The Saint: The Original Sinners Book 5 (34 page)

Nora told Søren she loved him one more time before hanging up and walking back to the cottage.

She hadn’t slept well for two weeks. Now she surrendered to her exhaustion and slept through the night. When she woke up, she knew exactly what do with her mother’s Saint Monica medal.

In no hurry whatsoever, Nora cleaned up last night’s mess in the cottage. The cottage had treated her well, given her and Nico sanctuary—she would return the kindness. She packed and dressed and put her things in the car.

She drove all day, leaving Bavaria far behind her. Her mother had been born in Germany and Germany was part of Nora’s ancestry, her past. Now she looked to the future.

At dusk she finally passed through Marseille. At nightfall she stood in front of a French country house that stood on dusty soil in the midst of rolling acres of grape vines.

She knocked on the door.

“Sanctuary?” she said to Nico when he opened the door.

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“If I let you in, I’ll put you to work.”

“I’ll earn my keep.”

“Not in the vineyards. I want stories.”

“Stories I have. And it’s you I want.”

He took a step back and let her in the door. He dragged her into his arms and brought her to his bed. They made love in a frenzy and when the frenzy passed, Nora pulled the Saint Monica medal from her bag and clasped it around Nico’s neck. The silver shone against his skin like moonlight on water.

“There are three eternal truths about me you have to know, Nico,” she said. “I love Søren. I belong to Søren. And I will go back to Søren.”

“Wine and women should always be allowed to breathe. You own me. I would never try to own you.”

“I’ve never owned anyone before.” She touched the medal where it hung next to his heart. “I’ve done everything else, but never that.”

“I’m honored to be your first.” Nico kissed her to make it official. If a promise couldn’t be sealed with a kiss, it wasn’t a promise worth making.

She stretched out on top of him, her head on his shoulder and his arm around her, not to keep her but simply to hold her.

“Where’s my story?” Nico asked.

“Which one do you want? I have so many stories...”

“Tell me the one that you said would make me love Kingsley.”

“That’s a fun story. It involves a lesbian bartender in a three-piece suit, your father in a corset and high heels and a televangelist with a dirty secret.”

Nico’s chest rumbled with his laugh.

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me all your stories.”

“This is the story they told me. And now I’m telling it to you.”

She settled in closer to Nico, as close as she could get. She would return home to America and to Søren eventually, but now this was her home—Nico’s bed, Nico’s body, Nico’s heart. Søren owned her and Kingsley. Kingsley owned Juliette. And now that she owned Nico it was as if the final tumbler had turned and the one locked door in her life opened. Time to walk through it.

She took a breath and began her tale.

“Once there lived a King without a kingdom...”

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from THE MISTRESS by Tiffany Reisz.

“I worship at the altar of Tiffany Reisz!
Whip smart, sexy as hell—the Original Sinners series knocked me to my
knees.”
—
New York Times
bestselling author Lorelei James

If you loved
The Saint,
be sure to catch all these other great
titles in the steamy
Original Sinners
series. Available to order now in ebook
format!

The Siren
The Angel
The
Prince
The Mistress Files (Novella)
The Mistress
The Last
Good Knight
(Parts 1-5)
The King
(December
2014)

Still can’t get enough Tiffany Reisz? Then be sure to catch her
Cosmo Red-Hot Read from Harlequin,
Misbehaving
.
Available now wherever ebooks are sold!

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I’m writing this story for one reason and one reason only—Kingsley is paying me to do it. Well, that and he ordered me to do it. That and he’s gorgeous and I have trouble telling him “no” when he pouts. Okay, maybe I have more than one reason for doing it.

But I still don’t want to do it.

Kingsley, do you have any idea what a huge and obnoxious undertaking this is? Writing client profiles? Do you know how many clients I have? And no, I’m not going to talk to you as long as you’re reading over my shoulder while I type.

