She arched as he filled her, stretching her out and open. A month without him inside her and he was big enough to hurt, but it didn’t hurt because she wanted him so much. She’d been wet and ready for him from the second he shoved his cock into her throat, and she was even wetter now as he moved on top of her. He took her wrists in his hands and held them hard into the bed. It hurt, and she groaned in her pleasure at the pain.
Søren still hadn’t kissed her on the mouth. She would have begged for it if she’d been allowed to speak. He hadn’t given her permission, so she suffered in silence as he pounded into her. Absolute torture that she couldn’t tell him how good his big thick cock felt in her pussy, how much she’d missed him, how she’d fantasized about this moment when they were together again.
Since she couldn’t speak with words, she let her body tell him everything he needed to know. Nora lifted her hips, pushing them into him, taking every inch of him until she couldn’t take anymore. It was all she could do, lying helpless on the bed, held down by his impossibly strong hands on her wrists. But she wasn’t completely helpless…
She contracted her vagina around his cock as hard as she could. He gasped, and she grinned, triumphant. A short-lived triumph. He released her wrists, dug his hands into her hair and held her immobile underneath. His thrusts were vicious, stabbing, and split her wide open. She felt his hot breath on her shoulder.
“I missed your cunt,” he breathed into her ear. Nora gasped again. A month without a word from him, and that was the first thing he said to her?
Terrible man. She adored every inch of his wicked body.
He held her down and fucked her. Maybe they’d make love later. Maybe it would be tender and sweet—as tender and sweet as any sadist could make love—but she needed fucked first, and he needed to fuck her. Nora lifted her hips faster, pumping them with her heels dug into the bed until she was almost out of her mind with need. Søren reached between their bodies, found her clitoris, and stroked it with wet fingers. She stiffened, back arched, breasts pressed to his chest, and came with a near-silent grunt in the back of her throat.
She came around him in a thousand sharp contractions. Lost in her own pleasure, she barely noticed when he dug his fingers into the back of her neck, held her head to his chest, and came inside her. Only when he lowered her gently back down and pulled out of her did she feel the rush of hot semen on her thighs pouring onto the bed.
Søren lay with her, leg over her hip, every inch of his long body pressed close to her.
“I’ll take your blindfold off now,” he said, “but you have to promise not to laugh.”
“Laugh at what?” she asked, and he answered by taking off her blindfold.
She raised a hand to Søren’s face and stroked his brand-new blond and gray beard. She didn’t laugh, but she did smile.
“I like it.”
Chapter Ten
For the second time that day, Nora found herself giving a beautiful man a neck massage. She straddled Søren’s lower back and dug her hands deep into the muscles of his neck and shoulders. He released a small groan of pleasure.
“You missed more than my cunt, I guess,” she said.
He grinned, laughed softly. “I did,” he said. “But especially that.”
“Do I want to know what you’ve been doing for the past month?” She ran her fingers through his hair. It needed cutting, but wasn’t quite out of control yet. She decided he looked like a well-groomed Viking with the beard and the longer hair.
“Riding. Thinking. Trying not to think.”
“Did you play with anyone?”
“That is between me and Vegas.”
He laughed and rolled over. She let him. Instead of straddling his back, she straddled his stomach. The bright streetlights of the French Quarter shone into the room. She could see his face, his eyes, his smile. She bent and kissed him, then rubbed her cheek against his cheek.
“Mmm…abrasion play,” she said. “I could get used to this.”
He wrapped his arms around her and dragged her down to his chest. She was content to just lay there a good long while…until she remembered how mad she was at him.
Nora sat up again on his stomach and pointed her finger down at her face.
“Why did you leave us?” she demanded. “Kingsley’s been a wreck. I’ve been a wreck. Even Juliette’s been worried.”
“I sent postcards.”
“Yes. Blank ones.”
“I didn’t know what to write.” He sounded almost sorry. Almost. “Just know every card meant ‘I love you, I miss you, this is where you can find me.’”
“Find you? From a postcard? You didn’t even take your phone with you. What if you’d gotten in an accident? What if the Hells Angels decided to beat you up and forced you to get tattoos and hepatitis?”
His brow furrowed. “Eleanor, what are you talking about?”
“Kingsley was worried the Hells Angels would force you to join their motorcycle club and commit crimes with them. And then he said something about tattoos and hepatitis. He’s having a minor mental breakdown. Again.”
“I didn’t join the Hells Angels. But might have gotten a tattoo.”
“You did not.”
“I did.” He smiled at her.
“I have begged to get a tattoo of the Jabberwocky on my back for a decade, and you’ve told me ‘no’ every time. Why can you get a tattoo and I can’t?”
“First of all—mine is very small. Second, you can’t see your own back. I can. I don’t want to be forced to make awkward eye contact with a creature from a demented children’s book while I’m attempting to sodomize you.”
Nora thought about that.
“All right, fair,” she said. “Now show me your ink. What did you get? Virgin Mary surfing on your bicep? Flag of Denmark on your ass?”
He turned his arms, and she saw he had no ink on his biceps.
“Legs?” she asked. “Girly little ankle tattoo of my name surrounded by hearts and stars? Wait, tramp stamp?”
