[English] The Virgin

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He was in the presence of a dangerous woman.

“Flight delay,” was all she said by way of apology for her tardiness.

“Flight? You flew somewhere? Today?” he asked.

“No.”

He waited for more of an answer and didn’t receive one.

“Are you coming with me?” she asked, sounding both impatient and indifferent, a difficult combination she managed to pull off beautifully.

“Where are we going?”

“A house.”

“Is it your house?”

“No.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?” Kingsley asked.

“Never.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Juliette said nothing to his joke. He’d got her to crack a smile the morning they’d met. If he could make her laugh once tonight he’d call it a victory.

“So...yes or no?” Juliette finally asked. “Are you coming with me?”

“After you, milady,” Kingsley said with a smile. She set out down the path, which wound around a patch of palm trees and ended at a small gravel parking lot. There in the parking lot sat a red Porsche.

He paused and stared at it a moment.

“I confess I didn’t figure you as a sports-car aficionado.”

“I’m not,” she said. “It’s not mine.”

“Please tell me you aren’t a car thief.”

“I’m not a car thief,” she said, sounding affronted. “I have permission to drive it. But if you like it, feel free to steal it for yourself. I don’t care a thing about it.”

“You’re interesting,” he said as she got behind the wheel. Without waiting for an invitation that didn’t seem forthcoming, he got into the passenger seat. That was when he noticed she had no shoes on. She drove barefoot. He liked that and he didn’t know why.

“I’m not interesting,” she said. “You’re bored.”

She started the car and drove out of the parking lot.

“So this house we’re going to...” he began.

“Oui?”

“Can you tell me where it is?”

“A few miles from here.”

“You aren’t planning on killing me at this undisclosed location, are you?”

She gave him a sidelong glance and her eyebrow went back up again.

“Are you scared of me?”

“You have a spear point knife on your thigh.”

“How do you know that?” she asked, sounding intrigued. Intrigued was better than irritated. He’d take what he could get.

“First of all, I’ve been staring at your legs. Second, I’m trained to look for hidden weapons on people. Old habits die hard.”

She flipped her dress to the side of her leg, exposing her right thigh where the blade rested in a leather and Velcro harness. She pulled off the Velcro strap, removed the knife and handed it to him.

“I have the knife to use in case the car breaks down at night, and I have to walk alone. I would never hurt anyone unless they tried to hurt me first.”

“That’s a noble philosophy of life,” he said, rolling up his sleeve and strapping the knife onto his forearm. He didn’t make a practice of carrying weapons with him these days, but if Juliette felt she needed a knife, he’d much prefer he be the one to use it if necessary.

Juliette shrugged. “It’s not a philosophy. It’s a religion. I’m Catholic.”

“Pull the car over.”

Juliette only looked at him. Then she laughed. Finally. And what a laugh. Musical, light, turning deeper at the end and coming straight from her belly. It hit him in the gut like a spear point knife.

“You don’t like Catholics?” she asked.

“I have a long complicated history with a Catholic priest of my acquaintance.”

“Is he a bad priest?”

“Very bad. He never preaches about sin, only God’s love and forgiveness. He doesn’t judge sinners and he works tirelessly at his parish on behalf of the poor and oppressed.”

“Sounds like a good priest to me. Is he a bad person?”

“He would die for the people he loved. I think he would even die for me.”

“And you hate him?”

“Completely and utterly.”

“Why?”

“Because he hurt his lover and made her leave him.”

“And?”

“She was my lover, too. Then again, so was he once. More than once.”

If Juliette’s eyebrow arched any higher, it would leave her face and hover above her head.

“I think I was wrong about you, Kingsley,” Juliette said as she turned the car onto a winding road. “I think I like you.”

“You didn’t like me before?”

“No.”

“Then why did you let me in your car?”

“I wanted you to **** me,” she said.

“Flattering. I think.”

“You can take it as a compliment,” she said, making it clear with her tone she hadn’t intended it as such.

“You don’t need to like someone to **** them?”

“No. Do you?”

“No, but I thought I was special.”

“I hate to tell you this,” she said with an apologetic smile, “but I don’t think you’re as special as you think you are.”

“That only hurts because it’s true. You really like me? A little?”

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“Un peu. Enough that I want to talk to you instead of letting you **** me,” she said.

“Oh,” he said, and weighed his words. “But we are still going to ****, right?”

Juliette smiled again. And in her flawless elegant French she purred two beautiful words.

“Bien sûr.”

Of course.

She went silent after she made another turn. The road was long and treacherous and wound up the side of a high, heavily forested hill. He could only imagine how Elle would tackle a similar driving challenge. They’d either have made it to their destination in half the time or died a fiery death rolling over a cliff in the attempt. He’d convinced Elle to let his driver take her everywhere she wanted to go. She thought he was being kind and generous. Little did he know he was simply trying to keep her alive. She was alive, wasn’t she? Twenty-six years old, smarter than any other woman he’d ever met. Street-smart, too. She’d be fine without him, fine without Søren. Wouldn’t she?

“What’s wrong?” Juliette asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re quiet.”

“You were driving.”

“I’ve spent thirty minutes in your company, and I already know quiet isn’t your standard mode of operation,” she said.

“Are you saying I talk too much?” Kingsley asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you shouldn’t complain when I’m quiet.”

“It made me nervous.” She gave him a smile and he was glad to see she was kidding. Hopefully anyway.

“I was thinking about someone.”

“Your priest?”

“And his lover.”

“You have unusual friends,” Juliette said.

He smiled back at her. “Not nearly enough of them. Would you like to be my friend?”

