“Your priest doesn’t put out for me.”
“True. But he’ll beat the hell out of you if you ask nicely though. Jesus, Griffin, your bathroom is bigger than my basement. Spoiled much?”
“Not nearly enough. You done yet?”
“Yes and no.”
“I don’t want to know what that means, do I?”
Nora washed and dried her hands. Pausing in the bathroom doorway, Nora looked at Griffin, who sat on the bed with his legs open wide enough she could see he wore his kilt in true Scottish fashion. She approved of this.
“You know, I should probably take a shower before we fuck. Søren gave me a very intense goodbye last night, and I haven’t washed it off yet.”
“You know I don’t mind sloppy seconds. And knowing Pope Whatadick, he probably blesses his cum before he blows it.”
“I promise you he does not,” Nora said as she strolled slowly back to the bed. “Why do you and Søren loathe each other so much?”
“Ask him,” Griffin said, reaching out to unbutton her shirt.
“I did. He won’t tell me.”
“Let’s just say we have an ongoing difference of opinion. My opinion is that he’s a pretentious arrogant prick, and he disagrees with that.”
Nora stared Griffin down. He couldn’t quite meet her eyes.
“I know that’s not true. I tell him he’s a pretentious arrogant prick all the time and he’s in full agreement. I could beat it out of you.”
“Not a chance. You don’t get to top me anymore. This summer you’re my bitch, switch.”
“You used to let me top you all the time.” Nora recalled the dozens of time she’d tied Griffin down and used and abused his poor willing self.
“Only because it was the only way you’d let me fuck you. And even then you never got to beat me.”
“Too bad. I think a good hard beating would be good for your soul. Fine, you can top me. But no beating me, either. Only dominance and bondage, alas. Søren’s rules.”
“I know. He called and read me the riot act yesterday,” Griffin said as he unbuttoned her top button with a deft flick of his fingers.
“He’s very protective of his property.”
“I can’t say I blame him.” Griffin leaned back on the bed and stared her up and down. “Strip for me, beautiful.”
At thirty-four, Nora would take all the erotic appreciation she could get from younger men. She let her shirt drop to the floor and peeled slowly out of her camisole.
“Jesus,” Griffin said and took her by the arm; gently he pulled her to him. The grin vanished as he stared at her stomach and chest. “He did give you one helluva goodbye, didn’t he?”
“Oops. Sorry. Should have warned you.”
“You two did blood-play?” Griffin asked in horrified awe.
Nora shrugged.
“A little. Just seven cuts. Speaking of, we should probably stick to anal for the next couple of days. The last cut was in a pretty sensitive area.”
She expected Griffin to laugh—if they weren’t fucking, they were laughing. But Griffin only stared at her a moment while he studied her skin. He gently ran a finger around her wounds—the cut on her collarbone, on her rib cage, under her breast.
“We don’t have to play if you aren’t up for it,” he said.
“Griff, I’ve had papercuts worse than this. And also on my crotch. This is what happens when you fall asleep while working on your edits naked. I’m up for it. Seriously.”
“Okay. We’ll fuck if you make me,” he said, smiling at her again. “We’ll just go vanilla until you’re healed.”
Vehemently Nora shook her head. “Not a chance. No vanilla. The one time I even attempted vanilla sex I nearly passed out.”
“Nora Sutherlin tried vanilla sex? This I have to hear about.”
Griffin stretched out on his side and playfully patted the bed next to him. Rolling her eyes Nora crawled onto his sheets.
“It’s not a big deal. Tried it. Didn’t like it. Stopped.”
“Why’d you stop? Vanilla sex is boring but it’s not hard. You’re the chick. You just lie there and pretend to like it.”
Pretend to like it…that was the problem. She didn’t have to pretend.... Nora closed her eyes. For a second she wasn’t in Griffin’s bed anymore…she was on her bed back home with Wesley on top of her. They were kissing, their bare chests pressed to each other’s. Wesley’s hands stroked her hair and caressed her arms. She kissed his neck and muscular shoulders. He was so young, only nineteen then, and still a virgin. And there he was, as brave as he was beautiful, ready and willing to give her his virginity. And she wanted it, wanted him…and not for his body and not for the pleasure and not for the sex. For something else so much deeper and scarier that instead of letting him make love to her, she let him go.
“It’s hard to explain,” she said, opening her eyes. “Vanilla just doesn’t work for me.”
“Not that hard to explain—vanilla blows,” Griffin said. “So what? Celibacy?”
“Don’t even joke about that. Just tie me down, fuck me up the ass, call me a slut and just watch the cuts.”
Griffin grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Ha,” she said. “I’m still the top.”
Griffin raised his eyebrow at her and she knew she was in trouble—the good kind.
In a second she found herself flat on her stomach with Griffin peeling her clothes off. From behind the corner of his bed, Griffin pulled out a leather strap. He grabbed two sets of bondage cuffs from the bedside table. With practiced expertise, Griffin buckled the cuffs around her wrists and ankles, bound her hands to the bedpost and strapped her legs wide-open to a spreader bar.
