Author: Tiffany Reisz

“Nora is,” Griffin continued when Michael didn’t answer. “With the nursery thing.”

Michael nodded and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“So she wasn’t kidding about you not talking,” Griffin said, coming into the room with Michael’s big army-green duffel bag over his shoulder. Michael nearly buckled under the weight of it but Griffin carried it like a backpack.

“Sorry,” Michael said. Earlier he’d been able to squeak out a hello to Griffin before they both got distracted at the sight of Nora kissing his driver.

“Better.” Griffin nodded his approval. “One word is better than no words.”

Michael tried to think of something to say, something a rich, handsome guy like Griffin would want to hear from him. He came up blank.

“Where do you want your stuff?” Griffin asked.

“Anywhere,” Michael said. Griffin gave him a stern look.

“You give me more than one word or I’m keeping your stuff,” Griffin warned.

“On the bed?” Michael offered.

Griffin held up one hand and ticked off something on his finger. “That’s five words total. Fabulous.”

Michael laughed and blushed a little. He held up his own hand and ticked off two fingers.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Griffin said.

Pausing, Michael counted again on his fingers. He held up both hands.

“Ten words?” Griffin guessed and Michael nodded.

“Thanks for letting me stay here. Your house is awesome.”

“You’re welcome. The mistress and her friends, Søren excluded, are always welcome here.”

Michael smiled.

“Do you like the room?” Griffin asked.

“It’s really nice. For a nursery.”

“It’s an English nursery, not an American nursery. Suite of rooms in a big damn house to hide the kids. No Winnie-the-Pooh anywhere, I promise. Actually,” Griffin said, looking around his old room, “I think it was Noah’s ark when I was a baby. I’ve never gotten that, you know?”

“Gotten what?” Michael asked, unable to stop following Griffin with his eyes. Griffin was twice his size. Usually big muscular guys intimidated him. His father certainly used his large size to make everyone around him feel scared and small. For a dominant into kink, Griffin actually seemed really safe and friendly.

“Noah’s ark nursery decor. I’m not religious like you and the mistress, but if I’m not mistaken Noah’s ark was about the destruction of the entire world, right?”

“Right,” Michael agreed.

“Might as well decorate with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

Shrugging, Michael looked at the walls now painted an elegant light blue.

“Kids like ponies.”

Griffin turned around and stared at him before bursting into laughter.

“She didn’t tell me you were funny,” Griffin said, smiling at him. Michael blinked. Griffin had the kind of smile that shone so bright and white it made your eyes water.

“I didn’t know I was.”

“You are,” Griffin said, still staring at him. Michael flushed a little under the scrutiny. Nora did the intense staring thing too; so did Father S. Must be a dominant thing. Only reason Michael could come up with why a guy like Griffin would look at him so keenly. “Anyway,” Griffin continued as he seemed to remember something. “The mistress sent me to do your checklist. She thought you’d be more comfortable doing it with another guy. Your checklist, I mean.”

“Checklist?”

“A lot of doms do checklists with their partners before doing kink. That way the dom knows beforehand what you want and what you don’t. Helps prevent subby from having a freak-out in the middle of a scene. You know, don’t want to accidentally do cage-play with an ex-POW.”

“Whoops,” Michael agreed.

“Exactly. So get comfortable. This thing is like ten fucking pages long,” Griffin said, throwing himself into the bay window seat and crossing his legs. In his loose-fitting khakis and white shirt, he looked like a well-groomed beach bum. Michael looked around for a chair. Not seeing any he decided to behave like the submissive he was and just sit on the floor.

Once again Griffin stopped and stared at him. Michael hugged his knees to his chest and tucked his long hair behind his ears. It made him a little uncomfortable the way Griffin looked at him. But uncomfortable in a way he kind of liked.

“Right, okay,” Griffin said, pulling a sheaf of papers and a pen out of his back pocket. “Easy enough. Everything’s on a one-to-five scale—one meaning it turns you on as much as kissing your grandmother and five meaning it makes you spray your shorts just thinking about it. Doesn’t matter if you’ve done it or not—just if you want to do it. First category—sex.”

“Five,” Michael answered.

Griffin grinned at him. “That was just the category. But I like your enthusiasm, Mick.”

“Mick?”

“Can I call you Mick? Michael’s too formal. I’m not formal. You’re lucky I’ve even got pants on today.”

Michael mulled it over. No one had ever called him anything other than Michael except for his father, who’d called him Mikey as a kid—a nickname Michael loathed. And Nora called him Angel. But she was Nora. She could call him anything.

“I like it,” Michael decided and smiled.

While skimming the pages of the checklist, Griffin muttered something that sounded to Michael like “assassinate the Pope for this.” Michael decided he must have misheard.

“Category one,” Griffin continued, “on a scale of one to five…vaginal sex?”

“Five.”

“Agreed. Oral sex?”

“Five.”

Griffin looked at him before dropping his eyes to his notes again.

“Even better. Anal sex?”

Michael coughed. “Five.”

“Multiple partners?”