“Do you sleep with your friends?”

Kingsley turned his head and grinned at her. “I’m very friendly. And terrible at monogamy.”

She didn’t seem to mind that answer. A good sign. So far he’d made her laugh and hadn’t scared her off yet by confessing to A) being trained to kill people, B) being bi***ual and C) ****ing anyone and everyone who would let him.

Beautiful and brave. His type of woman.

Of course, he’d had that thought before. A brave woman would be his perfect woman. Last year he’d fallen madly in love with a girl he’d met at one of his clubs. She’d been a fire breather and she’d come home with him after five minutes of conversation. Unlike with Juliette, he’d known everything about Charlie before he’d gone to bed with her—her full name, her age, her background, her income, her family, everything. Everything except the one thing a file couldn’t tell him. He hadn’t known her dreams for the future. Turns out children weren’t a part of her dreams as they were a part of his. She’d raised her gay younger brother after her mother died and her father kicked them out. Kingsley thought that was a sign she had a strong maternal instinct. But no. She’d already given up college to raise one child. She had no interest in raising another. Kingsley asked her if she’d ever have his children someday. Her “no” had broken his heart.

Juliette was altogether a different woman than Charlie. Juliette was mysterious, dangerous. He was pursuing her for no other reason than she intrigued him. This wasn’t about love, wasn’t about settling down and having children. A woman who threw rocks at little boys was not the future mother of his children. But she was the woman he was going to **** tonight and that made her far more important to him than some dream girl he’d likely never find.

When at last they arrived at their destination, Kingsley couldn’t see a house, only trees and a gate. She typed a number into a keypad, waited for the wrought iron gates to yawn open and drove through them at a glacial pace. On either side of the car, great trees loomed and cast long shadows. Far ahead he saw white light, and when they reached the end of the driveway, a house like a mountain loomed before them. Gleaming white. Four stories. Endless lines of balconies. Juliette parked the car in front of the stairs that led to the front door.

“Do you live here?” Kingsley asked as he got out of the car.

“Yes,” she said.

“But it’s not your house.”

“No.”

“Do you work here?”

“I wouldn’t call it work,” she said as she lifted the skirt of her dress and walked up the steps. She walked lightly, gracefully and without fear or hesitation. She said she didn’t own the house, but she walked into it as if she did. He followed her with less confidence. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so nervous around a woman. Why was that? He was out of his element, definitely. He had no idea where he was other than in the mountains outside Petionville. And he was with a woman who wore a dagger on her thigh as casually as most women carried a purse. She was in control of this situation, not him.

Once inside the house, Juliette switched on a single light in the entryway.

“This is the house,” was all she said. Apparently there would be no tour.

Kingsley glanced around. Even in the low light he could see the interior looked like a Caribbean palace. White furniture and polished wood floors.

“It’s magnificent.”

“It’s a house. That’s all.”

“You aren’t impressed?”

“I’ve lived here all my life.”

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“Your parents own this place?” he asked as she walked up a curving wooden staircase to the third floor.

“No.”

“But you grew up here.”

“Yes.”

“And you speak French and not Creole?”

“I know Creole. I speak French.”

“You’re not going to tell me anything about your life, are you?” he asked as he followed her down another hallway decorated with white and pale green floral wallpaper.

“It doesn’t matter.” She gave an elegant shrug, and he fought the urge to bite the back of that arrogant shrugging shoulder. The red straps that crisscrossed on her otherwise bare back were begging to be ripped off her body. Flawless skin. He ached to leave it covered in welts and bites. She might not like that, though. Still...to be inside her would be worth anything he had to give up to get there. Even kink.

“Doesn’t matter?” He almost laughed. “At this point, I think I’d rather know you than **** you. And for me to say that...well...consider it my highest compliment.”

“You would rather know me than **** me?”

“I would.”

She turned her back to the door and leaned against it. She crossed her arms over her chest and faced him.

“My name is Juliette Toussaint. I’m twenty-six years old. I was born in this house because my mother was the housekeeper here. My family has always worked for the family that lives in this house. For generations. We lived in the servants’ quarters here. The owner’s children had French tutors. I was allowed to learn with them instead of going to school. If I was here at the house, I could help my mother with her work. When I was fourteen years old, my mother got very ill. The owner of this house is paying for her medical treatments. I work for him now. It’s not a difficult job, which is why I don’t call it work. Now you know everything there is to know about me.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Do you want my autobiography or do you want to have me?”

“I want both.”

“Both isn’t one of your options,” she said. “Look, we’re wasting time.”

“I don’t have to be anywhere anytime soon.”

“I do,” Juliette said. She sighed heavily and glanced away. “Kingsley...”

He shivered. It was the first time she’d said his name.

“I can only give you tonight,” she said. “One night. So please stop wasting time.”

“What do you mean you can only give me tonight?”

“I have a life,” she said. “With someone. Tomorrow I’ll go back to it.”

“Are you married?” he asked, realizing he should have asked that question before he’d got into the car with her. But it was too late now. No matter what she said, he would stay until she kicked him out of her life.

“No. It’s different.”

“How so?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” he said. “I’m very understanding.”

“I’m...” She met his eyes again. “I’m owned.”

Owned. Of course she was owned. A woman like Juliette was a prize, a crown, a work of art, a priceless jewel that would inspire the urge to own her in any man who looked at her. She should be owned, cherished and guarded. If he owned her, he would guard her with his life.

Kingsley nodded. “That I understand.”

“You do?” She sounded skeptical.

“I do. I understand what it means to be owned.”