“A name, yes, but not yours,” he said. He held out his left arm, wrist up. Nora took his hand in hers and moved his wrist into the light. In small but feminine script, one word was inked onto his wrist right under this thumb.
“‘Fionn,’” Nora read aloud and smiled. She should have known. “You got your son’s name tattooed on your wrist.”
“I did.”
“Why your wrist?” she asked.
“Touch it,” he said. She raised her eyebrow but did what he said.
She placed one finger over the tattoo and immediately felt the throbbing of Søren’s pulse under his skin.
His son. His heartbeat. His son and his heartbeat, combined and entwined.
Nora blinked. Two hot tears rolled down her face. She raised his wrist to her lips and kissed the name that was the name of his heart.
“It’s your handwriting,” Søren said.
“I thought that looked familiar. It’s beautiful.”
“You and Kingsley know I love you. You see me all the time. You have me in your lives. Fionn lives across the ocean. He doesn’t know I exist. If the time comes and we meet again and I need to explain myself to him…” Søren took a breath. “I want him to know I always loved him, that’s all.”
“He’ll know,” she said, barely able to speak. Her words came out in a breath.
“I wanted it for me, too,” he said. He laid his wrist against his chest, over his heart, his beautiful heart.
“I love you,” Nora said.
“Still?” he asked.
She nodded. “Still.” She took his hands in hers and held them to her heart, kissed them and let them go. She rested her palms on his chest to steady herself as she stared down at his face.
“Why did you leave?” she asked, not joking anymore. “It was so sudden. I woke up and you were just…gone.”
He glanced away, his eyes staring out the window by the bed.
“Søren?”
“I don’t know about y
ou,” he said, “but I could use a drink.”
“A drink?” Nora said. “Where on earth would we get an alcoholic beverage at one in the morning in the French Quarter of New Orleans? Hmm…”
“I have a wild idea,” Søren said.
They both tapped the sides of their noses, pointed at each other and said in unison, “Bourbon Street.”
Ten minutes later they were dressed and walking the street of the French Quarter. They found a bar—couldn’t miss one if they tried—and Nora ordered Jack and Coke for herself, a Tröegs’ Double Bock for Søren. She made sure the bartender knew she was not a tourist. No watering down her cocktail.
When they had their drinks, they left and strolled down Bourbon toward Toulouse. Nora caught herself unable to stop glancing around to see if anyone was watching them.
“This is weird, walking with you at night in public.”
He put his arm around her waist and even patted her twice on her hip, possessively. She liked it and it terrified her. Liked it, because this might have been the first time she and Søren had ever walked around like a normal couple in their own town. Before they’d had to run away to foreign countries to play man and wife. Terrified her, because she liked it so much and knew she shouldn’t.
“You know you’re still a priest, right? Even if they are making you take a leave of absence, you still have to behave.”
“Why start now?” He pulled her a little closer and kissed her. A guy dressed as the pirate Jean Lafitte hooted his approval. Søren lifted his drink back in a salute.
Nora kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. This was a Søren she didn’t know. And it wasn’t just the beard. Although the beard was definitely intriguing.
“What do you think?” He raised his chin, and she patted his cheek.
“Very sexy. Very distinguished. Midlife crisis looks good on you.”
“Crisis,” he said. “From the Greek ‘krisis’ and ‘krinein,’ meaning ‘decision’ or ‘to decide.’”
“So a midlife crisis is a midlife decision-making time?”
“Precisely,” he said.
“You have a big decision to make.”
“Several, actually.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll show you.”
He took her hand and led her off Bourbon and up Saint Peter Street.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“You’ll see.”
They walked about two blocks until Søren stopped suddenly in front of a house, an exquisite pale blue camelback with white plantation shutters on the four front windows.
From the front door hung a realtor’s lockbox.
Nora nodded slowly as she put two and two together. She put her hand to her forehead.
“Kingsley…” she said with a growl.
“My sentiments exactly.”
“He said he bought you a ‘little’ present, a trinket. That is not a trinket. That is a house.”
“Shall we go in?” he asked.
“Lead the way,” she said.
Søren punched in a code on the lockbox, which released the door key.
“He doesn’t know you know about this, does he?” Nora asked. “He told me to tell you he had a present for you.”
“He doesn’t know I know,” Søren said.
“How did you find out?”
“Two days before I left, I was with him. He was sleeping when his phone buzzed. I was worried it might be Juliette, so I glanced at it. A message from a realtor giving him the lockbox code. It included the MLS number and a very nice message from the agent saying, ‘I think your retired priest friend will love it. And if he doesn’t, I’ll take it.’”
“Retired priest friend?”
“Yes, apparently I’m retired now. At fifty-one. Either Kingsley was lying to her or engaging in some very wishful thinking.”
Wishful thinking. Nora had no doubt.
Søren put the key in the lock and opened the door. He went inside first and turned on the lights for her. Nora followed.
“Wow,” she said as she stepped into the entry hall. On each side of the hall was an arched doorway. To her left was an empty sitting room, empty but for an elegant love seat and an antique wooden music stand.
“Music room?” she asked.
