“If you say a word,” she said into his ear, “you’ll spend all night in a hotel alone.”

  Nico—bless him—stiffened, breathed in, didn’t say a word. Nora rarely made threats, but when she did, they were never idle ones. He knew that.

  “Good boy,” Nora said. “You’ll get to speak when I tell you that you can speak and only then.”

  Nothing. Nothing but his shallow breaths.

  She was in her highest high heels, which made it easier to pull the blindfold firmly around his eyes. She tied it behind his head.

  “I’m going to hurt you tonight,” she said. “This is hurting Søren so it’s only fair I hurt you, too.”

  Slowly and almost imperceptibly, Nico nodded his head in agreement. He’d been drunk when he’d asked if he could come for a night. Now he was sober and realized just what he’d been asking.

  “Hold still. I’m going to undress you. If you try to touch me, it’ll be the last time you touch me tonight.”

  She knew it took all his willpower to obey, but he did it. He stood there unmoving, not reaching for her as she came to stand in front of him.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a suit before.”

  She knew he’d gone straight from a lunch meeting in Manhattan with a potential angel investor to the airport. No time to change clothes.

  Dark suit, crisp white shirt, collar open at the neck. But even in a suit he was still Nico. His hair was dark and curly and could use a cut but she’d cut the man who dared to cut it. His hands were calloused from hard work among his vines. He looked like a man who worked his ass off wearing the suit of a man who didn’t break a sweat except at the gym.

  “The suit is nice but it’s not really your style,” she said. “Let’s fix that.”

  He stood still and quiet as she pushed the jacket off his shoulders and hung it on the hook behind her door. One by one she unbuttoned all his shirt buttons. Between each button she caressed his bare chest as it came slowly into view. His beautiful, young strong bare chest.

  She looped her finger under the collar of his shirt and tugged it off as she walked a circle around him. A very nice, high-quality shirt—it slid off him like butter on hot bread. The next part was her favorite. She unbuttoned his suit trousers and brought them down and off of him. Underwear—black boxer briefs—went last. His shoes and socks were already off because he was a good boy who’d taken them off at her door.

  She pushed him gently forward, moving him to stand in the center of her dungeon. She had a red vintage Chinese rug on the floor, a gift from a client from Hong Kong who worked in imports. In the dead center of the rug was a medallion and in the medallion was woven a lotus flower. She brought Nico to stand on top of the lotus. Then she stepped back and studied him.

  There was nothing not to love about the naked body of a twenty-five year old man who worked his ass off in the fields of his family’s vineyard. Dark olive skin, smooth and supple. Biceps she longed to sink her teeth into. Shoulders strong enough to survive her fingernails digging into them during an orgasm. Hips that knew how to move just right to bring about that orgasm. And the cock, of course, the beautiful young hard cock. She wrapped her fingers around it and stroked it just to hear Nico inhale.

  She held it in her hand, the firm warm shaft, not stroking now, just holding. Owning it.

  “I have to wonder what you’re feeling right now,” she said. “If I were you, I’d be furious. You probably thought we’d be in bed already, and this inside me. You thought we’d make love all night and it would be hot and sweet and delicious. And then I’d fall asleep in your arms and we’d make love again in the morning before you had to leave. And now here you are—blindfolded, under orders, don’t even get to touch me. And you know I’m about to hurt you, very very very very very much. If you can answer in one word, you can tell me what you’re feeling. Go on. Tell me. One word.”

  “Forgetful.”

  Nora narrowed her eyes at him.

  “Forgetful? Interesting answer. Now I have to know—what did you forget?”

  “I forgot that the woman I’m in love with is a vicious bitch.”

  Then he grinned like he knew he’d given his teacher an A+ answer.

  He had.

  “I’d forgotten something, too,” she said. “I risked my perfect life with Søren, the owner of my cunt and the master of my body… Søren, who is the most wicked, wonderful, brutal sadist God ever dared to put on this innocent Earth…to spread my legs for you, you little French brat. Now I remember why.”