“Good. He’s gone tonight. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Do you make a habit of seeing other men behind his back?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Am I the first?”

“Second.”

“Second man you’ve cheated on him with?”

“No,” she said, her voice so quiet he could barely hear her. “Second man I’ve ever been with.”

“Ever?”

“Ever,” she said.

Kingsley inhaled deeply. He never dreamed a woman so beautiful would have had only one lover in her entire life.

“Why me?” he asked.

She met his eyes and lifted her hand. Gently, slowly, she trailed her fingers through his hair and brought a lock of it to her lips. She kissed the tip of his hair before she released it. The act was so intimate, so unexpected and so possessive it hurt like a spear point knife in his stomach.

“I like your hair,” she said, looking at his face as if she was memorizing every detail of it. “That’s all.”

Kingsley was so hard for her already it hurt. He physically ached to be inside this woman.

“Now will you **** me?” she asked.

“A few more questions. They’ll be quick.”

“What else do you need to know?” Juliette asked, sounding impatient.

“Well...for starters, how do you like to be ****ed?”

He crossed his arms over his chest to match her posture and waited.

She met his eyes and they were so dark and so wide right then he imagined he could see himself in them.

“I like it rough.”

“Rough?” Kingsley repeated. “On a scale of one to ten...”

“What’s one?”

“You fall asleep while I’m on top of you.”

“Ten?”

“Hospitalization.”

Juliette seemed to ponder that a moment.

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“Nine,” she answered.

“Nine. Nine is very rough.”

“If nine is too much for you, take the car and drive yourself home. I don’t like having my time wasted.”

She flicked the keys at him and he caught them easily. But after he caught them, he dropped them on the ground.

“Trust me,” he said, taking a step forward and clapping a hand on her throat. He put his mouth to her ear and whispered, “I won’t waste your time.”

Now. Finally.

Kingsley was back in his element.

14

KINGSLEY’S HAND WAS on Juliette’s throat and his mouth was at her ear.

“You’ll do everything I tell you to do,” he said, an order, not a question. “Yes?” Oui?

“Yes” Juliette said, breathlessly.

“I won’t cut you or burn you or choke you. But once we’re in that room, everything else is possible. Every act, every hole,” he said. “You understand?”

Juliette swallowed hard. He felt her throat moving under his hand.

“I’ll use condoms,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“You have any requests of me?” he asked.

“Yes. Open the door already,” she said. Kingsley smiled. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to fall in love with this woman.

As requested, he opened the door.

He’d expected a bedroom and it was a bedroom. But not a man’s bedroom or a woman’s even. Not a guest room or a hotel room.

It was a child’s room.

He looked down into Juliette’s face.

“It’s the one room he’s never had me in,” she whispered.

The look on her face—almost embarrassed—touched his heart. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud, that she wanted him in a room without memories of another man.

Only a single lamp burned on a small round white table but even in the low light it was unmistakably the bedroom of a young girl. The bedroom of the daughter of Juliette’s lover, no doubt, still decorated in the fashion of a child even though she’d long ago grown up and moved out. The bed was small, no more than a full size. The sheets were an innocent shade of white and the rug on the floor a pale pink and blue. Mosquito netting hung down over the bed and a window onto the garden let in a cool rush of ocean air. The night was all around them and even in these strange surroundings, Kingsley burned to be inside her. He hadn’t ****ed in the bedroom of a teenager since he’d been a teenager. But it didn’t matter. As hard as he was right now, any horizontal surface would do.

Kingsley kicked the door shut behind him and locked the door. With one arm he swept Juliette to him, meeting her face-to-face, eye-to-eye. She put her hands against his chest, not to push him away but to steady herself. An unnecessary precaution. He had no plans on letting her go until morning.

Juliette looked into his eyes. He saw no fear in them, only desire. She lifted her hand to his face and then swept her fingers through his hair. When she reached the end of a lock she brought it to her lips. No woman had ever kissed his hair before like that, as if it was an act of worship more than affection.

“Will you kiss me?” she asked. Not a humble request, merely a question.

“When you’ve earned it.”

She nodded. “Let me earn it then.”

Far rougher than necessary, Kingsley grasped the fabric of her dress and pulled it down and off her body. Her spine stiffened as he stripped her, but she made no protest. When she was naked but for her woven hemp sandals, he took a step away from her.

“My turn,” he said. He stared at her body, grazing it with his eyes from ankle to neck. She kept her chin high, her eyes forward, and she didn’t try to cover herself in any way. She was beautiful, with a body that could only be described in superlatives—exquisite, striking. Lean, long muscular legs, full hips, a slim waist, large high breasts and shapely shoulders. His dream woman. In spite of her nakedness or perhaps because of it, she looked regal, almost imperious, and definitely defiant. She dared him with her eyes to find fault in what he saw.

There was no fault to be found.

He reached for her and gripped her hard by the back of the neck. She’d asked him to be rough and it was good that she had. Scalding hot desire had burned all the gentleness out of him tonight. He swept the white diaphanous mosquito netting aside and pushed her onto her back at the center of the bed. Kneeling over her, he shoved her legs wide and pried her inner lips apart with brutal fingers. He stared at the opening to her body, red and wet already. His chest heaved, his heart contracted. Juliette lay there with her thighs wide and her eyes half shut. They watched him, her eyes did, from under the veil of her lush eyelashes. Without warning he shoved two fingers into her, as deep as he could go. Juliette’s back arched hard off the bed, her vagina clenched his fingers.

