the bottom of it. From it she pulled out a leather case.
“Got what?” Kyrie asked. But Elle didn’t answer. She ran off down the hall again and down the stairs. She could hear Kyrie behind her racing to catch up.
“What room?” Elle asked once she was in the infirmary. But she already saw it. Three sisters were kneeling by the door, their ears against it.
“She’s crying her eyes out,” one of them said. “She might be hurt.”
“Get up,” Elle said. The nuns hesitated a moment but then moved out of her way. She knelt on the floor in front of the lock and examined it. Sister Aquinas hadn’t been kidding. The metal works were old and tarnished. This wouldn’t be easy. She opened her case, pulled out a lock-pick tool and inserted it into the keyhole. It took some doing to get the ancient tumblers to move. By the time she’d pushed the first one up, sweat had beaded on Elle’s forehead.
“Elle, can we help?”
Kyrie sounded as scared as Sister Mary Angelica but Elle only shook her head and pushed up the second tumbler. She wiped her sweaty palm on her jeans and a minute later, had the lock picked. Elle got up and wrenched the door open. Her mother and Sister Aquinas raced inside the pantry and brought out the weeping elderly nun.
Elle’s mother took her gently by the arm and put her in a chair. She called for water and a towel and every nun in the room rushed to help Sister Mary John calm Sister Mary Angelica down.
Every nun in the room except for Kyrie.
“How do you know how to pick locks?” she asked Elle.
“Long story,” Elle said, and put her lock-pick tool back into the case. She got off her knees and left the infirmary. She walked to the nearest bathroom. Kyrie followed.
“I’m serious. I want to know how you did that.”
“Just a hobby,” Elle said. “I was curious about how to pick locks. I figured out how to do it.”
“Are you a cat burglar?”
Elle laughed. “I haven’t stolen anything since I was fifteen years old. Well, one car, but I gave it back.”
“You stole a car?”
“No, I was kidding. I borrowed it. It was a friend’s.”
“Who? The complicated guy?”
“No. A different guy. Doesn’t matter. I’m not friends with him anymore.” She turned on the water and washed the dirt and oil from the lock off her hands.
“Who taught you how to pick locks?”
“Kyrie, I’m not going to talk to you about any of this, okay?”
“Why not?”
“I told you. I don’t want to talk about my life. I want to keep my head down, do my work and figure things out. I don’t want to get into trouble because a little virgin nun has a crush on me and won’t leave me the hell alone.”
The smile and the delight washed out of Kyrie’s eyes like color fading from too many washings.
“I don’t have—”
“Yes, you do. You follow me everywhere, you ask me a million personal questions, you are obsessed with finding out why I’m here even though I’ve told you a dozen times I don’t want to talk about it. You’re not the first girl who’s had a crush on me. I know what it looks like. And I’m not interested, okay? Go be a nun. Go back to the infirmary and help them with Sister Mary Angelica. Stop thinking about me.”
Kyrie clasped her hands in front of her. They disappeared under her bell sleeves.
“I can’t, Elle,” Kyrie said. “I try to stop thinking about you and there you are, back in my mind again. I ask you about your life because I told myself that the reason I’m thinking about you is because you’re a mystery to me. And if I solve the mystery then you won’t be so interesting to me anymore, and I won’t think about you anymore. But it’s not working. You won’t tell my anything about yourself and here I am, still thinking about you, morning, noon and night.” Kyrie paused, and when she spoke again her voice had become a whisper. “Especially at night.”
“That’s not my problem,” Elle said, grabbing a paper towel to dry off her hands.
“I know it’s not. But maybe if you tried to help me...maybe if you told me something about you...how you know how to pick locks or why you came here or why your complications are so complicated. I mean, I know complicated. I’m a nun with a crush on another woman who’s standing two feet in front of me. That’s complicated.”
“He’s a priest.”
“What?”
“You really want to know why my situation is so complicated? There. I told you. My lover who I ran away from is a Catholic priest. He was into hardcore kink, sadism and bondage, and I taught myself how to pick locks so I could get out of anything he put me in if I wanted to. There you go. Your questions are answered.”
