made him so furious he’d broken her riding crop into three pieces. Now he treated it with the same respect he treated his own implements of sadism. She almost wept again watching him wrap up her riding crop and put it away for her. They had come so far together. She couldn’t wait to see where they went next.
Søren returned to her and pressed his hand into the welts on the back of her body. She flinched and winced as his every touch renewed her pain.
“Are you mine?” he asked her.
“I am yours. Forever.”
And she was hers. But she was his too, and always would be.
At last Søren released her wrists from the rope cuffs. He turned her and bent her over the bed, pushing her feet wide. She heard him removing his clothes and grew wet with the anticipation of having him inside her. From behind her he opened her up with his fingers, and she exhaled in pleasure, her hands digging into the sheets.
He was opening her up and she couldn’t bear the wait and she made that clear with her pleas for mercy. And at last he took pity on her. With one hard thrust the full length of him was inside her where she wanted him, where he belonged. With his hands on her hips he worked her back and forth until every breath she took came out as a moan. The intensity of the thrusts left her reeling. She could feel him in her stomach. His fingers spread the lips of her vagina wider, then found her clitoris and stroked it, setting off small explosions of ecstasy all through her. She arched her back, parted her legs and raised her hips to offer even more of herself to him. His free hand grasped the back of her neck to the point of pain as he pounded into her. And when she couldn’t take it anymore—the pain or the pleasure—he pulled out of her, pushed her onto the bed, and forced her onto her back.
Their mouths met in a hungry kiss. She was greedy for him and pulled him to her, on top of her, and he entered her again.
He devoured her mouth while he fucked her and she lifted her hips eagerly into his. They became nothing but bodies, nothing but burning flesh and need for each other. Søren slammed her hands down onto the bed, pinning her down so hard she cried out. Her renewed pain renewed his pleasure and he lowered his head to suck her nipples. It was what she needed to send her right to the edge, and there at the edge she hovered as the pressure built, every nerve in her hips tingling and thrumming, vibrating with bliss. Nora dug her heels into the bed and tilted her hips. The base of his cock grazed her clitoris and she came with a silent gasp, her hands clutching empty air as his fingers tightened on her wrists.
As she came, Søren moved into her with quick hard thrusts that ended with a final push. His body went taut and still against her as he came, pouring his semen inside her, filling her and fulfilling her. When it was over and done, he rolled onto his back and brought her with him. She luxuriated on top of his body, relishing his skin against her skin, his heart against her heart.
“I’m not sorry I left you that year,” Nora said, lifting her head to kiss him. “But I am sorry it took me so long to come back.”
“Don’t be sorry. Go to sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”
“It’ll be fine,” she said, resting her head once more on his chest and settling into sleep. “After all, it’s only a wedding.”
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” he said, twining his hand in her hair and resting it on the back of her neck.
Nora closed her eyes and inhaled. Søren smelled like a winter’s night, and though winter nights were cold and cruel, they were also clear. And Nora would happily sacrifice the heat of the nearest star to see the light of the farthest.
“I know.”
37
IT WAS A bright and sunny morning, and Nora woke up alone. She looked around, called Søren’s name and received no answer. Knowing Søren, he’d probably gone for a run to burn off his extra energy, his excess stress. Running for fun...proof Søren was as much masochist as he was sadist.
Nora dragged herself out of bed and touched her neck. Her collar was gone, locked up in the box where it would stay until Søren wanted to have his wicked way with her again. She pulled on her abandoned pajamas from last night and her black silk bathrobe and wrapped her hair up in a loose bun. When she was fit for human company, she left her room and went in search of breakfast.
The wedding wasn’t until this evening at five but the castle already bustled with guests and workers and, of course, lawyers. Kingsley had imported three of them simply to handle all the nondisclosure agreements every guest and worker had to sign. Why couldn’t they elope? Why go to all this trouble for something you could do in private in front of a justice of the peace? Then Nora saw a group of men walk past, all wearing kilts.
Oh yes, that’s why they went to all this trouble.
Kilts.
In the castle kitchen she found coffee and chugged it. She met the castle’s wedding coordinator and went over final details. She checked in with the caterers, the DJ, the florist and the photographer. By the time she was done Nora had decided she would rather fuck a haggis and eat it afterward than ever be part of another wedding again. Last time she ever agreed to play wedding planner.
