* * *

Dinner with Patrick always started out with dinner but never ended with dinner. Suzanne lay underneath him as he pulled her panties down her legs. Bad idea, sleeping with an ex-boyfriend, even if he was helping her with her investigation. But she couldn’t deny she wanted this, wanted his warm mouth on her breasts and his fingers on her clitoris and…

“I want your cock in me, Patrick,” she gasped as he covered her naked body with his.

Patrick laughed softly and Suzanne’s body temperature kicked up a couple more degrees as his strong bare chest vibrated against her taut nipples.

“I’ll happily put my cock in you. Where did that come from?” he asked as he slipped on a condom. Reaching between her thighs, he caressed her wet folds with fingers that knew exactly where she liked being touched.

“Your fault,” she said as he traced leisurely circles into her with one and then two fingers. “You’re the one who told me Nora Sutherlin went to Sacred Heart. I’ve been reading her books…for research.”

“One-handed research?” Patrick kissed his way across her shoulders and neck and up to her mouth.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she teased.

“Wouldn’t I love to watch,” he said, pushing gently into her. She spread her legs and took him deeper.

She groaned in the back of her throat as Patrick started his slow forceful thrusts. Rocking her hips into Patrick’s, she tried to keep from dwelling on all the reasons she shouldn’t be—again—having sex with her ex. They weren’t getting back together. With her work, her traveling, she couldn’t have a real relationship. He wanted so much from her—commitment, promises, love—that she didn’t have to give. But at dinner they’d talked about Nora Sutherlin, how she had appeared almost out of nowhere six years ago and become the most celebrated dominatrix in the Underground. Patrick didn’t know too many specifics. Specifics were hard to come by where Nora Sutherlin was concerned. Still, that didn’t stop Suzanne and Patrick from wildly speculating about her personal life—who she slept with, who her clients were, what kinky people did behind closed doors. By the time they stumbled into Suzanne’s apartment after dinner, they were both flushed and breathy and ready to fall into bed together.

Closing her eyes, Suzanne felt the tension in her thighs that signaled she was close to coming. Patrick’s hands groped at her back as his mouth sought hers again and again. She pressed into the bed as she felt the familiar tightening. For one brief moment a vision of someone other than Patrick flashed across her mind’s eye—a vision of a man, taller than Patrick, more viscerally handsome, older, far more intimidating and significantly blonder. Suddenly she orgasmed, the vaginal spasms fluttering through her stomach. For another few seconds Patrick kept thrusting. He pushed one final time, gathered her to him and came hard. At the back of her mind she heard him whisper something into her ear. But shocked by the vision she’d just had, she didn’t understand the words.

“You’re not going to say anything?” Patrick said, kissing her cheek, her neck.

“Sorry,” she said, panicking a moment. Had she said something when she came, said another name? “I just—”

“I said I love you, Suzanne.” Slowly Patrick pulled out of her and lay on his side. “No comment?”

“Oh, God,” she said, gathering the sheets to her chest. “I’m sorry. Good orgasm—I think it killed some brain cells.”

Patrick rolled onto his back. “I killed some brain cells. Nice. Well, not quite what I was hoping for but better than ‘I hate you. Get out.’”

Suzanne heard the hurt in his voice, the hurt she knew he desperately wanted to hide from her. Reluctantly she turned to face him.

“Patrick, we’ve had this conversation. Nothing’s changed since the last time we had it.”

“Right,” he said, dragging his lean, toned body out of her bed. Why did he always have to make sex about something more than sex?

He grabbed his jeans off the floor and pulled them on. “Work is your life. In Iran one month. In Cambodia the next. Can’t settle down. Unfair to me. Just won’t work. I’ve heard it all. What I haven’t heard is you looking me in the eyes and saying, ‘Patrick, I don’t love you.’”

He threw on his shirt and brusquely buttoned it.

“Waiting,” he said. “Can you say it?”

Suzanne rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I always make my declarations of love during post-sex fights. Maybe we should talk about this another time. When I have clothes on.”

“Yeah, that’ll make a difference. I’ll just go now so I can let you get back to work. Call me when you need more help digging up dirt on this priest of yours. Or when you want my cock in you again, as you so delicately put it.”

He slammed his feet into his shoes, grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the bedroom. Groaning, Suzanne yanked the sheet free from the bed and wrapped it around her.

“Patrick, please don’t leave. We were having such a good evening. Why do you always have to ruin it by starting a fight?” Patrick paused at her front door and turned around.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “And you’re brilliant. And you drive me insane. And I’ve been in love with you for a year. I didn’t sleep with a single person after you dumped me and ran off to Afghanistan—”

“I didn’t run off,” she countered angrily. “I’m a war correspondent. It was my job.”

“And I didn’t start a fight. I told you I loved you. Only you would hear ‘I love you’ and think I’m starting a fight. I’m leaving now before I say something really horrible, like ‘I love you’ again.”

Suzanne exhaled and ran her fingers through her hair.

“Patrick…” she began and could think of nothing else to say.

He stared at her a long time and shook his head.

“She left,” Patrick said as he turned the doorknob.

“What?”