  He opened his mouth to say something and then didn’t. He’d almost earned a night in a hotel if he’d said a single word out of turn.

  “Don’t go anywhere.” She flicked him on the end of his perfect nose. Quickly she found leather cuffs and a snap hook. The cuffs went on his wrists and his wrists went over his head and attached onto the sturdy hook screwed into the stud in her ceiling.

  His smooth young skin was hot to the touch and the tip of his cock was already shimmering with wetness. She dipped her head and lapped it off.

  Nico’s head rolled back and he gasped. But still, he didn’t speak.

  “I taught you so well. Let’s see how I did on those pain control lessons. I have neighbors, you know. So when I make you scream, scream quietly, s’il te plait.”

  She went to the wall where her floggers hung in a pretty row. She didn’t take one down. She didn’t want to flog him. Flogging was too easy.

  Instead, she picked up her whip.

  The Marquis Club was Kingsley’s New Orleans branch of The 8th Circle. At least that’s what Nora called it. Downstairs it was a respectable jazz club managed by a former bartender and thirty-year veteran of a famous French Quarter bar. People might come and go and never know what went on upstairs.

  Upstairs was where things got interesting.

  He hadn’t told Søren much about The Marquis Club other than the name, which Søren had rolled his eyes at before asking if Nora had put him up to it.

  It was, after all, named for Donation Alphonse François, the most infamous erotica writer in history, otherwise known as the Marquis de Sade. The Marquis Club had found a home in a grand old double gallery house, white with black iron balconies. A former brothel, it had a large open salon on the main floor and a total of ten bedrooms on the second and third floors. Bedrooms that were now converted into dungeons. And one bedroom in particular—the biggest—had been converted into Kingsley’s personal dungeon.

  That’s where he was taking Søren.

  “I hope you like the new place,” Kingsley told Søren as he pulled into the parking lot behind the courtyard.

  “Does it have a dungeon and a bed?”

  “Several of both.”

  “I like it already.”

  It wasn’t by chance that The Marquis Club had a courtyard in the back. That was the main reason Kingsley bought it—privacy. He could park his car behind the club, open the courtyard gate, and slip in the back. No one from the street would see him go in. More importantly, no one on the street would see a well-known and much-liked Jesuit priest named Father Marcus Stearns slipping in the back as well. Luckily the club wasn’t open tonight so they would have the place to themselves.

  They arrived at seven and Kingsley parked behind the private courtyard, which was still decorated for Christmas. Kingsley unlocked the club door, but Søren paused before entering, gazing around the yard.

  “I’ll never get used to Christmas lights on palm trees,” Søren said. “New Orleans is an interesting place.”

  “Tennessee Williams once said, ‘There are only three great cities in the United States—New York, San Francisco, and New Orleans. All the rest are Cleveland.’ Aren’t you glad you don’t live in Cleveland anymore?”

  “As a matter of fact, I liked living in Wakefield,” Søren said.

  “Then move back there.”

  “I didn’t like it that much.”

  Laughing, Kingsley let Søren into the club and locked the door behind them.

  The atmosphere of the club was very different from the Jesuit House. This place was anything but cozy and contemplative. The wood floors were painted black. Crystal chandeliers hung from a tin tile ceiling. Even closed and locked up, the air in the club smelled of sweat and sex, red wine and candles. They took the back staircase to the third floor. Søren paused on the landing and looked down the stairs to the main floor below.

  “Quite a change from the old place,” Søren said.

  “It’s smaller,” Kingsley admitted, “but I like that. Better food. More jazz. More intimate.”

  “Fewer bodily fluids on the stairs as well.” Søren lifted his foot to look at the sole of his shoes. “Spotless. Not a drop of blood or come to be seen. First time for everything.”

  Kingsley glared at him. “The 8th Circle wasn’t that bad.”

  “I thought about wearing a Hazmat suit on a few occasions, but I worried about overstimulating the vinyl fetishists.”