Without mercy, he pulled back and shoved in again, even deeper. Her body opened to him more and he pushed in a third finger. Her wetness coated his hand and she let out a groan in the back of her throat.

Another minute would be a minute too much for him. Kingsley pulled his hand out, yanked his shirt off and opened his pants. He grabbed her by the hips and pulled her toward him. Once the condom was on, he wasted no time entering her body. He thrust in deep and she took every inch. It must have hurt. He could tell from the tension in her body that taking so much into her hurt. But he could also tell—from the moan that escaped her lips and the way she raised her hips to take even more of him—that she liked that it hurt.

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“You like pain?” he whispered as he thrust again, right into the core of her.

“Yes...please...” she breathed. Oui...s’il vous plaît.

“So do I.”

“I know,” she said. “I know you do.”

How she knew, he didn’t know. He didn’t care either, now that he was inside her. He placed his hands next to her shoulders and rode her with long, slow, hard thrusts.

“I want to **** every part of you,” he said as the heat of her surrounded his ****, enveloped it.

“You can.”

“Does he **** you like this? Does he make it hurt?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“You like it?”

“Yes...”

“Does it feel this good?”

“Nothing feels this good,” she said, and he heard a note of regret in her voice. Regret? But why? He was too far gone in lust to ask.

He grasped her breasts in both hands and squeezed them. Her fingers caught into the white fabric under her and inside her a muscle pushed back against him. It was too much. He almost came from that alone. With a grunt of frustration, he pulled out of Juliette’s body and brought his mouth down onto her, licking and kissing her wet seam. The lips parted for him and he pushed his tongue up and into her. She writhed under his mouth, twisted and groaned. He knew he was hurting her. He also knew she wanted him to hurt her. Her clitoris swelled against his tongue even as he bruised her hips with his hands as he pinned her hard to the bed.

He yanked her to him and shoved his **** back inside her, impaling her hard and deep. She rewarded him with a cry of pleasure tinged with pain. When she slammed her hands against his chest he grabbed them, pinned them behind her back and pushed into her with a punishing thrust.

“You want this,” he said, ****ing her with abandon now. Every muscle in his hips had coiled into the tightest knot of need and pressure.

“No,” she said, even as she pushed back against him to take him deeper.

“Liar.” He pushed her onto her back once again and forced her legs even wider. It wasn’t enough. Not matter what he did he couldn’t **** her hard enough, get into her deep enough. He forced her legs around him, rose up over her and mounted her again. It was so rare that he could let himself go entirely with a woman, let himself **** her as roughly as he wanted to. But whatever he gave her, she took. She came with a cry as he filled her and came again not long after. He dug his hand into her hair at the nape of her neck and pulled, bending her body, forcing it into greater submission to his.

They were a tangle of limbs on the bed, limbs and flesh and bodies entwined so fully, joined so deeply, that it was as if they were sealed together. The heat had melted and merged them. They weren’t even human now, but *** in its rawest, purest form. Juliette had gone silent underneath him even as she worked herself against him with hungry thrusts of her hips. When she came again with a shudder and inner contractions so hard they hurt him, he rammed his own orgasm into her.

At last they were still. His body. Her body. Neither of them moved for any reason but to breathe. He was still inside her, reluctant to leave her even though he needed to. He needed to pull out, pull away, remember who he was and why he was here. He needed space, time, rational thinking, something.

Or he could just **** her again.

He lifted himself off her, stood up and threw the condom away. Juliette remained on the bed, flat on her back, staring at him. Her legs were still splayed wide. An open invitation.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked when he rejoined her on the bed. The mosquito netting surrounded them like a cloud. It was all too easy to believe they were alone in the world.

“Yes.”

“How much?”

She slipped a hand between her legs and when she held it up to him, he saw a blood smear on her fingertips. He’d ****ed her so hard he’d made her bleed. There were two ways to respond *****ch a situation. One was to apologize. That was the vanilla way. He didn’t respond the vanilla way. He responded the Kingsley way.

“Good thing you have two other holes,” he said.

“I’m yours,” she said with a tired smile. “Make me yours in every way.”

“But only tonight?”

She nodded and whispered, “Only tonight.”

“What if tonight isn’t enough?”

“It has to be,” she said.

“Then start praying,” Kingsley said.

“Praying for what?”

“That this night never ends.”

Juliette came to her knees in front of him. She touched his naked chest with her hands, kissed the scar over his heart, looked up at him.

“That is my only prayer,” she whispered.

Kingsley took her face in his hands and forced her mouth to his. He kissed her with a hunger he’d forgotten he could feel for anyone who wasn’t Søren or Elle. He’d thought with them he’d reached the end of his passion, that he’d bottomed out in them and given all he had. But with Juliette he found a new reserve of desire, a deeper hunger, a longing to have something with her he had with no one else. He pushed his tongue past her lips and into her warm mouth. She tasted of salt and ocean water and the more he drank of her the more he needed to drink. He would never be quenched of his thirst for her.

“Juliette...” he murmured against her lips. “My Juliette, my jewel.” She shivered in his arms.

“Your name is Kingsley?” she asked. “It’s your real name?”

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“It is.”

“Are you a real king?”

“Yes,” he answered. He was. He had a kingdom. He had dominions. He had a court who served him. Yes. He was a real king.

“Then let me serve you, mon roi.”

She kissed her way down the front of his body, taking her time as she kissed every inch of him except the inches that most craved her kisses. As she neared his **** she blew softly on his *****. The cool air from her mouth washed over him. Then she breathed hot air and set his blood boiling again. With her tongue and lips she teased his lower stomach, his hips, his inner thighs. When he reached the point of desperation, she wrapped a hand around his length. He’d come only minutes ago, but he was already hard again. She’d got in his blood, made it burn, made it boil. He was lost in his lust for her.

