“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 f**k 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.