Since you’re reading over my shoulder, I’m going to insult you every chance I get. I know you want me to write these files “so zee other Dominantz can learn from me and ’Ow to better treat zee clientz...” And yes, you do sound like that, Frenchy. Now stop breathing in my ear and let me write. I’m going to use real names here. You can have Juliette change them later.

Oh, and I’m doing the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle-esque titles on purpose and if you change them, I’ll set your bed on fire. And
not
in the good way this time.

Client: Sheridan Stratford, age 23.
Profession: Actress, currently starring in
Empire City
as the virginal daughter of a corrupt billionaire CEO. She’s known colloquially in the press as “America’s Sweetheart” because of her slight stature, her innocent youthful looks and natural blond hair. She is, however, anything but innocent. Thank God.
Inclination: Submissive.
Sexual orientation: Straight but flexible.
Fetishes: Men’s business suits, the pricier the better.

Sheridan’s not attracted to women, but she had a problem she didn’t trust a man to solve. Probably because a man caused it. I’m a woman. Hard to hide that fact—D-cups, thank you very much, Mother Nature—but I’m a damn fine cross-dresser and only Kingsley looks better in a three-piece suit than I do. The man annoys the piss out of me on an almost daily basis, but I’ll be the first to admit, the Frog is a Prince.

And an ass at times who should treat his best Dominatrix better and give her chocolate and martinis on a daily basis. (I know you’re still reading over my shoulder, Kingsley. Go away. Don’t you have your secretary to violate or something?)

But back to the point. Sheridan. Ah...Sheridan. Dominants take note—it’s a terrible idea to fall for your clients. Terrible. Verboten. Don’t even think of doing it.

Unless you’re me. I did it. But only a little. You wouldn’t blame me if you could see this girl. Oh, wait. She’s on TV. You have seen her so you understand. Beautiful little waif—in her early twenties, she hardly looks a day over eighteen. So petite and fragile, she’s like a glass flower you want to hold in your palm and marvel at the intricacy of each flowing line until you close your hand around it and crush it into a thousand pieces.

I’m sorry. I might have just had an orgasm.

Back to the Sheridan. Love this girl. How could I not? She was practically trembling the first time I saw her in person on the roof of Kingsley’s town house holding a candlestick in the conservatory....

You know, I think I’m getting my job mixed up with
Clue
again. Come to think of it,
Clue
would have been a much darker, more interesting game had it been about a sex crime instead of a murder.

Digression over. I’m sorry. I get verbose in first person, which is why I should never write it in. Let’s fix that, shall we?

Dear reader, just imagine Sheridan Stratford—an ingenue of Broadway, the sweet starlet of the small screen—sitting on an antique fainting couch in a moonlit conservatory on the roof of a Manhattan town house. Silver slip dress, strappy heels on stick-thin ankles, long pale hair in a loose knot, eyes wide and scared.

Scared but brave.

That’s my girl.

The First Session

Sheridan whispered something into her glass of wine and what she whispered The Mistress would never know. “Help me” perhaps. “What am I doing here?” maybe. Sheridan took a sip and then another before setting the glass down on the table next to the vase of white orchids. The Mistress merely waited in the shadows of the doorway and watched her for a moment, trying to read the girl’s body language. Shoulders slumped, head down, feet that never stopped moving even though she remained seated. The Mistress could glean two facts from the moves Sheridan made—one fact true and one fact terrible. The girl was terrified. True. And the girl was ashamed.

Terrible.

From Kingsley, The Mistress had learned why Sheridan had come to them. But her reasons didn’t really matter. The clients came from everywhere. They were everyone. And every last one of them told them a different reason for coming to the Underground.

My wife won’t tie me up
...
.

My boyfriend can’t touch me right
...
.

My mother said I was sick
...
.

I
have these dreams every night that won’t stop
...
.

I
need to be hurt or I can’t come
...
.

I
need to be punished to feel loved
...
.

A thousand reasons that could all be boiled down, stripped bare and divided into one of two real reasons...

I’m here because I want this.

I’m here because I need this.