“Tell me if you don’t like this,” Juliette said.

“Like what?”

She didn’t answer with words. Her mouth was too occupied to speak. She’d cupped the head of his ***** and pulled the foreskin to the tip, making a sort of halo with it. Then she licked around the center with her hot wet tongue. Kingsley died. The visual coupled with the sensation—that glorious carnal salacious voluptuous sensation—nearly did him in. He saw stars and he saw the heavens and he might have seen God but only if God looked like Juliette. Every part of him throbbed.

“I’ve never seen a more beautiful man,” she said, looking up at him as she cradled his testicles gently in the palm of her hand. “You’re so beautiful I wish I’d never seen you.”

He would have answered her, but she brought her mouth down onto him again and his words were gone. She went deep, taking him all the way into her throat. Her full lips on his **** sent him straight to the edge and left him there, tense, taut, his body one pulsing nerve of need. Juliette worshipped him with her mouth, showering him with hot wet kisses, licks, hard strokes of her hand that made him gasp wide-eyed with the shock of pleasure. She lavished every inch of him endlessly with her tongue. She stretched out over him and rested her hands on his chest as she buried her face into his hips, sucking him all the way into her mouth. He’d never been so fully taken before for so long, so deep, so much. Too much. He grasped her wrists in his hands and came so hard his shoulders rolled off the bed, his stomach bowed. Somewhere he heard a cry, almost a shout, and knew it had to have come from him.

She swallowed his semen, even licking the last drops off the tip. When he winced, she stopped.

“Don’t stop,” he said. “Take it all.”

“It hurts?” she asked, dipping her lips to lick him again.

“Yes.”

She asked no more questions. She obeyed him as if she’d been born to obey him. And he wanted to believe she had. Was this what Søren had felt the day he met Elle? That he’d found the one woman created for him? Designed for him? If his desire for her had burned anything like Kingsley’s for Juliette, it wasn’t a surprise the priest had waited four years to **** her. It was a miracle.

“Arrête,” he said. Stop. Juliette stopped.

Kingsley closed his eyes and merely rested. Juliette slid up his body and lay next to him on the bed.

“I want to beat you,” he said.

“We can’t. He’ll see the marks.”

“But you want that?”

“I do,” Juliette said. “I want everything from you.”

“One night isn’t enough.”

“How many nights would be enough?”

Kingsley opened his eyes and gazed at her face, met her eyes.

“All your nights.”

“You’re drunk on ***.” She started to roll up. “On pleasure. You found a new girl to ****, and you’ve convinced yourself she’s different from all the other girls you’ve ****ed. You don’t mean what you say.”

“I’m not a teenage boy in love for the first time. I’ve been with hundreds of women.”

“Congratulations. I’m sure your parents are very proud.”

“My parents are dead.”

“Is it because they heard what a whore you are?” she asked.

He grabbed her by the back of the neck and dragged her back down to the bed.

“Behave,” he said, sliding on top of her. “And keep a civil tongue with me.”

She glared up at him.

“You want to pretend you don’t feel the same,” Kingsley said. “You want to pretend this was just *** so it won’t hurt as much when you never see me again.”

“Tell me more about what I feel. Tell me more what I think. Tell me what it is I want, since you think I don’t know.”

“This,” he said, and grabbed her hair, pulling it hard enough to force her back into a bend. He dropped his mouth to her breast and sucked deeply on her nipple.

“He gives this to me. He gives everything to me.”

“If that were true, I wouldn’t be here,” he whispered against her skin. “Or here.”

He pushed four fingers deep into her wetness.

“I’d never been with anyone but him,” she panted as he opened her body with his fingers. He felt her inner muscles pushing against him, fluttering with pleasure, pulsing with need.

“Do you love him?”

“Yes.”

“Are you lying?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you want me to fall in love with you?” Kingsley asked.

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“He loves me,” she said. “Love is the last thing I need from you.”

“Tell me what I can give you that he can’t.” Kingsley pushed in deeper until she enveloped his hand.

“It doesn’t matter. You won’t give it to me.”

“How do you know until you tell me what it is?”

“I know. I promise you, I know already,” she said, and Kingsley heard despair in her voice. “**** me. That’s all that matters.”

He did as he was told. He pushed her onto her stomach and dragged a pillow under her hips. She tensed at first when he pushed his tongue into her tightest hole but relaxed after a minute and opened up for him. He rolled on a condom and entered her again. The tightness was ecstasy around him. He lasted only a few thrusts before he came.

But he didn’t pull out. He wasn’t ready to pull out. He would never be ready to leave her body. Kingsley lay on top of her, his naked chest to her naked back, his **** still buried in her, and their breaths intermingling.

“Anything,” he whispered. “I’ll do anything you ask of me.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Ask it.”

He slid out of her and turned her onto her back.

“Tell me what it is I can give you that he can’t.”

“You won’t give it to me.”

“Tell me,” he ordered again. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Any price, any prize, anything you want—I will find a way to give it to you.”

He cupped her face, caressed her hair.

She looked up at him with tired, hooded eyes.

“Death,” she said.

Kingsley sat up and looked down at her in utter horror.

“You’re right,” Kingsley said. “That is the one thing I can’t give you.”

She only smiled.

“I told you so.”

