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      To Gina Scalera, my Angel. I miss you.

       To Eve, the original Original Sinner.

       And to Andrew Shaffer, many waters …

      

       1

      “Fudge.”

      Mostly upside down with her head hanging off the bed, Nora saw the ominous slant of sunlight sliding through the window and across the floor. Søren pushed into her again, and she flinched with pleasure.

      “Eleanor, are you thinking about food at a time like this?” Søren thrust hard once more and came with a controlled shudder.

      Laughing from her recent orgasm and the absurdity of having this conversation in her current position, Nora finished her thought. “You’re the one who told me I wasn’t allowed to swear on Sundays anymore. So, fudge, I’m going to be late for Mass, sir.”

      Søren dipped his head and kissed her neck.

      “I have it on good authority that your priest would be quite displeased if you were late,” he whispered into her ear.

      “Then my priest needs to untie my leg from his bedpost.”

      Søren raised up and glared down at her; she innocently batted her eyelashes at him.

      “Beg,” he ordered, and Nora started to growl. Arrogant son of a bitch.

      He never said anything about not swearing in her mind. Just that she could never curse out loud.

      Søren put a finger over her lips.

      “No growling. Begging.”

      Clenching and unclenching her jaw, Nora took a deep breath.

      “Please, sir, will you let me go so I can drive my as—bottom home, take a shower, eat breakfast for once this week, throw on some clothes and drive back to church so I can sit in my pew looking prim and proper all the while imagining you naked as you’re giving some homily on sin and how, shockingly, God’s against it? Pretty please with you on top?”

      Søren slapped the back of her thigh hard enough she yelped. But still he reached up and unknotted the black silk rope from her ankle. With obvious reluctance, he withdrew from her and rolled onto his side.

      Now free, Nora started to crawl out of his bed.

      Søren propped his head on his hand and stretched languidly across his white sheets. She wasn’t going to look at him. If she looked at Søren, she’d crawl right back to him.

      “In a hurry, little one?”

      “To leave you? No. To not be late for Mass and earn yet another beating this week? Yes.” Søren caressed the back of her calf and Nora turned back to stare daggers at him. “Are you trying to make me late … sir?”

      Sighing, Søren pulled his hand away from her. It wasn’t fair. The rectory stood all of two minutes’ walk from the church; being male and not having to worry about what outfit to wear, Søren could get ready in ten minutes.

      “A vicious accusation, Eleanor. Of course I would never try to make you late. You are a role model for the young people in the church after all.”

      Snorting a laugh, Nora started picking up her clothes. She pulled her shirt off the top of the bedpost she been tied to last night while Søren had flogged her senseless. Her skirt lay in a crumpled heap on the floor where it had landed after Søren unzipped it and let it fall before bending her over his bed and strapping her ankles to a spreader bar. Somewhere under his bed she found her bra, and her underwear was at home in a drawer. She rarely bothered with underwear around Søren—counterproductive really.

      “A role model? Nora Sutherlin—erotica writer, ex-dominatrix. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She held out her hand to shake. Søren only looked at it and raised his eyebrow at her.

      “You’re a role model to Michael. He adores you.”

      “But Michael’s one of us, sir.” She smiled at the memory of Søren’s anniversary gift to her last year: the virginity of possibly the prettiest teenage boy in the known world. Pretty, kinky and unfortunately deeply troubled. “Of course he’s got a soft spot for me. Or a wet spot. Anyway, none of those vanilla twerps at church need to look up to me.”

      Nora shoved her feet into her shoes as Søren got out of bed. Her heart