Something Nice
An Original Sinners Novella
Tiffany Reisz
8th Circle Press
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
About the Author
Books by Tiffany Reisz
Copyright
Author’s Note
This story takes place two months after the end of The Siren, the summer between The Siren and The Angel.
1
When Søren said, “Let’s make a trade,” Nora should have known right then and right there it was a trap. He was her owner, her master, her dominant. Dominants did not make trades, especially not a dominant like Søren. He gave the orders. She followed the orders. The end. By the time he’d suggested the trade, he’d flogged her for nearly an hour. She was naked, standing by the bedpost with her arms tied over her head and in her aroused and weakened state, she’d fallen for the trap hook, line, and vagina.
“Trade, sir?”
“Yes. I’ll do something nice for you and you’ll do something nice for me.”
“Something nice?” she asked.
“Yes, something nice.”
“No offense, sir, but niceness really isn’t your strong suit.”
“True, but neither is it yours.”
“Good point. Still…what’s the catch?” she asked.
“No catch,” Søren said.
“You’re a sadist. There’s always a catch. Sir.”
“The usual catch. You’ll have to agree to the trade without knowing what nice thing I want from you first. Then again, that hardly matters since I could simply order you to do it anyway.”
“True,” she said. “May I ask why you aren’t simply ordering me to do whatever it is then?”
“Let’s say I’m feeling generous. So tell me, Little One, what would you like me to do?”
He dropped the flogger onto the bed and pressed his bare chest to her naked back. He cupped her breasts in his hands and lightly held them as he kissed her shoulder, the back of her neck. A stubborn curl of her black hair fell over her face. She wriggled her itching nose and Søren, attentive as always, tucked the curl behind her ear for her.
“It has to be something nice?” she asked. “Could it be something naughty?”
“Aren’t those words synonymous in your vocabulary?”
“True,” she said. “Anything nice? Anything at all?”
“Anything that’s in my power at this moment. I’ll play your favorite song on piano, massage every inch of your body, give you a bath, tell you a story, or—”
“Go down on me?” she said. “All the way? To completion? No stopping right before I come to torture me like you did last week?”
Søren laughed softly into her ear, which only made her aching arousal worse. If she didn’t come soon she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions.
“That’s certainly in my power,” he said. “Is that your request?”
“Since you are in a generous mood, sir…”
Apparently he was in a generous mood. He unhooked her wrists from the bedpost and with one finger under her collar, drew her to the bed, laid her down on her back, and straddled her stomach. He lifted her arms over her head again and cuffed her wrists to the headboard. With his knees, he nudged her thighs wide open while he pressed a deep, sensual kiss onto her lips. She’d been back with Søren two full months and every day it got a little easier. The bruises on her body had healed weeks ago. The bruises on her heart would take a little longer, but with every night she spent in Søren’s bed, with every kiss, every touch, the pain of losing Wesley eased. Sometimes she could go hours without thinking of him, and those were always the hours in Søren’s bed.
He kissed her neck and her chest, lingered long over her nipples, which hardened and throbbed in his warm mouth. As he kissed her breasts, he teased the little metal hoop threaded through her clitoral hood. He had the most miraculous fingers, long and dexterous. They knew all her secrets.
Nora panted with pleasure as he stroked her and when he slipped a finger inside her and pressed against that soft spot that made her wild, she gasped so hard her shoulders came off the bed. Søren laughed again and raised his head. He put one finger over his lips, shushing her.
“Let’s play the quiet game, shall we?” he asked in a soft, chiding tone. It was times like this she remembered he was once a school teacher. “We are in a rectory, after all. Not a brothel.”
“Sorry, sir,” she whispered. “I have trouble telling the difference sometimes.”
He lowered himself to the bed and if there was a sexier sight in the world than his blond head between her legs, she hadn’t seen it yet and doubted she ever would. He flicked his tongue over her clitoris and she flinched with pleasure but somehow managed to stay silent. Mostly silent. It wasn’t easy to keep from moaning when Søren pressed his tongue to the base of her vagina and slowly licked his way to her clitoris. He did it again and this time he pushed his tongue into her body. Nora seized with pleasure. Every muscle in her body clenched and she gasped Søren’s name.
Just enough bright white moonlight streamed in the room to watch him as he worked on her. She saw the outline of veins on his muscular arms and shoulders, the look of intensely absorbed concentration on his face, and his long dark eyelashes resting on his cheeks. When his fingertip found her favorite nerve ending, her deep muscles fluttered, and Nora remembered she was supposed to be having an orgasm, not staring at her lover while he went down on her. Closing her eyes, she rested her head back against the pillow. She was so close to coming but she breathed through the pleasure the same way she breathed through the pain when Søren flogged her. If she could control her breathing, she could put off climaxing for another minute or two and the orgasm, when it did come, would be twice as intense. Søren wasn’t making it easy on her, though. He licked her deeply and thoroughly, fucked her with two fingers inside her, ran his tongue around her clitoris over and over again until she shook and shuddered against the sheets. Her stomach tightened and her back became a steel string pulled taut and ready to snap. She desperately wanted to touch him, to stroke his hair, caress his shoulders, but he had her hands tied to the bed. Instead she wrapped her legs over his back and rested her heels between his shoulder blades. His skin felt hot to the touch.
