The Saint (The Original Sinners 5)

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“Is what I told you not enough for you?”

“No, the sadism thing is plenty. I was worried it was something really serious.”

“You have a different definition of serious than the rest of the English-speaking world.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Like serious serious. Like if you were a criminal on the run or you had terminal cancer. Or worse, you could be impotent. I mean actually impotent. Sounds like you just have a different definition of foreplay.”

“My definition of foreplay is usually classified as assault.”

“Obviously you and I are reading different dictionaries.”

“You don’t seem to understand the gravity of this situation. I am a sadist. I cannot escape that. I’m like my father.”

“How badly do you hurt the people you play with? Like do they have to go to the hospital after or anything?”

“As a teenager I lost control once. It was consensual, but I crossed a line. Since then, no. I had a teacher in Rome who taught me ways of inflicting enormous amounts of pain without causing harm. At worst the person will have bruises for a few weeks. Bruises and welts. The masochists I play with are as well trained as I am. They trust me and do as I tell them to do. They put their lives in my hands, and I honor that trust.”

“Your father hurt people against their will. You don’t do that, right?”

“Never. I only hurt those who wish to be hurt, who enjoy it.”

“So you’re the opposite of your father, then. Right?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“If you stick your dick in a woman who wants it, it’s sex. If you stick your dick in a woman who doesn’t, it’s rape. It’s the same act but totally different, right? If this is why you’re holding back from me, you can stop that right now.”

“Something broke in me a long time ago, Eleanor. Or perhaps I was born broken. But yes, when the time comes for us to make love, I will have to hurt you.”

Eleanor’s hands shook as the words make love escaped Søren’s lips again. She tucked her toes under her and rolled back. She rose up in front of him.

“Eleanor?”

She pushed her shorts down and pulled off her T-shirt. Naked and unashamed, she stood before him in the moonlight.

“Then hurt me.”

22

Eleanor

SØREN GAZED UPON HER NAKED BODY WITH REVERENT eyes. Still, he made no move to touch her. She took his right wrist in her hand and pressed his palm flat against her bare stomach. His hand slid to her back and he pulled her into his lap.

She straddled his thighs in the chair as he scored her back with his fingers. Her head fell back as he kissed her neck, her throat. His teeth found the tendon where her shoulder met her neck. He bit down hard, hard enough she gasped, and he shuddered in her arms.

“More,” she whispered.

The world around her drained of color. Flesh and fire turned to black-and-white. Music thrummed in the back of her mind. For no reason and every reason, she felt like laughing.

Søren lifted her easily and carried her to the bed, throwing her down onto the sheets. She lay there, still, as he unbuttoned his shirt. With his knees he pushed her thighs apart. When she raised her hands to touch his naked chest, he captured them and pinned them above her head. He put his full weight into holding her down. The muscles in her forearms contracted in agony, and she cried out in real pain.

“This is how it is,” Søren rasped into her ear. “Do you still want this?”

“I want more.” She turned her head and kissed his collarbone where it met his shoulder. “Hurt me.”

He scoured her skin as he dragged his fingers down her body. Pushing his thumbs into the hollow of her hipbones, he pressed down hard. She cried out in the back of her throat as she felt a deep wrenching in her legs. Panting through the pain, she looked up at Søren. Søren … her Søren, he was the one inflicting this pain on her. What did she have to fear? Nothing.

He released her hips and brought his mouth down onto her lips. Panting had left her parched as the desert and his kiss was the only sea that could quench her thirst. He cupped the back of her neck with one hand and held her head, cradling it like a father holding an infant.

“I love you.” She fought the pain, the fear, to release the words. He let her go and rose up over her. In the moonlight she watched as he pulled off his shirt and let it fall to the floor. She had never desired anyone as she desired him and knew she never would.

“Your eyes change color,” he said, gazing down at her. “I noticed it the day we met. Green one moment, black the next. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“You’ve never seen anything like me.” She smiled up at him.

“Have you ever had a dream feel so real that upon waking you thought you were still asleep?” He took her hand in his.

“Once or twice.”

“I felt like that the moment I saw you, Little One. I dreamed you once. I think I’m still dreaming.”

Eleanor kissed his hand. He cupped the side of her face.

“Call me sir,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me I own you.”

“You own me, sir.”

“Say I am the only Father you will ever obey.”

“I will obey you only, sir.”

They spoke the words—call and response—like the most sacred of liturgies.