Michael looked down at his wrists and checked that his watch and wristband completely covered his scars.

“Five.”

“Threesomes?”

“Five.”

Michael didn’t look up but he could feel Griffin’s curious eyes on him.

“Two women and one man?”

“Five.”

“Two men and one woman?”

Michael shifted on the floor and didn’t look up at Griffin. It took him a long time to answer.

* * *

Five minutes after Thursday evening Mass ended, Suzanne stood outside of Sacred Heart in the shade of a willow tree and watched Father Stearns.

Gorgeous. The priest, her target, was absolutely gorgeous. The congregation filed out of the front doors and greeted their priest in the warm evening air. With the men he exchanged handshakes. From most of the women he received light, chaste hugs. Every child received a touch on the top of the head like a tiny blessing. Every child but one.

A young boy of about six or seven with unruly black hair stormed up to Father Stearns and turned an angry face up to the priest.

“Owen, I’ve already told you—” Father Stearns began but the small boy wouldn’t let him finish.

“It’s not fair,” he said, stamping his tiny foot. “I want to say thank-you. You have to tell me—”

“Owen,” Father Stearns said, bending low to meet the boy eye to eye. “You know priests aren’t allowed to tell secrets. The person who gave you your tuition money asked me not to tell you.”

Suzanne stiffened at the sight of the little boy, Owen, and the priest standing so close together. At least the boy didn’t seem intimidated by Father Stearns. She already was.

Owen raised his little fist, narrowed his eyes and growled.

“Young man, did you just growl at me?”

The boy looked immediately contrite.

“Maybe,” he confessed, wrinkling his face up.

“Clearly you’ve been spending too much time with your Miss Ellie. She growls at me too.”

At the mention of the mysterious Miss Ellie, Owen’s anger fell from his face.

“When’s she coming back?” Owen said. “I did a new painting for her.”

“I can’t say,” Father Stearns said, standing back up to his full height again. “She may be gone for some time.”

Owen nodded and stared down at his shoes.

“I miss her,” the boy said, digging the toes of his sneakers into the grass.

Father Stearns sighed and tapped the boy on the top of his head.

“As do I.”

Owen ran off at that, and Suzanne realized she finally had an opening. Nervously she strode up to Father Stearns and plastered on her best attempt at a weathergirl grin.

“Father Marcus Stearns?”

He turned to her with the slightest smile on the edge of his lips.

“Very nice to see a new face at Sacred Heart. How do you do, Miss…?” he began and extended his hand.

Suzanne froze momentarily before remembering she was undercover. She held out her hand and let him take it. He had perfect hands, sculpted like a statue’s. Smooth, warm skin but strong, very strong, although he gripped her fingers lightly. He grasped her hand like a man who knew his own strength, knew how to command and control it.

“Kanter,” she supplied. “Suzanne Kanter. I’m very well, thank you,” she said, answering etiquette with etiquette as she pulled her hand back. “I enjoyed the Mass.”

“I’m glad to hear it. What brings you to Sacred Heart?” he asked, his voice curious but not suspicious. Suzanne decided to press her luck a little and see if she could get a reaction out of him.

“Nothing very pious. You see, I heard a rumor that Nora Sutherlin attends church here. I’m a big fan so I thought I’d drop in. But I didn’t see anyone who looked like a famous writer.”

“She is difficult to miss,” he said, his small smile widening just slightly. “Usually we are graced with her presence but she’s on something of a sabbatical this summer.”

“Too bad. I have to say I’m impressed your church would be so welcoming to her. I’ve read a few of her books. Sinful stuff.”

Suzanne saw something flash in his eyes. Surprise maybe? Or was it mirth?

“It was Christ’s way to welcome sinners and tax collectors and other nefarious characters into His company and His Kingdom. On His especially compassionate and generous days he would even speak to reporters.”

His smile changed again. Now pure irony graced his lips.

“How did you—” she began, shocked into near speechlessness.

“You were taking notes during the Mass. Only an Evangelical Protestant or a reporter would bother taking notes during a homily or sermon, especially one of mine. And after twenty years in the priesthood, I can spot a lapsed Catholic at a thousand yards.”

“Is that so?”

“You stand and sit at the appropriate times without looking lost. You called me Father comfortably, not Pastor or Reverend. And you have a distinctly Catholic look in your eyes.”

“What Catholic look?”

“Guilt.”

Suzanne stood up straighter, refusing to let him see he’d rattled her. After all, she didn’t see one iota of guilt in his eyes.

“Okay, yes. Guilty. Reporter and ex-Catholic,” she said, painting on an even wider fake smile.

“We do see the occasional lapsed Catholic here but not many reporters,” he said, his tone conversational. “I assure you nothing noteworthy had happened lately. I haven’t performed an exorcism in, well, weeks.”

Suzanne looked at him a long, confused moment.

“You aren’t what I expected,” she said, dispensing with all pretense.

“Considering what the common perception of the clergy is these days, I shall take that as a compliment. You’ll have to forgive me, Ms. Kanter. I have my people to attend to. But my office is always open. Something tells me you have some questions for me.”