Nora ate a pastry. Then a second one. She had a second cup of coffee and between sips went over the schedule with the waitstaff, who listened to her with impressive attentiveness. Someone had apparently told everyone working the wedding that Nora was a professional Dominatrix. Once she’d finished scaring the staff into submission, Nora headed back up the stairs, coffee cup in hand.
When she returned to her bedroom, she found the bathroom door closed and heard the sound of water running. Søren had returned from his run and hopped in the shower. She considered joining him but she heard him turning the water off. Damn. She’d missed her chance. No worries. Always tomorrow. She took off her pajamas and yanked on a pair of comfy jeans and a white T-shirt. While she finished her coffee she dug through her suitcase, pulling out her shoes and her stockings. Maybe she had underwear in here, too. Or had she not packed any? That might be a problem. No, probably not. Not with this crowd.
She had a shoe in one hand and her curling iron in the other when Søren emerged from the bathroom.
Both the shoe and the curling iron hit the floor at the same time. Galileo would have been pleased.
“Holy shit.”
“Eleanor, behave.”
“You’re wearing a kilt.”
“I realize this.”
“You know I’m not capable of behaving under the best of circumstances. You are asking the impossible.”
“Is this going to be a problem?”
“It is the opposite of a problem. It is the best thing that ever happened to me.” Eleanor walked over to him and looked him up and down. He was in full Scottish regalia—black-and-blue plaid kilt, black socks, black shoes, blue sporran, black clerical shirt with his black jacket. He hadn’t put on his collar yet so his shirt was open at the neck. His blond hair was wet and combed back and with the hint of his lean and muscular runner’s legs peeking out from under the kilt, he looked as if he’d stepped out of a fever dream she’d had once and was apparently having again.
“Clergy in Scotland have their own tartan. I’m to wear it during the ceremony.”
“I need your cock, not a lecture on Scottish fashion,” Nora said. “Right now.” She grabbed his hand and attempted to drag him toward the bed. He didn’t budge.
“This is not happening, Little One.”
“I’m going to violate you in so many ways you’re going to have PTSD when I’m done with you.”
“I already have PTSD from this conversation.”
“Shut up, blondie, and get on the bed.”
“Eleanor, no. Red. Stop. Safe word. We have work to do.”
“Fucking first. Work after. You can slice me up like a Thanksgiving turkey if you want. Get hard and lie there. I’m getting under that kilt whether you like it or not.”
“Rape-play is one of my hard limits.”
“Who’s playing?”
“Eleanor.
”
She looked at him and pouted. Really pouted. The pout to end all pouts.
Søren took a heavy breath.
“Fine. Best we get it out of your system now so I don’t have to worry about being fondled during the ceremony. But make it quick. I’m supposed to meet with the wedding party in half an hour.”
“You’ll never know what hit you.” Twenty-two years in love with this man and she still wanted him as much today as she did when she was a teenager. More even, but that was the kilt’s fault. She pushed him down onto his back on the bed and straddled his hips. She ripped off her shirt and threw it on the floor. Pulling her down to him, he kissed her lips, then her neck.
“Are you a true Scotsman?” she asked, sliding her hand up under the kilt. She encountered nothing but Søren.
In an instant he had her on her back, his hand pressing lightly on her throat. He roughly yanked her bra down her arms to bare her breasts. He lowered his head and bit her hard on the shoulder. Søren needed to inflict pain to get aroused, and she didn’t mind at all. If he had to set the bed on fire and sacrifice a virgin to get hard, Nora would hand over a lighter, a dagger and every unsullied teenager in a ten-mile radius—that’s how much she wanted him right now.
So of course, right then, someone knocked on her goddamn door.
“Unless the castle is on fire and the British are invading, go away,” she yelled at the knocker.
“We have an emergency, Mrs. Sutherlin.”
She looked up at Søren.
“If you’re Mrs. Sutherlin, who’s Mr. Sutherlin?” he asked with his eyebrow cocked in suspicion.
“Vanillas.” She sighed. To the girl at the door she yelled, “What’s the emergency? Somebody better be dead.”
“We’re missing the groom.”
“Oh my God.” She dropped her head back onto the bed. “Next time I agree to plan a wedding, please tie me to the bed until the fit of madness passes.”
“I’ll do that anyway. Go. Save the wedding. We’ll play later.” He got off of her and straightened his clothes.
“You’re in a kilt and you’re not inside me. This is the worst day of my life.” She sighed. “And I’ve been kidnapped.”