  “So it was a little gritty,” he countered with a shrug. “Part of the charm.”

  There was no 8 on Kingsley’s door. But there was a sign that said, “Kingsley Edge.” And a lock. Only Kingsley had the key. But not for long.

  “For you,” Kingsley said as he worked a key off the ring. “You get a copy of the key.”

  “I’m honored.” Søren slipped it into his pocket.

  “Hope you like the place.” He opened the door but didn’t turn on the light. This room wasn’t made for overhead lighting. Kingsley knew it well enough by now to walk into the darkness and find the fireplace mantel and the matches he left on top of it. He struck a match and lit a row of eight white candles. Then he took one of the candles around the room and lit the others. Candles on the windowsills. Candles on the bedside table. Candles on an iron stand that stood next to the black leather St. Andrew’s Cross.

  All the while, Søren stood in the doorway watching him as he brought the dungeon out of the darkness. Soon the whole room glowed like a birthday cake. And Kingsley had a present to give.

  Once all the candles were lit, he stepped into the room, closed the door behind him and locked it. Kingsley stood by the foot of the bed—not a twin but a bed big enough for two grown men. Which he hoped it would hold tonight. All night.

  Kingsley was nervous all of a sudden. That didn’t happen very often to him.

  “I was thinking of you when I put everything together. Juliette and I can play at home but you and I need our own place. Like it?”

  “Very much.” He smiled. “Much more tasteful than Eleanor’s private dungeon.”

  “You should see the dungeon she set up for her clients. It’s like Sodom and Gomorrah in there.”

  “Yes, and this is just Sodom.” Søren stared at him. “You’re nervous.”

  Kingsley ran a hand through his hair. “I have your gift,” he said. Søren raised his eyebrow.

  There was a palpable tension in the room between them. Someone watching might think they’d never done this together before.

  “It’s up there, the black box.” Kingsley nodded toward the fireplace mantel. The night was cool but not cool enough to justify a fire. But he liked it like this, the mantel covered in burning candles and the heart of the fireplace cold and dark.

  Søren picked up the box and eyed it with obvious suspicion. “Very light,” he said. He shook it gently. “No rattling. A pen?”

  “I wouldn’t be nervous about giving you a pen.”

  “A very small gun.”

  He snorted a laugh. “Just open it, you sadist.”

  With infuriating slowness bordering on psychological torture, Søren untaped the ends, pulled back the paper, revealed the box under the wrapping.

  “Let’s see,” Søren said. “What were the rules? It has to be a gift you don’t want to give me and yet you do want to give me and also a gift I don’t want and yet I do want.”

  Then he opened the box. Søren’s right eyebrow lifted. “Is this what I think it is?” he asked.

  “What do you think it is?”

  “Obsidian scalpel.”

  “With a fine bamboo handle,” Kingsley said.

  Søren set the box back onto the mantel. “You want to do blood-play with me?” he asked.

  “Yes and no. You want to do it with me?”

  “No and yes. But also yes, definitely. But also—”

  “Scared?”

  “Always. I’ve fantasized so often about slitting your throat, I’m worried one of these days, I’ll do it.”

  “This is why I was on the fence about giving it to you. I’ve had it for months.”

  “Months?”

  “I told myself we could ‘christen’ my new dungeon when it was finished.”

  “Christen it with blood?”

  Kingsley pulled back the white duvet on top of the bed, revealing the black sheets beneath.

  There, Nora thought. There’s the reason I was born like this.

  Whip in hand, she stood a few feet away from Nico. His arms were hooked over his head. His eyes were hidden behind a black silk blindfold tied at the back of his neck. His long beautiful body was taut, his cock was hard, he was silent with respect for her and fear of what was coming next.

  “And to think,” she said as she walked a circle around him. “You never did kink before me. What a waste of such a delicious canvas.” She slid the leather coil of her whip over his naked back.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the wall as she made another circle around her favorite target. She’d dressed like she’d dress for a special client. Short tight black skirt, red corset, high heels. The only difference was she would have worn panties with a client. Not needed with Nico.