The Mistress was no prostitute. She never let a client touch her, never let a client inside her. Never inside her body anyway. Sometimes on rare occasions if the client was particularly beautiful or especially broken, sometime The Mistress let the client inside her heart.

Sheridan had wealth from her acting career, and wealth meant power. But it was a powerless little girl who sat under the glass roof that night. And when a tender leaf on one of the orchids dropped off the plant and landed on the floor, Sheridan stood up and walked quickly to the sink by the cutting station and poured out her glass of wine before refilling it with cold water and pouring it into the plant.

The Mistress smiled to herself as Sheridan turned wine into water so she could give a little drink to a thirsty flower she’d never met before. And that’s when Sheridan first crawled inside The Mistress’s heart.

Digging into her pocket, The Mistress found her silver lighter and brought a cigarette to her lips. She snapped open the lighter and flicked on the flame. Sheridan gasped at the sudden noise and spun around so fast she dropped her empty wineglass onto the floor, where it shattered into a thousand glinting shards.

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” Sheridan said, raising a hand to her flushed forehead. She stared down at the glass on the floor, her face a mask of utter shock and self-loathing. It broke The Mistress’s heart to see such an ugly look on that beautiful face. Then and there she resolved to wipe the shame off that face for all eternity.

The Mistress made no move. Whatever happened, no matter how emotional the client got, The Mistress had long ago learned that she must remain calm in every situation. Even when screaming German curses while beating a client with a birch rod, she must be calm inside, at peace and always in control. They clients didn’t just pay for that, they deserved it.

As Sheridan looked down in horror at the broken glass, The Mistress merely brought the lighter to the tip of the cigarette, and lit it as she stepped forward out of the shadows.

“Leave it,” The Mistress ordered. “Just a wineglass. Kingsley has millions of them.”

“I’ll pay for it, ma’am. I promise.”

“You’ll do no such thing. I’ll make him pay you for daring to give you a glass that breakable. Now go. Sit over there and forget about the glass.”

The Mistress nodded toward a settee at the edge of the conservatory. From there one could look out and see a thousand windows lit from within by artificial lights and shining out, into the Manhattan moonlight.

Sheridan rushed to obey, nearly skidding on the slick floor in the process. She sat on the silk cushions and crossed her legs. Such a little slip of a thing... The Mistress wanted to gather her close and hold her until she stopped being so scared of herself. But The Mistress didn’t touch her, merely sat down next to her and took a long draw on her cigarette before blowing the smoke out.

“I don’t smoke,” The Mistress said as the last of the white cloud reached the glass roof.

“But...” Sheridan squeaked one word out before falling silent again.

“But I’m smoking? Well, yeah, you got me there. I have this client. Some music publishing company bajillionaire. Total masochist. He’s a human ashtray. All I have to do is use him as a footstool, smoke a cigarette and then put it out on his naked back. He orgasms so hard that Niagara Falls says ‘Damn. Someone get the mop there.’ Easy job. Fifteen-minute session. I charge him five thousand dollars for it. Plus twelve dollars for the plastic drop cloth.”

Sheridan blanched. Apparently the thought of putting a cigarette out on someone’s bare back didn’t sound like an “easy job” to her. But then again, that’s why The Mistress made that kind of money. She walked a fine line with every client—a line of morality, legality, sexuality. Any one of her clients could take his or her injuries, bought and paid for, to the police and report an assault. The Mistress took a risk with every client. The bigger the risk, the bigger the payday, and she did love payday.

The Mistress took one last draw on her cigarette before stubbing it out in the soil of the nearest plant. Sheridan’s eyes widened even more, and The Mistress had to use all her willpower not to kiss the poor thing.

“I like pissing off Kingsley. You can tell him I did that.”

Sheridan laughed nervously. “I wouldn’t do that. He terrifies me.”

“Sheridan, I have a feeling everything terrifies you.”

Wincing, the girl nodded.

“Look.” The Mistress held out her empty hands and tugged melodramatically at her cuffs. “Nothing up my sleeves. No crops. No canes. No floggers. No knives, whips, or guns. Nothing to be afraid of here. No one’s going to hurt you.”