15

Upstate New York

AFTER ALL THE sisters went to bed at the ungodly hour of eight o’clock, Elle crept down the stairs to the library. Every night she made this little pilgrimage. She’d go stir-crazy if she had to lie in her tiny bed in her tiny cell and stare at the ceiling while she waited for sleep. Only in the library did she feel a little like her old self. She threw wood in the fireplace, switched on a lamp or two and sat and read anything she could find that wasn’t the Bible.

Surrounded by books, Elle could pretend she was at her old job at Wordsworth’s where she’d worked part-time during college and full-time until she was twenty-five. She’d hated to quit her job, but things were so busy at Kingsley’s that working by day and helping him manage a stable of submissives, Dominatrixes and various Fetishists who worked on and off his clock became too much for her. She didn’t need her minuscule paycheck anyway. Kingsley let her live in luxury at his town house for free. He’d even given her a cre*** card that he’d ordered her to use for everything she wanted or needed. But she was no kept woman, no pampered princess. She trained the submissives for Kingsley, kept his house in order and did anything he asked her to do, in and out of the bedroom. And not a week passed that she didn’t go to bed with Kingsley and Søren and give her body up to them both, all night long. Oh yes, she earned her keep.

The physical memories of all those nights threatened to flood her senses. Elle pushed them out of her mind as she pulled a book off the shelf—a decaying copy of Bulfinch’s Mythology. Elle carefully turned the dry and yellowed pages as she hunted for an entry. She and Kyrie had talked mythology a few days ago—Sisyphus specifically. She knew in the legend Sisyphus had been given his meaningless task as a punishment, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember what he’d done wrong. It hadn’t been the act of giving the secret of fire to humanity. That had been Prometheus, not Sisyphus. And the gods had punished Prometheus by chaining him to a rock and having an eagle peck out his liver for all eternity.

Which was worse? Pushing the rock up the hill or being attacked by a bird? If she had to choose, she probably would pick the eagle. At least she wouldn’t be alone then. Even if the bird was hurting her, at least there would be another living creature there. All Sisyphus had was the rock.

“Can I share your fire?”

Elle looked up from her book. Kyrie stood in the doorway in her long white bathrobe. Her white veil covered her hair but Elle could see wisps of blond and brown at her temples.

“You’re not supposed to be talking,” Elle whispered. “Great Silence, remember?”

“Mother Prioress said the sisters aren’t supposed to talk to each other during the Great Silence.” Kyrie stepped into the library uninvited. Elle noticed she wore nothing on her feet. Bare feet. Bare ankles. When was the last time she’d seen anyone’s bare feet but her own? “You aren’t a sister.”

“Someone else who looks for the loopholes in the rules,” Elle said, holding the large dusty hardback book to her chest. “A girl after my own heart.”

“I am an expert in Loophole Theology,” Kyrie said, dragging a chair over to Elle’s and sitting down. She pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees. She looked unbearably young right now and tiny. Elle was only five-three but she had curves. In shoes, Kyrie might have been five-three and she had stick-thin ankles. If she had curves, her bathrobe did a good job hiding them. “Test me. Give me a rule or a commandment or something, and I’ll find a loophole.”

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“Um...how about the big one? ‘Thou shall not kill.’ Where’s the loophole there?”

“Spiders.”

“Spiders?”

“Spiders are the work of the devil. If God didn’t want us to kill spiders, he wouldn’t have allowed Satan himself to invent them and unleash them on the world. Spiders. Give me another one.”

“What about the priestly vow of celibacy?” Elle asked, giving Kyrie her best and therefore fakest innocent look.

“Celibacy means no getting married. So let priests have ***, but they can’t get married.”

“Yes, but the Bible also says no *** outside of marriage. So if they get married, they’re breaking the celibacy vow. If they have *** when they aren’t married, they’re breaking the command against fornication.”

“That is a tough one,” Kyrie said, nodding her head. “Wait. I got it.”

“What?”

“Hand jobs.”

“That is your answer to the issue of priestly celibacy? Hand jobs?”

Kyrie raised her hands and wiggled her fingers.

“A hand job isn’t ***. Right?”

“Not exactly, no.”

“I mean, you could give a priest a foot rub, right? That wouldn’t be ***, right?”

“Right,” Elle said, remembering all the intimate massages she’d given Søren at his command.

“And a hand job is like a foot rub but not on the foot. It’s a massage.”

“A really intimate massage,” Elle reminded her.

“But still, not ***ual intercourse.”

“Definitely not intercourse.” Elle couldn’t argue with her.

“There. Loophole Theology saves the day. I have solved the crisis in the priesthood. Priests can’t get married. They can’t have ***. But they can get handies to their heart’s content.”

“Great. I’ll go give a priest a hand job,” Elle said, opening her book up once more. “Again.”

“Do I get points? I want my points,” Kyrie said. “I’m stuck at four.”

“You can have two points for spiders. Two points for hand jobs.”

“Yes. Eight points. Getting closer.”

“There are extra points if you actually give a priest a hand job.”

“Ew. No, thank you,” Kyrie said with a dramatic shudder. “I’m picturing Father Antonio.”

“What? You don’t find liver spots ***y?”

Kyrie smiled. “Men.”

“That’s right. You’re a girl’s girl.”

“Does that bother you?” Kyrie asked.

“What? That you’re a lesbian?”

“That.”

Elle stared blankly at Kyrie. Then she laughed. She laughed and she laughed and she laughed.

Then she laughed a little bit more.

“Elle?”

“Sorry....”

She laughed again.

“Elle, you’re laughing like a maniac.”

Elle playfully wiped a tear from her eye.

“I’m done laughing,” she said. Then she laughed again.