“I believe it’s where my piano is supposed to go,” he said.
To the right was a larger sitting room, a parlor decorated in pale blue paint set off by bright white crown molding and a white fireplace. Gilt-framed winter landscapes hung on the walls. Chestnut leather chaise lounge. A round table with an elaborately carved pedestal and matching chairs. A crystal chandelier.
“He never does anything by halves, does he?” Søren asked.
“If this room were a man, I’d ride its cock until it snapped off.”
Søren raised his chin and looked down at her.
“I’m just saying it’s really nice,” she said. “I like it.”
“Oh, but there’s more…” Søren led her down the central hallway. “Guest bedroom.”
She loved the guest room immediately. A queen canopy bed with diaphanous white curtains hung from the iron frame. A white fireplace, the mantel covered in unlit candles. A leather armchair by the fireplace. A steamer trunk full of secrets at the foot of the bed.
“Simple. Elegant. Great bed for bondage,” she said. “I’ll take it.”
They passed to the next door.
“Formal dining room,” Søren said and flipped on the switch to display the dining table for six—Søren, Kingsley, Juliette, Céleste, and her, plus one guest. Cream damask wallpaper in a fleur-de-lis pattern. An antique China cabinet large enough that the top of it nearly scraped the eight-foot ceiling.
“This is getting ridiculous,” Nora said.
“We’re not even done yet,” Søren said. Down the hall again, next door. “Breakfast room.”
“You have your own room just for eating breakfast?”
“Apparently the kitchen is not good enough for coffee and toast anymore.”
Nora peeked into the room. A smaller version of the dining room with a table only for two. Silver-gray wallpaper and a small sideboard.
“Who’s gonna cook? You or Kingsley?” she asked.
“He does make good crêpes.” Søren led her to the gleaming bright white kitchen. White cabinets. White tile floors. Stainless steel appliances.
“Not bad,” Nora said. “Still doesn’t make me want to learn how to cook though. What’s the backyard like?”
She pointed at the French doors leading out of the kitchen to the backyard.
“Enclosed courtyard,” he said and took her to the door. He hit a lightswitch, and Nora saw a small in-ground swimming pool appear in the dark before Søren flipped the light off again.
“Damn. I’m kind of afraid to ask about the bathroom. I assume there’s an enormous claw-foot bathtub in there, gilt mirrors, and a year’s supply of lube?”
“Not in the hall bathroom, but in the master bath, yes. Let me show you the master bedroom. It’s ludicrous.”
“Kingsley put the ‘master’ in master bedroom?”
“I have no idea where you buy St. Andrew’s Crosses in New Orleans but he must have found a supplier. Oh, and the handcuffs are engraved.”
“With what?”
“The phrase ‘la douleur exquise.’”
La douleur exquise meant literally “the exquisite pain,” a French phrase with a rather nebulous meaning. Kingsley had told her it could mean the pain of loving someone you can never truly have or the pain of being hurt by the one you love. A good motto for anyone in love with a Catholic priest who also happened to be a sadist.
Søren started to open the door opposite the dining room, and Nora stopped him with a hand over his.
“You don’t want to see it?” he asked. “It’s a sight to behold.”
“I’m sure it is,” she said. “But that’s your room with King. He’d probably prefer I stay out of it.”
/> Søren took his hand off the doorknob. He leaned back against the closed door and Nora leaned back against the opposite wall. The house was old and the hallway narrow. Her toes touched Søren’s.
“You approve?” Søren asked.
How could she not? Pale blue walls with white trim, snowy landscapes, crystal chandeliers… In this sultry southern city where it was never not summer, Kingsley had created for Søren an oasis of winter.
“It’s perfect,” Nora said. “King can remodel my house next. He obviously loves you a lot more than I do.”
Søren laughed ruefully, looking up at the ceiling, eyes on a brass lantern light fixture probably original to the house.
“You’re not going to tell him ‘no,’ are you?” Nora asked, more than slightly horrified. “He’ll be devastated if you don’t take the house. And it’s not that big of a house. Probably cost under a million.”
“Under a million.” His tone was dry as fine-grit sandpaper.
“Is that the problem? Too extravagant?”
He didn’t answer at first. Nora searched his face for any hint of what he was thinking, feeling, but his eyes were stormy gray, and the clouds were hiding his thoughts from her.
“I have two Ph.Ds. I speak seventeen languages. I have over thirty years of work experience—teaching, pastoring, and leading a church congregation,” Søren said. “I don’t need taken care of. Just because I’m on a forced leave of absence for a year doesn’t mean I need Kingsley to support me emotionally, spiritually, or financially.”
“Ah,” Nora said. “So this is your male pride talking. You don’t want Kingsley playing Sugar Daddy while you’re out of a job.”
“I’m suspended. One year only. I can go back in ten months and two weeks.”
“And what are you going to do for the next ten months and two weeks? Live with me? We tried that, remember? You moved out of the Jesuit house and in with me, and it was one week before you disappeared. Do I snore? Is that it?”
“Eleanor.”
“What are you going to do? Seriously? Have you thought about it?”
The Priest: An Original Sinners Novel Page 8
