The Angel (The Original Sinners) Read online

  “She didn’t tell me you were funny,” Griffin said, smiling at him. Michael blinked. Griffin had the kind of smile that shone so bright and white it made your eyes water.

  “I didn’t know I was.”

  “You are,” Griffin said, still staring at him. Michael flushed a little under the scrutiny. Nora did the intense staring thing too; so did Father S. Must be a dominant thing. Only reason Michael could come up with why a guy like Griffin would look at him so keenly. “Anyway,” Griffin continued as he seemed to remember something. “The mistress sent me to do your checklist. She thought you’d be more comfortable doing it with another guy. Your checklist, I mean.”

  “Checklist?”

  “A lot of doms do checklists with their partners before doing kink. That way the dom knows beforehand what you want and what you don’t. Helps prevent subby from having a freak-out in the middle of a scene. You know, don’t want to accidentally do cage-play with an ex-POW.”

  “Whoops,” Michael agreed.

  “Exactly. So get comfortable. This thing is like ten fucking pages long,” Griffin said, throwing himself into the bay window seat and crossing his legs. In his loose-fitting khakis and white shirt, he looked like a well-groomed beach bum. Michael looked around for a chair. Not seeing any he decided to behave like the submissive he was and just sit on the floor.

  Once again Griffin stopped and stared at him. Michael hugged his knees to his chest and tucked his long hair behind his ears. It made him a little uncomfortable the way Griffin looked at him. But uncomfortable in a way he kind of liked.

  “Right, okay,” Griffin said, pulling a sheaf of papers and a pen out of his back pocket. “Easy enough. Everything’s on a one-to-five scale—one meaning it turns you on as much as kissing your grandmother and five meaning it makes you spray your shorts just thinking about it. Doesn’t matter if you’ve done it or not—just if you want to do it. First category—sex.”

  “Five,” Michael answered.

  Griffin grinned at him. “That was just the category. But I like your enthusiasm, Mick.”

  “Mick?”

  “Can I call you Mick? Michael’s too formal. I’m not formal. You’re lucky I’ve even got pants on today.”

  Michael mulled it over. No one had ever called him anything other than Michael except for his father, who’d called him Mikey as a kid—a nickname Michael loathed. And Nora called him Angel. But she was Nora. She could call him anything.

  “I like it,” Michael decided and smiled.

  While skimming the pages of the checklist, Griffin muttered something that sounded to Michael like “assassinate the Pope for this.” Michael decided he must have misheard.

  “Category one,” Griffin continued, “on a scale of one to five…vaginal sex?”

  “Five.”

  “Agreed. Oral sex?”

  “Five.”

  Griffin looked at him before dropping his eyes to his notes again.

  “Even better. Anal sex?”

  Michael coughed. “Five.”

  “Multiple partners?”

  Michael looked down at his wrists and checked that his watch and wristband completely covered his scars.

  “Five.”

  “Threesomes?”

  “Five.”

  Michael didn’t look up but he could feel Griffin’s curious eyes on him.

  “Two women and one man?”

  “Five.”

  “Two men and one woman?”

  Michael shifted on the floor and didn’t look up at Griffin. It took him a long time to answer.

  * * *

  Five minutes after Thursday evening Mass ended, Suzanne stood outside of Sacred Heart in the shade of a willow tree and watched Father Stearns.

  Gorgeous. The priest, her target, was absolutely gorgeous. The congregation filed out of the front doors and greeted their priest in the warm evening air. With the men he exchanged handshakes. From most of the women he received light, chaste hugs. Every child received a touch on the top of the head like a tiny blessing. Every child but one.

  A young boy of about six or seven with unruly black hair stormed up to Father Stearns and turned an angry face up to the priest.

  “Owen, I’ve already told you—” Father Stearns began but the small boy wouldn’t let him finish.

  “It’s not fair,” he said, stamping his tiny foot. “I want to say thank-you. You have to tell me—”

  “Owen,” Father Stearns said, bending low to meet the boy eye to eye. “You know priests aren’t allowed to tell secrets. The person who gave you your tuition money asked me not to tell you.”

  Suzanne stiffened at the sight of the little boy, Owen, and the priest standing so close together. At least the boy didn’t seem intimidated by Father Stearns. She already was.

  Owen raised his little fist, narrowed his eyes and growled.

  “Young man, did you just growl at me?”

  The boy looked immediately contrite.

  “Maybe,” he confessed, wrinkling his face up.

  “Clearly you’ve been spending too much time with your Miss Ellie. She growls at me too.”

  At the mention of the mysterious Miss Ellie, Owen’s anger fell from his face.

  “When’s she coming back?” Owen said. “I did a new painting for her.”

  “I can’t say,” Father Stearns said, standing back up to his full height again. “She may be gone for some time.”

  Owen nodded and stared down at his shoes.

  “I miss her,” the boy said, digging the toes of his sneakers into the grass.

  Father Stearns sighed and tapped the boy on the top of his head.

  “As do I.”

