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Author: Tiffany Reisz
“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 fuck 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 asshole. . . 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 fuck me tonight. ”
“More than once. ”
“And that shouldn’t make me nervous?”
“You’ve been fucked before. ”
“Only by him. ”
“If letting him fuck 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. ”
“But will you always be? Sometimes you might want the pleasantries of sex without the associated pain that comes from spending a night with him. ”
“I have no interest in having vanilla sex with anybody,” she said, meaning every word. One night with Søren had ruined the idea of vanilla sex for her forever. How could she ever enjoy something so banal after discovering the primal, fearsome power of kink?
“I am certainly not talking about vanilla sex. ” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips. “But rest assured, there are other games to be played, ones equally savage and sensual but without the aftermath. He can’t show you that world, but I can. . . if you’ll allow it. ”
Eleanor had looked at him then, looked at him for a long time. And she looked at him because she realized in that moment, even though she’d known him for years and considered him a friend, she didn’t know who he was.
“What are you?” she asked, not sure she knew what she meant. “To him, I mean. I know you’re friends, and I know you’ve known each other a long time and I know about her. . . but there’s more, isn’t there?”
Kingsley gave a soft chuckle, one that made the hair on her arms stand up.
“You’re smart,” he said, and although it was a compliment, it didn’t sound like one.
“I’m more than smart. I’m not stupid. ”
“You’re standing at the edge of a rabbit hole. Are you sure you want to fall down it?”
“I’ll trade you my hole for your hole. ”
Kingsley laughed then, a laugh of pure surprise.
“You. . . ” He pointed his finger at her. “You are more than you seem. ”
“I could say the same about you. ”
She held out her hand and he pulled her off the sofa and straight into his arms. In seconds he had her back to the wall, his thigh pushing between her legs, and his mouth at her mouth.
With a dark-eyed smile he looked at her a moment before meeting her lips with his. The kiss started off slowly. . . gently. . . even carefully, as if Kingsley knew she teetered on the verge of spooking like a startled horse. She enjoyed the kiss, the skill of the lips, the taste of his wine-tinged tongue on hers. But still. . . this wasn’t Søren kissing her, but Kingsley. She’d kissed others and felt terrible about it. How was this okay? Kissing another man? How was this not cheating? As if reading her worries, Kingsley pulled back long enough to whisper, “He wants this for both of us. . . . ”
“Why?”
Kingsley gave her a seductive grin, one that nearly set her to shivering again.
“What father doesn’t want his children to play nice together? Come.
. . let’s go play nice. ”
She took his proffered arm like a lady being led to a waltz, and they said nothing on their way to Kingsley’s bedroom.
Play nice, Kingsley said. Play. . . Nothing to be afraid of. . . It’s only a game, she told herself over and over again.
Kingsley opened the door to his bedroom and she saw the dark red room illuminated by dozens of pale yellow taper candles. At the end of the bed stood Søren holding something wrapped around his hand. Tonight he’d dressed incognito—black pants, black shirt open at the neck. When he opened his fingers a dozen leather tongues of the flogger lapped at his leg.
Only a game.
Game on.
Kingsley left her side and walked to Søren.
“She’s in a better mood now,” Kingsley said, divesting himself of his jacket. Underneath the jacket he wore a white shirt and a black vest, intricately embroidered with silver thread. “She’ll be in an even better mood once we’re done with her. ”
“Kingsley, remind me. . . didn’t we have a dream like this once,” Søren said as he raised his hand and crooked a finger at her. As slowly as she could without getting scolded, she came to stand in front of him. Her white collar sat on the end of the bed. Søren picked it up and buckled it around her neck without even looking in her eyes. He acknowledged only Kingsley’s presence as Kingsley only acknowledged his.
“Black hair and green eyes. . . pale like you, dark hair like me. . . ”
“And wilder than the both of us together,” Søren finished. “How nice when dreams come true. ”
“Oui, mon ami. Although she doesn’t seem particularly wild at the moment. ”
“Wait and see. She might surprise you. ”
Eleanor came this close to screaming at them both. Had no one ever told them it was rude to talk about someone in third person as if she wasn’t standing right in front of them? But she remembered her training and kept her mouth shut. . . at least for the moment.
“Let’s begin, then, oui? Who first?”
“You can decide,” he said to Kingsley, so nonchalant as if they were simply picking a wine for dinner.
“Ahh. . . better idea. ” Kingsley reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a coin. “We’ll let the coin decide tonight. Heads or tails. ”
“We win both ways. ” Søren ran a hand from her lips to her hips where he lingered long enough to give her an insinuating slap on the bottom. Heads or tails indeed. Staring at these two beautiful condescending, infuriating men who talked about her like she wasn’t even in the room made her want to. . . something. Scream? Cry? Slap them both? What was it she wanted to do to them?
Kingsley gave Søren a wink before he flipped the coin. The coin came down and Eleanor snatched it out of the air before it landed on Kingsley’s palm. The act had been unpremeditated, unplanned, and she saw from the looks on their faces, she’d managed to surprise them both.
“Heads,” she said without even looking at the coin. She tossed it over her shoulder and dropped to her knees in front of Kingsley. He opened his pants and Eleanor took him deep into her mouth.
Now she knew exactly what she wanted to do to those two beautiful condescending, infuriating men. . . .
She wanted to fuck their brains out. Both of them.
“Mon Dieu,” she heard Kingsley saying from above her.
“I told you so,” was Søren’s only reply.
Eleanor had only ever done this to Søren but he’d called her a natural. More than a natural, he’d even once joked she was something of a siren—the things she could do with her mouth would blow any man off course. The soft gasps escaping Kingsley’s lips and his hand clinging to the bedpost for support seemed to reinforce that assessment of her skills and her enthusiasm for the task.
The Mistress Page 32