The King

by Tiffany Reisz

  Søren gave Kingsley another card—a second ace. Now he

  had twenty or ten, depending on how he wanted to play it. He

  and Søren weren’t playing blackjack for money, so he didn’t

  care much if he won or not. In fact, he didn’t care at all. But

  he couldn’t deny the fact he was enjoying himself. Kingsley needed time to stop and stop completely. He hadn’t felt

  this… He couldn’t even find the right word. He hadn’t felt

  this something in years. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to lose it, and he’d found it the instant Søren had stepped through

  his front door.

  “Kingsley?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “You have twenty. You should stand.”

  “I’m not going to take the strategy advice of my enemy.” “I’m the dealer, not the enemy.”

  “When did you start playing blackjack anyway?” Kingsley

  demanded as he perused his cards again. One more ace and

  he’d have blackjack. “Do they teach this in seminary?” “Cards were an extracurricular activity. An entire household full of men who aren’t allowed to have sex? We find

  other hobbies.”

  “So, blackjack?”

  “Among other things.”

  Kingsley gave him a searching look.

  “Care to tell me what these other hobbies of yours are?”

  Kingsley asked.

  “They’re on a need-to-know basis. You don’t need to

  know,” Søren said, fanning the cards in front of him. “I need to know everything,” Kingsley said. “If I’m going

  to keep you from getting excommunicated or going to prison

  for seducing and/or kidnapping a teenage girl—” “Seduce her? I haven’t even seen her for a full month.” Kingsley cocked an eyebrow at Søren.

  “She quit church?”

  Søren cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter. “She’s grounded.”

  Kingsley dropped his head on to the table.

  “Why didn’t I defect to Russia when I had the chance?”

  Kingsley sighed.

  “Are you going to make a decision about your cards, or are

  we going to be here all night?”

  “We’re going to be here all night.” Kingsley sat up again.

  Søren shook his head in disgust. “Don’t look at me like

  that. I’m not the one with a girlfriend young enough to be

  grounded.”

  Exhaling with exasperation, Søren swept up his cards and

  Kingsley’s. With his agile pianist’s fingers, he shuff led the cards

  one-handed. Kingsley watched the display of casual grace and

  dexterity with envy and longing. Once, those skillful hands

  had owned every inch of his body. He’d never wanted to be

  a deck of cards so much in his life.

  “Let’s try this again, shall we?” Søren dealt the cards. “King?” came a woman’s voice behind Kingsley. Without

  looking back, he raised his hand and beckoned her into the

  dining room. A beautiful young woman in a forties-style skirt

  and blouse stood next to his chair and waited.

  He wrapped an arm around her hips and dragged her down

  to his lap.

  “You’re interrupting,” he said to her. “Can’t you see how

  busy I am?”

  “Oh, forgive me. I didn’t mean to interrupt your—” she

  glanced down at the table and back into Kingsley’s eyes

  “—card game?”

  Kingsley pointed at Søren.

  “Blaise, I would like you to meet my oldest and dearest

  friend…” He paused and looked at Søren when he realized

  he didn’t know if he was allowed to tell anyone Søren’s name.

  Out in the world Søren had gone by the name his father had

  given him—Marcus Stearns. Even now he was Father Marcus

  Stearns, SJ, according to church records. Søren was the name

  his mother had given him, and few called him that. “Who the hell are you again?” Kingsley asked. Søren stretched out his hand and took Blaise’s.

  “Søren. Kingsley and I went to school together.” “I’m Blaise,” she said, and gave Søren her brightest smile

  and the most unapologetic bedroom eyes Kingsley had ever

  seen. So unfair. Why did Søren always turn every head in

  the room? Kingsley looked at Søren who today wore normal clothes. Normal? Black slacks, a fitted black long-sleeve

  T-shirt. They’d be normal clothes on anyone but Søren. In

  them, Søren looked like something out of a fever dream. He

  couldn’t blame Blaise for looking at Søren the way she did. But he did wonder why Søren looked at her the same way. “Blaise, might I inquire what you’re doing interrupting this

  incredibly important card game of mine?”

  “Against my better judgment, I answered the phone and

  took a message for you. But don’t get any ideas that I’m your

  new secretary, although you need to get a new secretary—” “I will, chouchou. I promise.”

  “You said that last week.”

  “I got a new secretary last week.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She quit.”

  “Did you fuck her?”

  “I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

  Blaise turned her attention back to Søren.

  “Can you please tell your oldest and dearest friend to stop

  seducing his secretaries so they’ll stop quitting on him when

  they catch him fucking someone else?”

  “Kingsley,” Søren said, shuff ling the cards again. “Stop seducing your secretaries so they’ll stop quitting on you.” “Thank you.” Blaise gave Søren a smile.

  “My pleasure,” Søren said. Kingsley mentally slapped them

  both.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t like playing secretary,” Kingsley said.

  “That’s different.” Blaise shook her head. “If I’m pretending to be your secretary so you’ll fuck me on your desk—that’s

  one thing. But I don’t actually want to be your secretary.” “Just give me the message,” Kingsley said, running his hand

  up her thigh and caressing the bare skin above her f lesh-tone

  stockings.

  Blaise reached into her nearly translucent pale pink blouse

  and produced a folded note from inside her lace-trimmed bra. Kingsley unfolded the note, still warm from her body, and

  read.