  Owen ran off at that, and Suzanne realized she finally had an opening. Nervously she strode up to Father Stearns and plastered on her best attempt at a weathergirl grin.

  “Father Marcus Stearns?”

  He turned to her with the slightest smile on the edge of his lips.

  “Very nice to see a new face at Sacred Heart. How do you do, Miss…?” he began and extended his hand.

  Suzanne froze momentarily before remembering she was undercover. She held out her hand and let him take it. He had perfect hands, sculpted like a statue’s. Smooth, warm skin but strong, very strong, although he gripped her fingers lightly. He grasped her hand like a man who knew his own strength, knew how to command and control it.

  “Kanter,” she supplied. “Suzanne Kanter. I’m very well, thank you,” she said, answering etiquette with etiquette as she pulled her hand back. “I enjoyed the Mass.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. What brings you to Sacred Heart?” he asked, his voice curious but not suspicious. Suzanne decided to press her luck a little and see if she could get a reaction out of him.

  “Nothing very pious. You see, I heard a rumor that Nora Sutherlin attends church here. I’m a big fan so I thought I’d drop in. But I didn’t see anyone who looked like a famous writer.”

  “She is difficult to miss,” he said, his small smile widening just slightly. “Usually we are graced with her presence but she’s on something of a sabbatical this summer.”

  “Too bad. I have to say I’m impressed your church would be so welcoming to her. I’ve read a few of her books. Sinful stuff.”

  Suzanne saw something flash in his eyes. Surprise maybe? Or was it mirth?

  “It was Christ’s way to welcome sinners and tax collectors and other nefarious characters into His comp
any and His Kingdom. On His especially compassionate and generous days he would even speak to reporters.”

  His smile changed again. Now pure irony graced his lips.

  “How did you—” she began, shocked into near speechlessness.

  “You were taking notes during the Mass. Only an Evangelical Protestant or a reporter would bother taking notes during a homily or sermon, especially one of mine. And after twenty years in the priesthood, I can spot a lapsed Catholic at a thousand yards.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You stand and sit at the appropriate times without looking lost. You called me Father comfortably, not Pastor or Reverend. And you have a distinctly Catholic look in your eyes.”

  “What Catholic look?”

  “Guilt.”

  Suzanne stood up straighter, refusing to let him see he’d rattled her. After all, she didn’t see one iota of guilt in his eyes.

  “Okay, yes. Guilty. Reporter and ex-Catholic,” she said, painting on an even wider fake smile.

  “We do see the occasional lapsed Catholic here but not many reporters,” he said, his tone conversational. “I assure you nothing noteworthy had happened lately. I haven’t performed an exorcism in, well, weeks.”

  Suzanne looked at him a long, confused moment.

  “You aren’t what I expected,” she said, dispensing with all pretense.

  “Considering what the common perception of the clergy is these days, I shall take that as a compliment. You’ll have to forgive me, Ms. Kanter. I have my people to attend to. But my office is always open. Something tells me you have some questions for me.”

  “Yes. A lot more of them than I originally thought.”

  “Then I shall see you again soon. Good day to you.”

  With a polite nod he left her to join a group of men who had apparently been waiting to speak to him as well. Suzanne followed him with her eyes as he walked away. That had not gone as planned. Not even close.

  Trailing behind a boisterous family of five or six children arguing over where to eat dinner, Suzanne made her way to the parking lot. Once inside Patrick’s car she pulled out her notepad again.

  Extremely intelligent, she wrote. And ridiculously handsome. He was expecting me.

  At the bottom of the page she scrawled, I don’t trust him, and underlined it three times.

  * * *

  Nora sorted through her luggage, separating her clothes from her toys. At times like this she missed having her own dungeon. Back in her dominatrix days, she had a palatial dungeon, if such a thing could exist, in the VIP wing of The 8th Circle. Søren still had his own personal quarters there, of course. As did Kingsley and Griffin. But once she returned to Søren as his submissive, she’d had to give up her dungeon to her replacement—Mistress V. However, she’d kept most of her gear for those occasions when Søren gave her permission to top someone. Some of the kinksters in their community frowned on her playing switch while in the possession of their alpha dom. But Søren loved her and understood her. And he knew better than to put his foot down in this area. She loved topping women and even a certain secretly switch-hitting Frenchman of their acquaintance. The jealous haters could have her spreader bars and her signature red riding crop when they pried them out of her cold, dead hands.

  Nora’d bought a collar for Michael, a black one to match his hair. She had no intention of collaring him permanently, but he needed to get used to wearing one if he planned on joining the Underground with her and Søren. She dug to the very bottom of her bag. Whips and chains, a Wartenberg wheel, two sets of handcuffs—rope and metal—bondage cuffs, snap hooks…all ended up in an impressive array on the floor. Nora dove once more into her luggage and laughed at what she pulled out. How did her duckie pajamas get in with her kink gear? She remembered she’d been on the phone arguing with Zach, her editor, while packing. Obviously Zach had distracted her a little.