“Elle, seriously. Are you having a seizure? Is this demonic possession? Holy laughter?”

“No, none of those.” Elle finally took a deep breath and stopped laughing. “The irony of someone, anyone, thinking I’d be bothered by a girl who likes girls.”

“So I’m guessing you...”

“I’m bi,” Elle said. She was also the most famous submissive in the Manhattan Underground, but she decided not to tell Kyrie that part. Yet. “Which is either the best of both worlds or the worst of both worlds.”

“I’m an optimist,” Kyrie said. “We’ll go with best of both worlds.”

“I could use some optimism.”

“I could use some points. I’m still working on my twenty-five points. I think I should get more than four points for hand jobs and spiders.”

“You get one bonus point for using them in a sentence together.”

“So I only need sixteen more points until you tell me what you’re doing here?” Kyrie asked, grinning eagerly.

“Sixteen more points until you regret asking.”

“I can’t wait.” Kyrie stretched her legs out and let her bare feet hover in front of the fireplace.

“I can.”

“Is it bad?” Kyrie lowered her legs and looked at Elle. “Really bad?”

“It’s...you know.”

“Complicated.” Kyrie nodded. “Right, you said that earlier this week.”

“It’s still complicated. Things haven’t ceased being complicated in the last three days.”

“Maybe you only think they’re complicated because you’re inside the situation? And maybe if you were outside of it like I am, it wouldn’t be so complicated. You know, like a person trapped in a maze. You can only see what’s in front of you. But if you were above the maze looking down at it, you’d know exactly where you are, what’s happening and where to go.”

“It’s a nice thought,” Elle said, resting her hands in the cradle of the open book. “But I promise, there’s no way out of this maze. No matter how you look at it.”

“I just...” Kyrie smiled at Elle. “I want to help.”

“You can’t. But don’t feel bad. No one can.”

“Not even God?”

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Elle laughed again.

“God got us into this mess,” Elle said with a tired smile. “He seems in no hurry to get us back out again.”

“Who’s us?” Kyrie asked.

“Stop.” Elle raised her hand in a warning. “You’re getting nothing else out of me tonight. I didn’t come down here to spill my guts. And I’m certainly not in the mood to give anyone my confession.”

“Why did you come here? Tonight, I mean. Is this your usual nine-o’clock hangout?” Kyrie asked.

“I used to work at a bookstore. I like being around books.”

“Me, too. You know my sister was a writer.”

“The one who—”

“Who was murdered?” Kyrie asked. “Yeah, her.”

“What was her name? I’d rather call her by her name than ‘your sister who was murdered,’” Elle said.

Kyrie gave her a strange look. And then a smile.

“You’re the first person who’s asked me her name after I mentioned her.”

“She only spent one day of her life dying. Who was she the rest of the time?”

“Bethany. Although her pen name was Marian Sherwood.”

“Robin Hood fan?”

“It was her favorite story, favorite movie, favorite everything.”

“What did she write?”

“Romance novels. The kind set in the past when everyone dressed better? What are those? The men with the great boots?”

“Regencies?”

“Those. They were good, too. I loved reading her books. She even dedicated one to me.”

“Do you have any with you?” Elle asked, desperate to read anything other than a book of Catholic theology or church history.

“I wasn’t allowed to bring them with me,” Kyrie said. “But they’re up here.” She pointed at her head.

“I’m really sorry about what happened to her.”

“It was on the news, you know. National news. Young mother and bestselling writer murdered by her husband. Well, it was on the news for one day and then something else more important happened. Some celebrity got divorced or something.”

“Nothing’s more important than losing someone you love.”

“I thought so.” Kyrie sighed heavily. “It’s crazy that a romance writer would get killed by her husband. You’d never imagine a woman who wrote about true love for a living would be in such a bad marriage.”

“The face you show the world isn’t always your real face,” Elle said. “You can look at someone and think you know everything about them...but you don’t. We all have masks on. Or veils.” She looked pointedly at Kyrie. “I know someone who lives a double life. Actually...almost everyone I knew back home did.” Kingsley, Søren...all of them.

“So what are you reading?” Kyrie asked, clearly ready to stop talking about her sister. “Anything good?”

“Bulfinch’s Mythology. I’m trying to figure out what Sisyphus did to deserve his rock and rolling for all eternity punishment.”

“Nothing,” Kyrie said, taking the book off Elle’s lap. “Nothing anyone could do merits eternal suffering.”

“You sure about that? What about rape?”

“Nope.”

“Murder?”

“No.”

“Child molestation?”

“Not even that. I mean, think about it. Eternity, Elle. Forever and ever without end. Infinite time. No crime causes infinite suffering. At some point the victim dies, goes to Heaven and lives in bliss. If the victim’s suffering isn’t eternal, how can the punishment for a crime be eternal?”

“Hell is in the Bible.”

“So are talking donkeys. You see a talking donkey anywhere?” Kyrie asked.

“I know a few talking asses.”

Kyrie glared at her. “Hell is where we put people we don’t want to think about. Like my ex-brother-in-law who killed Bethany. I mean, he...” Kyrie paused and closed her fingers into a fist. “He slammed her head against the wall until she died, Elle. But you know what? Bethany’s in Heaven. She’s with God, and she’s happy and rejoicing for all eternity. And he, Jake...Jake was abused by his father so badly when he was a kid that at age thirty-five he still wets the bed when he hears loud noises at night because he thinks it’s his dad coming to his bedroom again.”

“That’s horrible.” Elle winced. “I know a man who was ***ually abused by his own sister when he was eleven. But he never used that as an excuse to harm other people. We all have free will.”