  Tonight at nine. —Phoebe

  Kingsley tensed when he read the words and brief ly considered lying his way out of the situation. But no…Phoebe

  was not the sort of woman one said no to.

  “I have to go,” Kingsley said to Blaise and Søren. “I won’t

  be gone long—an hour or so. You’ll keep my guest company,

  won’t you?” he asked Blaise.

  “Happily.” Her thousand-watt smile brightened a few more

  watts. With her on his lap, he could feel the heat emanating

  from between her legs.

  “Good. You two have so much in common, so much to

  talk about. Blaise, tell Søren what you do.”

  “I run a nonprofit,” she said, leaning forward on the table

  and resting her chin on her hand. The move allowed everyone in the room to get a much clearer view of her soft, ample

  cleavage.

  “A nonprofit?” Søren continued shuff ling the cards while

  never once looking away from Blaise.

  “Tell him what it does.” Kingsley pinched her on the thigh,

  and she shuddered in pleasure. “Our Blaise is très altruistic.” “It’s called Slut Pride. We educate people about women’s

  sexual freedom, espec
ially in regards to women’s participation in BDSM activities. Some people like to tell us that it’s

  not feminist to enjoy being f logged. I say it’s not feminist to tell a woman what she can and can’t do. But enough about

  me. What do you do?”

  “I’m a Catholic priest.”

  Blaise said nothing. She gawked at Søren with her full redlipped mouth agape. And then she laughed, a warm throaty

  sound that filled the room.

  “You’re terrible,” she said. “You had me there for a second.” Søren winked at Kingsley. Kingsley had never guessed

  Søren had this f lirtatious side to him. Back in their school

  days Søren had been feared and envied by all the other boys,

  and Søren had almost never spoken to anyone but the other

  priests. Kingsley realized that, other than his sister, he’d never

  seen Søren around a beautiful woman before. Interesting. The

  man was human after all. Even if he was a priest.

  “I must be off. You two chat, become friends. Blaise, peutêtre you should take my friend upstairs and show him what

  BDSM looks like in action. I’m sure he’ll find it fascinating.” “I’m sure I will,” Søren said. “We’ll be fine, Kingsley. Have

  a lovely evening.”

  Kingsley patted Blaise’s shapely bottom, and she stood up

  and let him out. On his way from the dining room he heard

  Blaise asking Søren, “So what do you really do?” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Søren answered. Kingsley chuckled on his way upstairs. He needed to grab

  a few things. That was it. Think about what he needed to

  take with him, not what he had to do. Just a job. He’d done

  hundreds of jobs in his life. He’d get a file, a mission, a plane

  ticket, a target. This was child’s play in comparison. Digging his keys out of the pocket of his jeans, he opened

  a locked box in his closet and took out his Walther P88. He

  removed the clip and pulled the slide, checking that no bullets remained in the chamber. He snapped the clip in, shoved

  it into his holster on his jeans and pulled on his leather jacket. Kingsley left the house and neither hailed a cab nor took a

  car. On foot he made it to the apartment in twenty minutes.

  He rang the doorbell, and a housekeeper let him in without

  a word. No words necessary. The look of disgust and disdain

  said everything. Fuck her. Kingsley wasn’t here to make the

  housekeeper happy.

  He raced up the stairs right as Phoebe Dixon stepped into

  the hallway in her long silk bathrobe. She had a towel to her

  wet hair and walked toward her bedroom at the end of the

  long hall. She didn’t look back or speak. She hadn’t seen him. Good.

  Kingsley took a quick and silent breath and pulled his gun

  out. Careful of the creaking f loor, he stalked her down the

  hall. When she reached for the door handle to her bedroom,

  he put the gun to the center of her back.

  “Don’t scream,” he ordered as he slapped a hand over her

  mouth. “Not if you want to live.”

  8

  PHOEBE’S ENTIRE BODY STIFFENED LIKE A CORPSE. She whimpered but didn’t scream.

  “Open the door. Now.”

  She opened it, and he pushed her inside, pushed her so hard

  she landed on the f loor, her bathrobe coming open to reveal

  her naked body underneath.

  He grabbed her by the arm and shoved her into the f loor

  again.

  “Don’t…” she begged, her voice breaking with tears. “I

  have children.”

  “Are you offering them?” he asked, ripping the robe from

  her body and wrenching her to her feet.

  “Please, don’t kill me. My husband’s an attorney. He has

  money—”

  “Keep begging. It won’t work,” he said as he bent her over

  the bed and kicked at her ankles until she parted her shaking

  thighs. He pressed the barrel of the gun into her throat. “But

  I like how you do it.”

  Tossing the gun aside, he opened his pants and slammed

  inside her. Her body clenched around him tighter with each

  thrust. Despite her pleas and her protests, she grew wetter

  the more he rammed into her, the harder he worked her. But he couldn’t come, not yet. Although he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. Sex with Phoebe was business, not

  pleasure, and he hated the work.

  As she moaned underneath him, crying against the intrusion, Kingsley closed his eyes and disappeared to another place,

  another time. The elegant and well-appointed bedroom he

  stood in disappeared and dissolved. The hunter-green walls

  and the modern art prints faded away and rough wood took

  their place. The king-size bed adorned with silk sheets and