Søren lightly sucked her clitoral ring and the pleasure passed the point of no return. He slipped a third finger into her and she was done for. Her muscles strained and stretched and spasmed. Her head fell back on the bed and her back arched off it. The orgasm shot through her body, starting at her clitoris and spiking up her spine and down her thighs. She came as quietly as she could even though it felt so divine she might have screamed were she in her own bed. She was still coming when he slid on top of her and rammed his cock into her still shuddering body. He put his hand on her neck, slipped his thumb under her collar and pressed it into the hollow of her throat. A thousand fresh shockwaves of pleasure coursed through her as he pounded his own orgasm into hers. She ceased to exist for one perfect moment and became nothing but pure sex.
She finally came back to her senses when Søren pulled out of her and his semen poured onto the bed. He’d probably force her to sleep in the wet spot. His sadism knew no bounds.
“Was that nice enough for you?” he asked as he stretched out alongside her body.
“Very…very…nice. Thank you, sir.”
“You’re most certainly welcome.”
Nora laughed drunkenly. “I guess it’s your turn,” she sa
id. “What nice thing do you want me to do for you, my sir?”
“Guess.”
“Hmm…do you want a blow job?”
“I just came.”
“Anal?”
“Same answer.”
“Blood-play?”
“As nice as that would be, no. My scalpel needs sharpening.”
“Do you want to fist me?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Do you want me to fist you?”
Søren made a face of utter disgust and Nora giggled. She loved finding Søren’s limits and poking them.
“That is a hard no for the rest of eternity,” he said.
“Threesome with Kingsley?”
“He’s busy with Juliette this weekend. They’re vacation-home hunting in Newport.”
“Okay, I give up. What nice thing do you want me to do for you in exchange for the nice thing you did for me, sir?”
Søren slid on top of her again. He braced himself over her, his hands on either side of her chest. He kissed her collarbone, her chest and neck.
“I want you,” he said as he nuzzled her hair that had come loose and flowed over her shoulder. “To…” He kissed her right nipple. She moaned softly. “Go.” He kissed her left nipple. She moaned a little less softly. “To.” He lightly bit the soft skin in the valley between her breasts. She moaned almost loudly. “The Sacred Heart church picnic tomorrow.”
Nora raised her head off the bed and met his eyes.
“What the hell?”
“You already agreed to the trade. You’re required to arrive at noon and remain until four o’clock. Mrs. Maywood’s farm. I’m sure you remember where it is.”
Søren untied her hands from the bed and pulled the covers over her and him. Then he lay on his pillow and closed his eyes and feigned sleep.
Nora groaned and rolled into the fetal position. Curse her and her overeager clitoris.
“Why do you hate me?” she asked.
“I love you, Little One,” he said, smiling with his eyes closed. “And you’ll have a nice time at the picnic, I promise.”
“I’d rather fist a Frenchman.”
“That can be arranged. Now go to sleep. You have a big day tomorrow.”
“Why are you the worst person on the planet?” she asked.
And then Søren answered exactly the way a priest would answer.
“Because God made me this way.”
“God and I are going to have words one of these days,” Nora said.
As pissed as she was at Søren for tricking her, Nora left him the second he removed her collar. She woke up the next morning in her own bed, still angry at him. She tried to hold onto that anger to keep her fears at bay. That lasted until she was in the car, driving to the farm.
Nothing good would come of her socializing with the devout Catholics of Connecticut. True, she’d started attending Sacred Heart again every Sunday at Søren’s request but she did so grudgingly. She came in, sat near the back, and snuck out as soon as the Mass ended and she’d been exhorted to go forth in peace. But she didn’t talk to anyone if she could help it, didn’t participate in anything but Communion. When she’d left Søren five years earlier, she’d left the Church as well. Wasn’t it enough she’d gone back to him? What more did he want from her?
And—this was what really scared her—what if she fucked up today? What if she fucked up and said something stupid or did something stupid and landed herself or Søren in hot water? Usually she could make it through a day without stuffing her foot into her mouth but usually she didn’t attend The 30th Annual Sacred Heart Church Picnic, held every July at Mrs. Maywood’s Connecticut farm. When she’d received the invitation from the church, sent to her by Søren’s secretary, Diane, she’d given it no more than a glance before tossing it into the trash.
Yet here she was, going to the fucking church picnic like she was a normal person who did that sort of thing and not, say, a notorious New York dominatrix who was sleeping with Sacred Heart’s beloved pastor behind everyone’s collective and clueless backs.
Nora had one thought as she turned her car onto the long, winding country road that led to the farm where the picnic was held every year.
Thank God this was a Catholic party.
At least there’d be booze.