“But...isn’t that what you do?”

“Yes, if that’s what my client wants. Not all my clients are masochists. I’ve got medical fetishists, foot fetishists...I have a college professor who likes to drink human urine. I’ve got a world-famous surgeon who’s into cross-dressing and domestic discipline. I bring him my laundry and order him to iron it while he’s naked but for an apron. I only hurt the ones who want to be hurt. And obviously tonight you don’t want to be hurt. The question is...what do you want?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I’m here. This is ridiculous. You’re not going to be able to help me, and I’m wasting your time—”

“Slow down there, beautiful. We just got started. First of all, tell me what your problem is, and then we’ll figure out if I can help you or not.”

“Didn’t Kingsley tell you?”

“He told me. I want to hear it from you.”

Sheridan paused and took a deep breath. She tugged at the hem of her dress. Her right foot worried the floor with tapping.

“I can’t...” She took another deeper breath. “I can’t orgasm anymore.”

“Nonsense. You just
don’t
orgasm. You still can.”

“I haven’t. Not for years. I try. I had a couple boyfriends. Gorgeous boyfriends. Smart, sexy, sweet. Really nice guys. And they tried everything. Not since Rex...” There she stopped, and dropped her head again in shame.

“This was the man you lost your virginity to?”

Sheridan nodded. “I went to a therapist, several therapists. They said he raped me, and that’s why I couldn’t orgasm anymore.”

“You were only fourteen the first time?”

She sighed. “Yeah. I know—”

“Did you tell him no?”

“No. I told him yes. He asked and I said ‘yes.’ I had a huge crush on him. I didn’t want to tell him no.”

“Well, he shouldn’t have asked. And technically it was statutory rape. But if you enjoyed it—”

“I didn’t enjoy it. I loved it.” The girl said
loved
with vehemence and passion, and for the first time since meeting Sheridan, The Mistress felt like she had could see the real Sheridan lurking under all that fear and shame. “I loved it. And I loved him.”

“You know our Kingsley lost his virginity at thirteen—tops. Older girl. That wicked Frenchman was a lady-killer from birth. He tells the story of his first time and he gets congratulated like he won the fucking lottery. A woman says she lost her virginity at a young age to an older guy and she gets thrown into therapy. Double standards can suck my cock. Don’t be ashamed that you liked it. You didn’t do anything wrong by saying yes, and you didn’t do anything wrong by liking it. Excuse me, by loving it. The fault, if there is any, is on Rex. Not you. He’ll answer to God for it. You can answer to me.”

At that Sheridan burst into laughter—real laughter, not the nervous kind.

“Thank you. I needed that.”

“You’re welcome. I don’t have a cock, by the way. Not a real one. I have a pretty impressive assortment of the artificial variety back at the club. I thought for our first session we’d stick to the basics.”

“The basics?”

The Mistress held up both hands and wiggled her fingers. Sheridan blushed.

“The basics. I get it.”

“Good girl. Now you say the guys you’ve been with since Rex tried everything. I assume you mean oral sex, digital stimulation, vaginal intercourse...”

Sheridan nodded, her face still a becoming shade of pale red.

“Did they try vibrators?”

“One did. But I couldn’t relax enough.”

“Can you have them on your own?”

“Sometimes, but only if I’m fantasizing about Rex and stuff we did. It’s just...depressing. I don’t even miss him. I just miss...it. Whatever it was.”

The Mistress sat back, threw her legs onto the settee and crossed her feet, clad in black and white Oxfords, at the ankles.

“I’m depressed just hearing about it. We’ve got to get you back in business. Take your clothes off.”

Sheridan froze.

The Mistress grinned.

“I love that reaction. The ‘now the shit gets real’ reaction. I think it’s my favorite part of the job. That and the money. And the clothes. And all the rich and famous people who are afraid of me because I know their kinks. Okay, I have a lot of favorite parts of this job. Anyway, I just noticed that you still have your clothes on, and I’m fairly certain I gave you an order.”