Kyrie stared at her. Her eyes were wide with shock. She said not a word, made not a sound. It was the longest Kyrie had ever been silent in her presence. The shock in her blue eyes turned to horror and then something worse.
Disgust.
Kyrie turned and walked out of the bathroom without another word.
And as she’d wanted, Elle was finally alone.
18
ELEANOR TURNED THE page in her book, pushed a second pillow under her head and read. She was so engrossed in the story she barely heard the door to her bedroom open. But she wasn’t so engrossed in the story that she didn’t feel the bed move when someone sat on it.
Still, she kept reading, not looking away from the words in front of her.
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” Kingsley said, as he reached out and plucked the book from her hands. “Excellent choice. A story of bitter vengeance with a perfect ending.”
“I’m enjoying it,” she said. “Was enjoying it, until someone rudely interrupted.” She took the book back from him with a flourish and settled into her pillows. It was nearly midnight so she wore only one of Kingsley’s shirts—a white one with pearl buttons down the front. She crossed one leg over the other and attempted to resume her reading. Then she felt Kingsley’s hands on her legs. He uncrossed them for her.
“Kingsley...”
“Are you feeling better, chérie?”
She looked over the top of her book at him.
“Much.”
“Bon. Très bon,” Kingsley said as he bent and kissed her thigh.
She kept reading.
Kingsley opened the third button on his shirt she’d stolen to sleep in. He pushed the fabric aside and kissed her left nipple. She felt a delicious pull in her stomach.
“Kingsley, are you here to seduce me?” she asked. “While I’m trying to read?”
He rolled his tongue around her nipple before answering, “Oui.”
“Oh,” she said, closing the book with a loud snap. “What the fuck am I doing reading this then?”
She tossed the book across the room. Kingsley laughed and sat up.
“You should be nicer to Dumas,” he said. “The greatest French novelist.”
“I’d rather be nice to you, monsieur. The greatest French lover.”
Kingsley straddled her knees and kissed her on the lips. It was a slow, soft sensual kiss, merely a prelude to whatever decadent plans he had for her that night. As much as she missed Søren when he was gone, at least he always left her with the world’s best babysitter.
Kingsley slipped his hand under her shirt and rested it on her stomach. Like the well-trained submissive she was, she opened her legs for him and gave him access to every part of her he could possibly want.
He parted the folds of her vulva with his fingertips and gently massaged the outside of her vagina. When she grew wet from his touch, he pushed one finger into her.
“You’re the only woman I come inside,” he said, kneading her favorite spot right under her pubic bone. “Did you know that?”
She flushed a little at his words. Kingsley was adamant about using condoms. There wasn’t a room in the house that didn’t hold a crystal bowl of them. But with her he never used one. Her and only her.
“I know, monsieur.”
&
nbsp; “Do you know why?” he asked, pushing in a second finger.
“No.”
“He comes inside you,” Kingsley said. “And that makes this hole very special to me.”
She laughed and raised her hips.
“Come inside me all you want. He gave me to you. Until he gets back, I’m all yours.”
They kissed again, kissed for a long time as he fucked her with his fingers. He spread them apart inside her, opening her up for him. Soon she was dripping wet and panting.
“I was thinking of trying something special with you,” Kingsley said. “Since you are so special to him and to me.”
“Anything you want,” she said. “You know I’ll do whatever you tell me to do.”
Kingsley kissed her earlobe, her neck under her ear.
“Come to my bedroom. I’ll tell you there. But...”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“But what?”
“What we do, it will have to stay a secret,” he whispered.
“A secret? From who?”
“From him.”
She stiffened a moment.
“Why do we have to keep it a secret from Søren?” she asked. “He doesn’t care what kink we do.”
“He’ll care about this,” Kingsley said with a smile that for one split second looked almost nervous.
“What is it?”
Kingsley pulled his fingers out of her.
“Come find out. If you dare,” he said, and the old roguish smile was back.
He left her alone in her bedroom as he walked back to his.