  “Another question,” she said. “Do you like it when I beat you? Or do you just like making me happy? You can answer. Be honest. Even if you say you only like it because I like it…I’ll still do it.”

  Nico said something very softly, so softly she had to move a little closer. So close she could smell the scent of that morning’s shower still on his heated skin.

  “I like it,” he said.

  She was glad he couldn’t see her smile at that. “Why?” Her voice was cold, demanding.

  “I know I deserve it,” he said.

  “You deserve beatings?”

  He nodded.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “What you said—I made you risk your ‘perfect life’ with your master for me. I should be sorry for doing that to you, but I’m not. And I should be sorry for hurting my father by sleeping with his former lover, but I’m not. I should be sorry for hurting your master, because he never did anything to hurt me.”

  “But you’re not.”

  “I’m not,” he said with total sincerity and disdain for anyone who would expect him to apologize for his desire for her. “How can I make it right if I can’t be sorry? Like this.” Even in his bonds he managed to shrug. “So beat me, Mistress Nora. I know I have it coming to me.”

  He didn’t sound sarcastic when he said that. He sounded like he meant it.

  “Only you,” she said, shaking her head, “can twist me wanting to beat you into a point of male pride.”

  Wisely, he said nothing to that.

  “Well, if you want to give up a pound of your flesh, I’m more than happy to take it.”

  She stood behind him, at the perfect distance measured many times so as not to strike too hard or too softly. She unfurled her whip, tested it a few times across the floor and into the air.

  “I’ve never whipped you before, have I?” she said, pretending she didn’t already know the answer. Nico said nothing. “You won’t like it. Don’t forget—the neighbors.”

  She let the whip go.

  Nico didn’t scream. But his body tensed and he flinched. And Nora was very happy.

  It took a long time to learn how to use a whip the right way, the good way so that the tip danced across the skin, striking it like rain on a windowpane in a storm, not breaking the skin—or sometimes, just barely breaking it. Not like a cut with a knife but a thousand bee stings. A whip shouldn’t slice but bite. Nora learned from the best how to make the whip an extension of her. Søren had taught her, begrudgingly, so she wouldn’t accidentally put someone in the hospital.

  Now she was as good, or better, than he was. Not that she ever mentioned that to him.

  She loved her whip, loved the power she felt wielding it. To know she could, if she wanted, truly hurt someone. Instead, she was magnanimous, a merciful dark goddess. She didn’t want the life of the person she was whipping. Just a little of their blood. Just a taste, a soupçon.

  Nico took his punishment beautifully. He didn’t scream but he wasn’t silent either. No one could be. But his cries were soft and stoic. A few gasps. A few full-body flinches when the whip kissed the very tip of a nerve and his entire body rang like a bell with the pain. Oh, she knew how it felt. She knew better than anyone how it felt. That’s why she showed no mercy. If she could survive it, he could.

  When he’d had enough, Nora stopped.

  She stopped and she stared. Nico hung limp from the hook. His back and shoulders and hips were dotted with a thousand red and angry wounds. A few were bleeding. But only a little.

  She walked up to Nico and touched his back, palm flat on his abraded skin. He winced, hissing through his teeth.

  She put her mouth to his ear and whispered, “You just made me very happy.” Then she kissed his earlobe.

  Nico had been in her house one full hour and he hadn’t seen her yet. She stood before him, letting the clock tick along with each of his panting breaths.

  “You have no idea how tempted I am to keep you blindfolded from now until you leave my house. Should I? You can answer.”

  “What sin did I commit?” Nico wore a slight smile as if he were trying to play along but it was clear he was worried she might actually mean it.

  “Not your sin. Mine. Only mine. Always mine.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  Nora raised her eyebrow. “My toy thinks he has an opinion. I’m hurting Søren with you. I hurt you with Søren. How is that not a sin?”