  Nora stared at her pajamas, at the little baby ducks printed on the blue flannel. Pajamas had been the cause of her first fight with Wesley right after he moved in. No one would ever call her an exhibitionist—she knew too many real exhibitionists to even make a claim on that title—but she had a good body and didn’t care who saw it. So the first morning after Wesley moved in she came down to the kitchen in her usual sleepwear—a little nearly transparent black camisole and panties. Half-asleep still, she’d entered the kitchen, patted Wesley on the top of his blond head, grabbed a croissant and a cup of coffee, and headed for her office. A few minutes later a visibly troubled Wesley came into her office and stood with his back to her.

  “Yes, Wesley, those jeans do make your ass look fabulous,” she’d said, glancing over at his tall, lean and way-too-sexy-to-belong-to-a-virgin body.

  “That is not why I have my back to you. You have no clothes on, Nora,” he’d said, sounding royally perturbed.

  “I do have clothes on. I have on my pajamas.”

  “You’re wearing saran wrap and nothing else.”

  “That is not true. I’ve worn saran wrap before and it looks nothing like this. This is La Perla.”

  “It’s La Transparent. Pajamas have substance to them. They are made of cotton or equally opaque fabrics. If I’m going to live with you without losing my mind—”

  “Or your virginity,” she teased.

  “You need to wear real pajamas around me. That’s final.”

  He’d gone off to school in a huff that day. When he came home she surprised him with a little pajama fashion show. First the sock monkeys, then the penguins, then the baby ducks wearing galoshes on their little feet.

  “Better?” she’d asked.

  Wesley had grinned at her as he reached out and buttoned the topmost button of her baby-duck pj’s. She’d feigned choking although she felt quite comfortable with a tight collar around her neck. Wesley had undone the button again, and for a moment their eyes had met and she wanted nothing more in the world than for him to keep going. His fingers shook enough that she knew he’d been tempted to do just that.

  Wesley had smiled at her and whispered, “Perfect.”

  “He’s perfect, Nora.”

  The words pulled her out of the past. Turning around she saw Griffin coming into the guest bedroom he’d given her, the room right next to his, naturally, looking both annoyed and aroused.

  “Nobody’s perfect, Griffin,” Nora said, throwing her duckies into a drawer. “Except Søren.”

  “Søren’s not perfect.”

  Nora stared at Griffin. “Bastard priest lied to me.”

  Griffin rolled his eyes. “Michael’s perfect. He’s my dream man…boy. Whatever. Holy shit, Nora.” Griffin threw himself across her bed. He picked up a pair of handcuffs and laid them on his face like a giant pair of glasses.

  “Very fetching.” Nora removed the handcuffs from Griffin’s face and put them in her bondage-gear pile on the end of the bed. “Did you finish his checklist?”

  “Yeah. Junior’s a freak. I’m in love.”

  Nora threw her thigh-high boots in the closet.

  “You aren’t in love.”

  “Would you buy ‘love with honorable intentions’?”

  “Nope.”

  Griffin glared at her.

  “Griffin Fiske, you know as well as I do you’ve never had a relationship that lasted longer than three weeks. And that was when you were cheating on your girlfriend with her stepbrother. You just met Michael.”

  “Yeah, so? How long did it take for you to fall in love with
the Pope?”

  Nora smiled to herself. “Two to three seconds. But that lasted about one week before I decided I hated him.”

  “It is pretty impressive how long you two have lasted.” She heard the grudging respect in Griffin’s tone. Griffin had scores of lovers and approximately zero serious relationships under his belt. “What’s your secret?”

  “Well, Søren has great staying power. And it does help I’m still in love with him. Helps even more that I still hate him,” she said, suddenly not wanting to talk about Søren. It hurt too much knowing it could be two months or more before she saw him again. “So what’s up with Michael’s checklist? Anything I need to know?”

  Griffin flipped over and dug the papers out of his back pocket. Nora made the bad decision to join him on the bed. It took all of two seconds before she landed flat on her back with Griffin slapping the handcuffs from her bondage pile onto her wrists.

  “That reminds me,” Nora said, relaxing into the grip of the cuffs, “I need to call my editor.”

  “You can call him after I fuck you.”

  “Can you fuck me after we talk about Michael’s checklist?”

  Griffin collapsed next to her and left her lying on her stomach still cuffed. Groaning in frustration, Nora used her shoulder to flip herself onto her side.

  “Checklist first, then fucking. What’s up with junior?”

  “Sex stuff? Fives across the board. Horny little twerp.”

  “He’s seventeen.”

  “Point taken.”

  “What else?” Nora asked.

  “No big fetishes. No watersports or anything.”

  “Good,” Nora said, “I have a shy bladder.”

  “The usual kink works for him,” Griffin continued. “Bondage is good, all kinds. Pain is good, all kinds. This was weird though,” Griffin said as he flipped to the last page.

  “What?”

  “He wants pain and domination. All fours and fives in that area. But when I asked about cutting, he gave it a big number one. Weird, huh?”

  Nora’s mind immediately went to the scars on Michael’s wrists. Didn’t seem weird to her at all—he’d had more than enough cutting in his life already.