“Nora Sutherlin. Her real name’s Eleanor Schreiber, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Nora Sutherlin’s just a pen name.”

“Anyway, Sacred Heart keeps meticulous membership rolls. She left the church seven years ago, came back last year. Doubt it means anything. Meant to tell you that at dinner.”

Suzanne nodded. Patrick waited.

“Thank you,” she said, drawing the sheet tighter around herself.

Patrick only looked at her. He opened the door and walked out, leaving her alone in her apartment.

Frustrated and hurt, Suzanne headed back for the bedroom. On her way she paused by her bookcase and stared at her copy of Nora Sutherlin’s book The Red sitting on her shelf.

“All your fault, you slut,” Suzanne said, trying to make herself feel better. It didn’t work. She took the book off the shelf and leafed through it, hoping to distract herself from the fact that during sex with Patrick, she’d pictured the face of Father Stearns, the target of her investigation—the enemy. She stiffened her spine and pushed her shame aside. Father Stearns had shocked her by being so breathtakingly handsome. That was the only reason his face came to her while Patrick was inside her. That’s all.

Suzanne nearly shut the book and put it back on the shelf. The last thing she needed was to think about sex or men anymore today. But as the pages fanned closed her eyes fell onto the book’s dedication.

As Always, Beloved, Your Eleanor

She read it again. An odd phrase, oddly worded. It seemed to say more than it actually said. Nora was short for Eleanor. That part she understood.

But who was her beloved?

* * *

Michael woke up alone. The moon rested high in the corner of his window. Still night. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Part of him still couldn’t believe he was here spending the summer in a mansion and learning kink from the Nora Sutherlin. Before he’d fallen asleep, she’d interrogated him about his fantasy life, what he wanted to try, what he wanted to learn. Having a beautiful domme gently scouring his naked skin with her fingernails while telling him stories about her life as a submissive might have been one of the most erotic moments of his life. Unfortunately when she’d tried asking him specific questions about what he wanted to do, to try with her, he clammed up, too embarrassed to answer. He’d apologized for his inability to articulate his sexual needs to her. But she’d just kissed him gently and whispered, “We’ll get there.”

One thing they had been able to talk about was safety. Tomorrow he’d start taking the sub-cocktail, as Nora called it. vitamin K and zinc, to help his bruises heal faster. During their scenes he was to use the green/yellow/red light system to let her know how he was faring. And, of course, his safe word would still be what she’d given him their one night they spent together: wings.

Michael remembered that night, that moment when he’d told her his name. Nora had smiled and reminded him that Michael was the name of God’s chief archangel, God’s fiercest warrior. A fierce warrior? Whatever. His father had named him and obviously expected a different sort of son. His dad would have been much happier with a masculine, athletic son. Not the pale, thin, almost feminine-looking kid he’d ended up with. A guy like Griffin, that’s what his dad would have wanted in a son. With his sinewed muscles and powerful build, his strong nose and jaw, Griffin was the sort of man anyone would want—men, women, everybody. He’d said as much to Nora when she asked him about his parents.

“Your father would find as much fault with Griffin as he does with you,” she’d said, caressing his forehead with the loving touch of a mother checking for a fever. God, when was the last time his mom had even touched him? “Griffin was a hell-raiser of the highest order when he was your age, and didn’t even begin to settle down until his twenties. Plus he’s crazy kinky and bisexual.”

“Griffin’s bisexual?” Michael had asked, a strange thrill running through his body.

“He is. So, you know, watch your back, beautiful,” she said, winking down at him.

Michael had groaned. “Guys aren’t supposed to be beautiful,” he’d protested as Nora stroked the high arch of his cheekbone.

“But angels are,” she said and gave him another soft kiss. And then she’d brought her lips to his ear and whispered, “Saturday night.”

“What’s Saturday night?” he’d asked.

“That’s when I’m going to beat you and fuck you again. If you’re ready. Ready?”

“Very ready, ma’am.”

Michael exhaled loudly, irritated at himself. He’d grown hard again just thinking about Saturday night, which fell an agonizing two days from now. And Nora had already warned him he couldn’t come without her permission. Apparently Father S imposed the same rule on her during the two years he’d trained her before they became lovers. She said that being a madly-in-love eighteen-year-old virgin with a raging libido who had to get permission from her priest before she could even masturbate might have been the worst torture Søren had ever inflicted on her. Caning was a breeze in comparison.

Slowly Michael crawled out of bed, pulled on his boxers and T-shirt, and walked to his bathroom. No, he corrected himself. Griffin’s bathroom. Everything belonged to Griffin, and Michael was merely a guest in this house. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, get used to this luxury. At the end of the summer, he’d move from his mother’s small house to an even smaller dorm room where he’d go back to being alone. If he got used to this house and the people in it, it would hurt so much worse when he left it in August.

Leaning over the sink, Michael splashed cold water on his flushed face. He brushed his teeth and combed out his hair with his fingers—routine actions that helped his arousal die down a little. His stomach rumbled. How long had it been since he’d eaten? Yesterday maybe? Griffin had told him where to find the kitchen and that anything in it was fair game. Food. Food was good. Food would distract him.