Nora groaned with pleasure as Griffin prepared her body for him—she was going to have to ask him what kind of lube he was using because it felt amazing—and then pushed carefully inside her. She felt the brush of wool as his kilt rubbed against her naked skin. Nora decided there and then to take her next vacation in Scotland.
This is who she was, she reminded herself. She was a switch. All summer long Griffin would top her. All summer long, she would top Michael. She’d have the best of both worlds and no vanilla sex at all. No staring into big brown eyes with flecks of gold in them and saying “Wesley” instead of “sir.” No holding each other while they made love with only sweat wet between them and not blood. Sex was sex. Pain was pain. And Wesley and that part of her was in the past.
Griffin continued to move inside her. Nora buried her head against her arm and whispered Wesley’s name into the sheets.
6
Michael sat on the porch outside his house waiting for the ride Nora promised. He still couldn’t quite believe that in a few minutes, he’d be whisked away to a farm in upstate New York to hang out with Nora Sutherlin and her kinky friend Griffin all summer. The Griffin part of the equation worried him. Nora he’d known for over a year now, even known her in the biblical sense. They hadn’t talked much since the night they spent together, but he still felt comfortable around her. Well, as comfortable as he felt around anyone. This Griffin guy might hate him. After all, Nora was supposed to train him this summer. Griffin might not like sharing her with somebody else, especially not a teenage boy with no money, from nowhere. Michael still couldn’t believe Father S would share Nora with any guy. But then again, Father S was an unusual man. He had a very literal concept of ownership where Nora was concerned. Since he owned her, he could lend her out and s
he’d still be his. Michael wondered how Nora felt about being treated like a library book. Michael kind of liked the idea himself. The thought of being owned by someone he was in love with got him so turned on he could barely breathe. He felt disowned these days. His mom didn’t really want him anymore. And God, his dad…his dad?
“Michael? What are you doing?”
Michael froze. Slowly he turned his head to the side and saw his father in his usual blue business suit stalking toward him. So engrossed in thoughts of Nora, Michael hadn’t even noticed his father had parked across the street.
“Nothing,” Michael said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Waiting on a ride.”
His dad stopped and looked down at him. Even if Michael hadn’t been sitting and his rather tall, stocky father standing, his dad would still be looking down at him.
“A ride to where?” his father demanded.
Michael decided to try a little deflection again.
“It’s Thursday morning.”
“I took the morning off. Your mother said you were going to be gone the whole summer. I thought I should see what was going on with my son.”
“I’m your son again?”
“Michael, I thought we put that behind us,” his father said in his most ingratiating voice. Michael liked the yelling better than the sucking up. At least the anger seemed genuine. His father’s friendly voice only meant he wanted something. Answers obviously. And Michael wasn’t about to give him any.
Yeah, I’m totally over that whole you wailing on me and Mom thing. We’re best buds again, Dad, Michael thought but didn’t say out loud. His father could turn anything against him, so Michael wore his silence as a shield.
His father’s eyes turned cold and menacing.
“Young man, tell me what you’re doing this summer, or I’ll make very sure whatever it is doesn’t happen.”
“I’m staying with some friends this summer. That’s all.”
Michael’s father stared at him without speaking. Bad sign. His dad talked. Constantly talked. He spouted off about sports teams, about the assholes at work, about the president, the job market, the world’s problems that would go away if everyone were just more like him.
“Didn’t know you had any friends, Michael,” his father said with cold suspicion.
Michael clenched his jaw and didn’t answer.
“What friends are these?” his father asked in a neutral tone Michael didn’t trust for one second.
Pulling his knees even tighter to his chest, Michael concentrated on the cold concrete underneath him. He always played this game when his father was angry. Michael would disappear, pull into himself, let his body become a hard outer shell that protected that part of him only Nora and Father S understood.
“Answer me, Michael.”
At times like these Michael wished he could talk like Nora did, wished he could say everything he thought. What he wanted to say right now was, You asshole.
“You as—” Michael began, but stopped when a shiny silver car, a Rolls Royce maybe, turned the corner of his street.
“What the hell?” his father asked, his angry dark eyes narrowing at the car.
Michael stood up, grabbed his duffel bag and head toward the car.
“Michael, get back here,” his father yelled after him. Whoever was driving the Rolls Royce slowed in front of Michael’s house, and the door opened for him. Michael threw himself and his duffel bag into the backseat and the car started off again. Glancing out the window, Michael saw his father glaring at him with unstrained fury. There’d be hell to pay when he came back at the end of the summer. But at least now he was free.
Suddenly Michael realized he wasn’t alone in the back of the lavish car. First he saw riding boots, black riding boots, and dark gray trousers. The trousers belonged to a rather old-fashioned but dashing-looking suit worn by a crazy-good-looking dark-haired man who studied him with a little smile on his sculpted lips. Michael had no idea who the man was, but he had no doubt in his mind that he sat in the presence of a dominant friend of Nora’s, and probably a very important one.
