The Virgin

“I’m not angry.” Søren poured water into a porcelain basin and brought it to the bedside table. He dipped a white cloth into the water. With it he wiped the residue of candle wax off her body.

“I would have told you if you’d asked,” she said as Søren rinsed the cloth in the basin. She opened her legs for him and now he cleaned the semen off her vulva and inner thighs. “You never asked,” she reminded him.

“That was a hard year for all of us,” he said.

“I never asked you what you did while I was gone.”

“Suffered,” he said, meeting her eyes.

“Now I remember why I didn’t ask.”

“It sounds as if you didn’t suffer the entire time you were gone.”

“You know me. If I’m not having sex, I go a little crazy.”

“What’s your excuse the rest of the time then?” he asked and she play-punched him in the arm. He captured her by the wrists and kissed her again, entirely against her will. Well, mostly against. Partly. She pretended it was against her will anyway.

After he released her arms, she clambered out of the bed and found her suitcase. The castle was full of guests now, and all day she’d been working, answering questions, making decisions, putting all the finishing touches into place. If someone came knocking on her door—a distinct possibility—she should probably have some clothes on before she answered it. She slipped into a pair of black-and-white silk pajama pants and a matching lacy camisole top. She kept her collar on for no reason other than she’d missed it. From Nico she’d learned the fine art of starting a fire in a fireplace, and she went to work stacking her kindling.

“So do I get my prize?” she asked.

Before she could answer, the door flew open, the rusty hinges screaming in protest. Kingsley rushed in and slammed the door behind him.

“What the hell?” she said, standing up.

“You have to hide me,” Kingsley said, out of breath from running. “She’s after me.”

“Who? Céleste?” Nora asked. Kingsley and his daughter had been playing hide-and-seek all day in the castle.

“Juliette,” Kingsley said. He looked at Søren and said, “Take off your pants if you want me to live.”

“You’ve tried that line before,” Søren reminded him. “It didn’t work the last time you tried it, either.”

“I’m a dead man then,” Kingsley said, barring the door behind him.

“Why do you need Søren to take his pants off?” Nora asked. “I mean, other than the usual reason.”

Kingsley pointed down at himself.

“That’s why,” he said.

Nora looked at him. He wore a black shirt and had his hair pulled back in a ponytail. His feet were bare; he looked like a pirate or a rogue or both and none of this was unusual. Except for one thing. Every man in the wedding party had already been given their formal wear.

So instead of his usual clothes, Kingsley wore a kilt.

“Juliette has a kilt fetish?” Nora asked, now understanding Kingsley’s panic.

“A newly discovered kilt fetish,” Kingsley said. “She’s had me three times yesterday and three times today already—”

“You’re her Dominant,” Søren reminded him. “Satisfying her needs is your job.”

Kingsley ignored him. “She’s hunting me down for a fourth. I’m a man, not a machine. I feel violated, used...”

“You’re being melodramatic. You know you love it,” Søren said.

“Why does she keep calling me Connor in bed?” Kingsley asked.

“This explains why she’s always trying to make me watch Highlander with her,” Nora said as she stood up in front of the fireplace.

Nora looked at Søren and awaited his verdict.

“Please don’t make me go,” Kingsley said in a pleading tone. “I swear it’ll break off if she gets her hands on me again.”

Søren delivered his judgment.

“Throw him out.”

“You heard the man,” Nora said as she strode to the door, her feet tingling on the cold stone floor. “The priest has spoken.”

“I’ll be dead by morning,” Kingsley said, pressing his back to the door.

“We’ll miss you very much.” Nora reached past him for the door bar. “I have my collar on. I have to follow orders.”

“I’ll beg for my life. How’s that?” Kingsley looked straight at Søren.

“Beg then,” Søren said as he dug through his suitcase and pulled out a T-shirt. He was a cruel man and putting on clothes was the most sadistic of all the many cruelties he inflicted on his lovers. “I’d like to hear this.”

“He’s in a mood,” Nora said to Kingsley. “I had to beg for my orgasm.”

“I can beg. I’ll beg.”

Nora crossed her arms and waited. She hoped Kingsley would find a way to earn his way into staying. She’d missed him too these past few weeks she’d been gone.

“S’il vous plaît, mon ami, mon amour, mon coeur, mon maître, mon monstre, I will do anything if you let me stay. Anything at all.”

“Anything?” Søren repeated. “Define anything.”

Kingsley looked at Nora then he crooked his finger at Søren.

Søren sighed and walked over to Kingsley, who cupped his face and whispered something. Nora strained to hear what Kingsley said to Søren, but his voice was too low and his French too rapid. But whatever he said must have been good. Søren’s eyes widened.