She grabbed her shirt off the floor and pulled it on more angrily than she’d ever put on a shirt in her life. That shirt was lucky to survive.
“You.” She pointed at Søren. “You guard that kilt with your life. I plan on violating the sanctity of it and you as soon as I can.”
“The kilt is not going anywhere, and neither am I,” he said. “Now go, before you assault me again.”
“You’re not out of the woods yet,” she said. “Tonight you and your body and your kilt are mine.”
“Have you forgotten who the Dominant is in this relationship, young lady?”
She exhaled heavily.
“Do I have your permission to violate you ten ways to Sunday tonight? Please and thank you, sir?”
“Yes, you may.”
“Thank God.”
She threw the door open and looked the interrupter in the face.
“Now tell me, please, what the fuck is happening?” Nora demanded of the girl. “I’m trying to fornicate with a priest in here.”
Before the scared Scottish lass could speak, Juliette came running down the hall toward her looking both panicked and elegant which was a look only she could pull off.
“Nora, we need you,” Juliette said. “He refuses to come out of his room.”
“Which he?” she asked. “Groom A or Groom B?”
“Groom A,” Juliette said.
“Thought so. Wait, which one did we decide was Groom A?” Nora asked.
“A,” Juliette said, waving her hands like wings. “For Angel.”
Nora sighed and rubbed her forehead. “I had a feeling this would happen. I’ll be right there.”
Groaning dramatically, she walked back into the room and slammed the door behind her. Søren was no longer on the bed, which meant this was shaping up to be the worst day ever.
“Michael won’t come out of his room.”
“Yes, I heard that,” Søren said. “Whose idea was it to throw a million-dollar wedding for a groom with social anxiety disorder?”
“The other groom.”
“Griffin should be flogged.”
“He will be. By me. And hard. But after I go get Michael out of his room,” she said, trying to figure out a plan of attack. “I’ll see you at the wedding. And after the wedding. And all night tonight.”
“Let me know if you need me.”
“You’re here,” she said. “That’s everything I need from you.”
She kissed him, which was a mistake because now she was really furious about not getting to fuck Søren into the ground. Later, she reminded herself. Plenty of time to fuck him and be fucked by him tonight.
Nora started out the door again but stopped, turned around and walked back into the room. She grabbed her toy bag and slung it over her shoulder.
“Pray for me,” she said.
“Always, mistress,” Søren said. “And God speed.” She made it to Michael’s room and a small crowd that included his mother, his sister Erin, two of Griffin’s sisters-in-law, his cousin Claudia, and Juliette. They were pleading at the door, begging him to open it.
“Out of the way,” Nora said, snapping her fingers. The crowd parted like the Red Sea for her.
“We’ve been trying for an hour. He won’t come out,” Juliette said.
“Then I’ll go in.” Nora took a deep breath and slammed the side of her fist against the door so hard it shook on its hinges. “Michael Dimir, open this door for your mistress right now, or so help me God, I will pick the lock and use my entire shiny new set of scalpels on you, and there won’t be a safe word in the world that will save you.”
She paused. Everyone was silent. Then she heard soft footsteps. The door clicked open an inch.
Nora looked at the crowd gathered around the door and rolled her eyes.
Amateurs.
She slipped through the door, shutting and locking it behind her. She looked at Michael standing with his back to the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore flannel pajama pants and a blue-and-white Yorke College T-shirt. His hair was shaggy and touched his ears and his silver eyes were shadowed by the dark circles from a night of no sleep. Six weeks ago he’d turned twenty-one and ten days ago he’d graduated from college with honors. But right now he looked as young and as scared as he did the day she’d met him when he was a few days shy of sixteen with still-healing scars on his wrists.
“I can’t do it, Nora. I can’t handle all those people staring at me. Please don’t make me go out there.”
“My Angel.” Nora sighed. She took his handsome face in her hands and kissed him. Michael could do it and would do it. He was one of the bravest young men she’d ever known and loved. She simply needed to remind him of that. With her new riding crop, if necessary. Something told her it might be necessary.
She glanced at the clock. Griffin and Michael’s wedding was T-minus six hours and fifteen minutes. She had to get Groom A calmed down, bathed and dressed, herself bathed and dressed and an entire wedding party corralled.
But Michael was her top priority at the moment. Even higher than getting under Søren’s kilt, which was a close second.
Busy day ahead. Things to do. People to beat.
A Dominatrix’s work was never done.
* * * * *
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