“I’m not saying Jake shouldn’t be punished. But it’s like the maze we were talking about,” Kyrie said. “A person’s heart is a maze. When you’re in the maze, you can’t see your way to the center of it. Only if you’re above the maze can you look down and really see what’s happening. I think that’s how God looks at us. That way he can see the entire maze at once, can see where the twists and turns are, and where the center is. Jake was a victim, too. Do I love him? No. Do I hate him? Yes. But I want to forgive him. God says to forgive him. And if God expects fallible human me to forgive him, why shouldn’t I expect perfect, infallible God to forgive him?”

“You want to put a sign on the front doors of Hell that says Going Out of Business.”

“Good,” Kyrie said. “Hell is a fun concept. Hell is where you damn the guy who cuts you off in traffic or the girl who breaks your heart or the lady at the customer service counter at Sears who refuses to give you a refund on your underwear even though they fell apart after only one washing and of course you don’t have the tags still on it because who would wear their underwear with the tags on it?”

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“Not that you speak from experience or anything,” Elle said.

“Once. I wore those panties once and they disintegrated in the washer.”

“Hand wash in the sink, cold water, soak overnight, hang to dry.”

“Where were you when I needed you last summer?”

“Here,” Elle said. “Pushing a rock up the hill, letting it roll down and then pushing it back up again. I’m still here.”

“I’m glad you’re still here. Even if means you’re pushing a rock up a hill every day. Even if it means...”

“Means what?”

“Even if it means me getting in trouble for talking to you during the Grand Silence.”

Elle had a feeling Kyrie wanted to say something else, meant to say something else. But she’d somehow lost her courage.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Tell anyone what?”

“That I don’t believe Hell exists. It’s kind of a heresy.”

“I am a walking heresy,” Elle said. “And no, I won’t tell.”

Kyrie looked at Elle but didn’t smile. She didn’t frown, either. She simply looked at her as if trying to memorize Elle’s face. Elle let her.

“Anyway, I should go to bed,” Kyrie said, standing up. “You’re reading and I’m supposed to be sleeping. Instead of, you know, touching myself or something so I’ll end up in Purgatory.”

“You don’t believe in Hell, but you believe in Purgatory?”

“I do. That’s weird, right? I kind of like the thought that there’s a process you have to go through to get into Heaven. I mean, I had to fill out paperwork just to return a pair of disintegrated panties. Heaven has to have some sort of returns policy, right?”

“Red tape. No escaping it.”

“I should take a book back with me to bed. Something to help me keep my hands off myself. Any suggestions?”

“What do you like to read?” Elle asked, the standard bookseller question when any customer asked for a recommendation.

“I’m guessing there aren’t any romance novels in here?” Kyrie glanced up at the shelves.

“Nope. Trust me, I looked,” Elle said. “If you want anything fun to read, you’ll have to write it yourself.”

“Bethany was the writer in the family. I’m a reader. Any romances in there?” Kyrie nodded at her book of mythology.

“Sort of. There’s Leda and the Swan. More bestiality than romance, though. Psyche and Cupid’s pretty good. Daphne and Apollo. They’re my favorite. The original love-hate relationship.”

“Who were they?”

“Daphne was a forest nymph and beautiful beyond imagining. Apollo was the god of music, reason and healing. He came upon Cupid one day playing with his bow and arrows—”

“Masturbating?”

“No, I think these were literal bows and arrows.”

“Continue the story please. I’ll adjust my mental images,” Kyrie said.

“Apollo teased little Cupid about his prowess with his bow.”

“Are we sure they’re not talking about *****es?”

“Might be in the subtext,” Elle said. “Apollo teased Cupid about his little bow and arrow or maybe his *****. I don’t know. So Cupid, pissed off at Apollo for his arrogance, picks up two arrows. One is tipped in lead. One is tipped in gold. He shoots the arrow tipped in lead into the heart of Daphne the beautiful forest nymph. The arrow tipped in gold he shoots into the heart of Apollo. At once Apollo is seized by desperate love for Daphne. And she is seized by hatred of Apollo. He chases after her through the forest while she runs from him as fast as she can. But Apollo gains on her so she prays to her father the river god to turn her into something so Apollo can’t have her. Her father turns her into a laurel tree. From there and ever after, the laurel became the symbol of Apollo.”

“Wait. This girl turns into a tree rather than let Apollo have her?” Kyrie asked. “That’s crazy.”

“I know. But what do you expect from a patriarchal society that prized virginity so highly? Better a woman be a tree or a stone or some kind of mindless but pure object than be sullied by ***.”

“Terrible ending,” Kyrie said. “Very disappointing.”

“I didn’t write it. If I wrote it, there would be much more *** in the story.”

“Then write it.”

“What?”

“Write it,” Kyrie said. “Fix the ending.”

“You want me to rewrite the story of Daphne and Apollo?” Elle looked at Kyrie as if she was crazy. After all the talk about spiders, hand jobs, mazes, Hell and *****es, Elle was starting to think Kyrie was.

“You said if I want something fun to read, I’d have to write it myself. I can’t write so you write it for me.”

“I’m not going to write you a book.”

“My sister wrote a book for me.”

“You’re using your dead sister to guilt trip me into writing a book for you.”

“She would have wanted it this way. Come on, Elle. Don’t you want something fun to read, too?”

“I’d give my left arm for a single copy of The Story of O right now. In French or English. Preferably fully illustrated.”

“You write me the story, and I’ll do something nice for you,” Kyrie said.

“What?”