Michael hazarded a timid, “Hello, sir.”
“Bonjour, Michael,” the man said with a French accent, pronouncing his name like Michelle. French? So this was Kingsley, Father S’s necessary evil. The man looked Michael up and down once more before reclining back and throwing his riding boots on the seat opposite him and crossing them at the ankles. “Mon Dieu, chérie does have good taste in her pets, doesn’t she?”
“Pets?” Michael repeated, in some distress.
The man leaned forward and Michael nervously studied his handsome face—the dark umber eyes, strong European nose, the sensual tilt to his mouth.
“Tell me, Michael, have you ever had sex in the back of a Rolls Royce?”
* * *
Nora arched her back and tilted her hips high. Finally she found the right angle of penetration. Admittedly, it had been her idea for she and Griffin to fuck on top of her Aston Martin, but once he tunneled inside her, she realized that car hoods and sex didn’t always mix. Not that Griffin seemed to mind. While she lay on her stomach across the car hood, her hands tied behind her neck, Griffin thrust blithely into her. Once she raised her hips, he slipped his hand under her and found her clitoris. Now equally blithe, Nora turned her head to the side and smiled.
“When did you get a Ducati?” Nora asked, noticing for the first time the motorcycle sitting in the corner of Griffin’s garage stocked with Ferraris, Porsches and one hardcore Shelby Mustang.
“I’m fucking you and you’re asking me about my motorcycle?” Griffin gasped through gritted teeth.
“Sorry, sir,” she said without any actual contrition. “A Ducati is the reason Søren and I are together.”
“Dammit, I hate that he has one too.”
“I don’t…”
Nora closed her eyes as a memory floated up out of the mists of the past.
“Eleanor Louise Schreiber! Get out of bed this instant,” her mother shouted at her. Nora remembered throwing the covers over her head in her determination that this would be the day she broke her mother’s spirit. This would be the day she would defeat the tyranny of organized religion. She’d skip Mass today and never, ever, go back.
“I’m a Buddhist,” she shouted back from under the sheets.
“Eleanor, get out of bed this instant and get ready for Mass.”
Nora remembered hearing real anger in her mother’s tone. Good. Anger made her erratic. She’d either kill her or storm out. Either way, it meant no church today. If Eleanor could just fight her way out of Mass, she’d be free…unchained, unfettered, unbound by the Catholic Church forever.
“I’m an atheist.” She flipped over onto her stomach. “I’ll incinerate the second I walk into church. It’s for everyone’s good that I stay away from that place.”
Her mother had growled under her breath. So that’s where Nora got that habit from?
“Eleanor,” her mother said, sighing. Damn. Sighing wasn’t good. Sighing meant her mother was going to try to either reason with her or bribe her.
“What?”
“Father Greg is retiring soon. Today is the day the new priest is starting at Sacred Heart. If the new priest hires someone else to do the church’s books, you don’t get free tuition to St. Xavier anymore.”
“Don’t care. Send me to public school. No more uniforms.”
Nora remembered the sharp breath her
mother took. That her mother hadn’t just beat the shit out of her yet was one of life’s great mysteries.
“Eleanor,” her mother began, her voice dripping with saccharine. “Mary Rose told me the new priest is supposed to be very handsome.”
Rolling her eyes, Nora had flipped back over and glared at her mother.
“Mom, he’s a priest. That’s gross.”
But her mother continued.
“And he rides a motorcycle.”
That got her attention.
“What kind? Not some no-thrust piece of crap from Japan, is it?” Her father hadn’t taught her much but he had taught her cars and motorcycles.
Shaking her head, her mother tapped her chin. “I can’t remember what it was called. Something Italian sounding. Du-something.”
“A Ducati?”
“That was it.”
Nora remembered her heart racing a little right then. A handsome Catholic priest who rode the finest, fastest, most wicked motorcycle money could buy? She’d have to see it to believe it.
“Fine,” she’d said, throwing off the covers. “I’m coming.”
Nora came hard and relaxed against the hood of her Aston Martin as Griffin made a few more spiraling thrusts inside her before pulling out of her and untying her hands.
“Good idea,” he said, dragging her back to him. With her hands now free, Nora tugged down her skirt and leaned back against Griffin. “Never fucked on an Aston Martin before. Something for the scrapbook,” he said.
“Neither have I. Or in it. Came close with Zach though. He had a major hard-on for this car.”
“Zach?” Griffin asked, peeling off the condom and zipping his pants up.
“Blue Eyes, remember? My insanely hot Jewish editor who left me for his wife?”
“Right. That guy. I think he had a hard-on for you. The car was just a bonus.”
“She is a very nice car,” Nora said, running her hands over the hood. The Aston Martin had been a gift from a lover three years ago—a member of a Middle Eastern dynasty who came to the States every few months to indulge his very top-secret obsession with female dominants. Gorgeous man. He loved painting Arabic poetry on her naked body after sex. After their first week together she’d found the Aston Martin in her garage as a thank-you. “She’s my baby.”
The Angel (The Original Sinners) Page 9