined they were a normal couple in their own house. But they weren’t a normal couple and never would be and whether the world understood or not, that was what she loved about them.

Søren picked her up off her feet and sat her on the bathroom counter.

“You’re really drying me off?”

“And dressing you in your pajamas and putting you to bed.”

“Do I get a bedtime story, too?”

“If you want one.”

She grinned at the thought of Søren reading her a bedtime story. Could life get any weirder? Any better? As Søren dried her hair, her face, even her legs and feet, the residue of the past week with Wyatt evaporated. She’d adored Wyatt, yes, but now that Søren had come back she saw Wyatt as nothing but a detour, temporary and unexpected. Søren was the path she’d chosen. In his presence she remembered why she’d picked him and why she would never wander off that path again.

“Sam provided the pajamas,” Søren said, holding up a little white nightgown. “She picked them out for you.”

“I want to make out with her.”

“Later. You’re mine now.”

She stepped into the white shorty bottoms that Søren dragged up her legs and pulled on the camisole top.

“You know, the last time anybody helped me get ready for bed, I was eight and was getting over the flu.” Eleanor remembered her mom bathing her tired body and putting her into pajamas. She’d been so limp, so tired then, helpless from the illness that her mother had rocked in her arms like she was still a baby.

Now Eleanor felt tired, tired and happy. And clean, so clean in Søren’s presence. Clean and safe. She wasn’t helpless anymore, wasn’t weak. Out of pleasure and love alone she submitted to his ministrations and let herself become as dependent as a child.

He helped her off the bathroom counter and followed her into the bedroom. She turned down the covers and started to crawl inside, but froze when she felt an impossibly strong hand on the back of her neck.

“Don’t move,” Søren ordered.

“What—”

She yelped as his hand made loud and brutal contact with her barely covered bottom.

“That was for drinking too much last night.”

He smacked her bottom again, this time twice as hard.

“And that was for Wyatt.”

Eleanor dug her fingers into the sheets and braced herself. The next smack hurt worse than the previous two combined. She gasped from the pain.

“And that was simply for the fun of it. Now you may get into bed.”

“Ow.” Eleanor finally managed to get a word out. She collapsed onto her side and pulled the covers over her. She looked up at Søren, who seemed to be fighting off a smile. “I can’t believe you spanked me.”

Søren grinned at her. “I can.”

He bent and kissed her, one of his conquering kisses that made her feel like a newly discovered world waiting for him to plant his flag in her.

He slid his hand under the covers, down her body and between her legs. Over top of her pajama bottoms, he teased her clitoris until she panted into his mouth. She raised her hips, hungry for more, and he pushed the fabric aside to slide one finger into her.

“Would you like to come?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

He kissed her again as he rubbed her clitoris with his thumb. She dug her fingers into the sheets as he edged her closer and closer to climax. She shut her eyes as the pressure built and her temperature rose. And then without warning, Søren pulled his hand away from her.

Her eyes flew open and she looked up at him.

“You’re killing me,” she said.

He gave her a smile so wicked she almost came from that alone.

“I asked you if you wanted to come. I didn’t say I would let you.”

“Fucking sadist.”

“I’m glad you’re starting to realize this. Want your bedtime story now?”

“No, I want an orgasm.”

“Good. I’ll find the book. But first …” Søren knelt at the side of the bed, and Eleanor rose up on her elbows.

“What are you doing down there? Praying?”

“Digging. Here we go.” He pulled some kind of briefcase from under the bed and unlatched it.

“What is that?”

“Kingsley keeps his guest rooms well supplied.” He pulled two lengths of rope from the case, shut it and slid it back under the bed. “I have to leave the room for a few minutes, and I’m not sure I trust you with yourself.”

“You think I’ll furiously masturbate the second your back is turned?”

“Yes.”

“You’re probably right about that.”

Søren took her wrists in his hands. They felt so small and delicate in his grip. He wrapped the rope around both her wrists several times, tying them together before looping the rope around the bedpost and securing it. In awe she watched his expert fingers, how easily he knotted the rope.