2
Half an hour outside Wakefield, Connecticut, stood a two-hundred-acre farm called Paradise. When Nora was a kid, she’d loved the church picnics the Maywoods hosted every July for the church. She’d loved getting to run around with other kids, tromping through the twenty-acre woods, eating too much, talking too loud, and cannonballing right into the center of Paradise’s pond. Noisy, wild, and fun—it was the opposite of church and yet still church because the priest was there and the church secretary and the deacons and even a couple nuns sometimes. Why they couldn’t have church at the Maywood farm every Sunday was beyond little Eleanor Schreiber’s ken. Seemed like a great way to up church attendance.
She arrived at noon—as ordered—and parked her car at the end of a row of cars fifty or more deep. God bless Regina Maywood. Her husband had died last year and yet here she was, throwing the party like always even, though she was a seventy-year-old widow and probably had better things to do with her Saturday than watch a hundred people tearing up her lawn. Nora remembered Regina Maywood well. She’d been one of her mother’s friends from the Marian Guild, one of the nicer ones. After Nora had gotten arrested at fifteen, Mrs. Maywood had stopped by the house and given Nora a hug, told her it would be all right, that everyone made mistakes when they were young, and God would take care of her if she would let Him. Nora had agreed with her. Søren had already promised to take care of her. They’d already made their deal. And back then Søren and God were nearly interchangeable to her. Another youthful mistake, but an understandable one. Some days she still got them confused.
Reluctantly she abandoned the safety and sanctity of her car. She’d spent so much time trying to decide what to wear this morning that she’d had to remind herself she was going to a picnic, not out on a first date. She’d settled on her standby uniform of comfy, ratty jeans and her old Pearl Jam t-shirt that hugged her curves a bit tighter than it had back in high school. She remembered swimming in Paradise’s pond and wore a black bikini under her clothes in case she decided to swim—or drown herself. She’d pulled her hair up in a casual messy ponytail, applied sunblock to protect her skin and put on her dark sunglasses to protect her privacy. She could only hope she’d blend in enough to avoid attracting too much attention and too many questions. She dreaded being asked why she’d left the church five years ago—“Because I was sleeping with your priest and we broke up.” She dreaded even more being asked why she’d come back—“Because I’m in love with our priest and always will be so I might as well accept it and get on with my life. Also, he told me I had to come back to church because he likes to watch me squirm, and yes, I mean that in every possible way.” But the worst question of all, the one she least wanted to answer was likely the one she’d be asked the most—“How are you?” She hated this question because she didn’t know the answer. She’d quit working for Kingsley, which was a victory of sorts although it left her with much too much time to brood. She’d gained a massive book deal with Royal House, but she’d lost her adored editor Zach to his life and wife in London. She’d lost Wesley and that pain still smarted like a papercut on her heart. And she belonged to Søren—again. The entire foundation of her world had been rocked in the past couple of months and she still didn’t know where she stood. If someone asked her how she was she would tell them “fine.” It was either that or say, “I don’t know!” and burst into tears. That’s what happened when Kingsley had recently made the mistake of asking her how she was doing. Juliette had held Nora while she cried and chewed out Kingsley for his callousness, calling him “a brute.” Poor Kingsley had to swear on his mother’s grave he would never again dare to ask a woman how she was doing for as long as he lived.
; From the backseat of her car, Nora pulled out a picnic basket. She hadn’t known what to bring to the potluck picnic so she’d brought a little of everything—a bottle of Pinot Noir, a baguette and shortbread cookies from her favorite bakery, apples, and a bouquet of daisies for Mrs. Maywood. Even packing the picnic basket had been hard for her this morning. Wesley would never have brought anything store-bought to a picnic. He could cook anything. He would have made apple pie, “Because ‘Merica,” he’d say. He knew how to make a very low-sugar but insanely delicious pie that even he could eat. But Wesley wasn’t in her life anymore and that was okay. It had to be okay, right? Not like she had any choice about it. No, she did have a choice, she reminded herself. Sending him away was her choice. Going back to Søren had been her choice. And trying to be happy versus wallowing in misery was also her choice. And it was not in Nora Sutherlin’s nature to wallow in anything but the beds of beautiful men and even more beautiful women.
Nora practiced putting on a friendly, non-threatening smile as she walked up to the front door of the farmhouse. Søren had told her she had to stay four hours at least. Four hours. She could do it. She could make it four hours without calling Søren “Sir.” She could make it four hours without sticking her tongue out at him. She could make it four hours without checking out his ass which looked unfairly attractive in the jeans he would probably be wearing today. She could make it four hours without admitting to anyone she was having a hard time being back at Sacred Heart. She could make it four hours without telling everyone who asked her what she did these days for a living that she “wrote smut and beat people up.” She could make it four hours without hitting on one of the teenage boys.
Unless Michael was here. Then all bets were off.
The farmhouse was white with faded gray shingles on the roof, and dark green doors and windows. Nora imagined it had looked just like this when it was built back in the 1880s. Her footfalls sounded hollow on the wooden steps as she walked up to the front door. She heard laughter from inside and around back of the house, voices, children yelling for no reason except they were children and that’s what children did.
Something Nice: An Original Sinners Novella Page 1