Eleanor wanted to follow him, but she hesitated. What could Kingsley have planned for them tonight that was so kinky he didn’t want her to tell Søren about it? She and Kingsley had done every sort of kink she could think of, even the harder stuff like rape-play, breath-play, blood-play. Søren was usually there for it, but not always. All that mattered to Søren was that she was a good girl, submitted to Kingsley when told to and told Søren all the erotic details of whatever happened afterward.
Something they couldn’t tell Søren? A mix of desire and curiosity led her down the hall to Kingsley’s bedroom. When she opened the door she found he’d lit half a dozen candles. They burned on each side of his big red bed. And the dogs that always slept in his room at the foot of his bed were nowhere to be seen.
“Lock the door,” he said, a rare command. No one would dare interrupt the master of the house in his bedroom without knocking first.
She locked the door behind her.
“King, I’m a little freaked out here,” she admitted as she walked to him. He stood by the bed and had already started undressing. He was barefoot and had removed his jacket. He could have been the Count of Monte Cristo with his fitted black trousers, his white shirt and black-and-red embroidered vest. His hair was looking particularly Byronic tonight. His ex-girlfriend Charlie had cut it short, but he’d started growing it back out and now it curled its way to his earlobes.
“If it makes you feel better, so am I.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better at all. None of this does.”
She nodded at the candles, shivered at the quiet, the quiet that radiated from Kingsley outward. He was different tonight. Nothing like the Kingsley she was used to, the Kingsley who could silence her with a stare, put her onto her knees with a nod. Some days she couldn’t get within five feet of him without him grabbing her, throwing her over his lap and spanking her until she collapsed into screams and laughter. Nothing was right about this. Kingsley nervous? Humbled? She shouldn’t be making eye contact with him now. She should already be on her knees, at his feet, obeying, serving, submitting.
He took a small quick breath and laid a hand on the side of her neck. His thumb massaged the ticklish spot under her ear.
“I know you know what I am,” he said.
Eleanor swallowed.
“I know,” she said.
“You can say it. I want to hear you say it.”
“You’re a switch,” she said.
“And?”
“And a masochist.”
“Did he tell you how much of a masochist?”
“He told me everything he did to you. And he told me you liked it.”
“I didn’t like it,” he said. “I loved it. And more than that, Eleanor. I needed it.”
“I understand. I need it too sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” he asked. She heard the note of curiosity in his voice. “Not always. Only sometimes?”
“I always like it,” she said. “Always love it. But I’m saying I know what it means to need it some nights.”
“Are there nights you need something else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are there nights you’d rather give pain than receive it?”
And then she knew what Kingsley wanted her to do. Her heart stopped. Her blood went cold. This was every kind of bad idea Kingsley had ever had.
“King...no,” she said. If she hadn’t had Kingsley’s hands on her, she would have turned around and walked right out that second. “This absolutely cannot happen.”
“Please,” Kingsley said. “He won’t have to know.”
“Kingsley...” Unexpectedly tears sprang into her eyes. She was scared. Not scared. Terrified.
“I want you to hurt me, Eleanor. I need you to hurt me. Please?”
He lifted both hands to her face and brushed the tears away with his thumbs. He didn’t seem the least surprised to see them on her face. In fact, he seemed to recognize them.
“I can’t...” She pressed her face against his chest and he wrapped her in his arms.
“You can.” He whispered the words into her hair. “We both know you have this desire in you. Oui?”
She paused only a moment before nodding her head against his chest.
“Oui,” she said. She pulled back and looked up at him. “Are you sure you want me to do this?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to hurt you?”
“Hurt me and use me. Anything you want from me, ask it.”
“Anything? No limits?”
“The only limit is collars. I hate them.”
“I know, I know. Collars are for dogs. Where are the dogs anyway?”
“I put them downstairs.”
“Why?”
“The dogs, they love you, but they’re trained to protect me,” he said. “If they witnessed someone hurting me, they wouldn’t react well.”
“You were so sure I’d say yes that you locked the dogs downstairs?”
Kingsley smiled. Kingsley nodded. Kingsley was an arrogant son of a bitch and she loved him for it.