But Noah hadn’t been grinning like an idiot when he left. Neither had she. She nearly called him back. A terrible idea, of course. He was nineteen. She was thirty. He was sweet and innocent. Nora was, well... Nora.

And yet...it might be nice to have someone in her life who didn’t come to her house just for the kink and sex and leave after the shower. Who was she kidding? She worked two jobs. She was rarely at home. Last thing she had time for was a pet.

Nora watched Noah drive away. Maybe she should find a new coffee shop. For Noah’s sake, of course. Not hers. She was fine.

With less enthusiasm than usual, Nora put her day together. She packed clothes for her various clients—Sheridan wanted suits, Judge B loved her stiletto heels, and Rabbi Friedman couldn’t care less what she wore as long as she used the stock whip on him until he had to crawl from her dungeon—literally. Once dressed and packed, Nora headed into the city. She blamed her lassitude on the August heat. The city sweltered at the melting point. She could imagine the sidewalks bubbling like molten lava. The sun beat down on her as if it had something to prove. She couldn’t get into the air-conditioned car fast enough.

On the way to the city her hotline phone rang again.

“King, I’m busy here. I have three sessions today. I don’t have time to give the mayor’s baby brother an OTK spanking. Again.”

She heard a laugh on the other end. Juliette’s laugh, warm and honeyed and endlessly amused by her lover’s top domme.

“Sorry, Juliette. I thought it was King.”

“What does OTK mean?”

“Over the knee.”

“Ah, I’m learning all the terms. Monsieur asked me to call you. His hands are full.”

“I don’t want to know what his hands are full of, do I?”

“He’s giving Max a bath. The puppy got out and played in the garbage before we could catch him.”

Nora heard the plaintive cry of a miserable beast in the background, a full-grown Rottweiler that only Juliette would call a “puppy.” She heard something else, too—it sounded like every swear word in the French language coming out in one long, blue sentence.

“King knows he can pay people to give his dogs baths, right?”

“He’s having too much fun to delegate.”

“What, pray tell, does His Royal Dog Groomer want from me now?”

“Your Sheridan called. She can’t make her appointment tonight. Her agent called her in for an audition. She’d like to reschedule for tomorrow at nine.”

“That’s fine.”

“Also, I needed to know if you had room in your schedule tonight for a session with a new client.”

“New client? Tonight?”

“He wants your earliest appointment.”

Nora dug her red leather appointment book out of her bag.

“Thursday afternoon,” Nora said. “I have Troy at two. Put him at 3:30.”

“Done. Merci.”

“No problem. Who’s the new guy anyway?”

“He’s—”

Nora heard a “Merde!” followed by the sound of wet feet running rampant.

“I have to go,” Juliette said.

“Let me guess—Max ran away from King and is running around the entire house dripping water?”

“One of them will not survive this day,” Juliette said. “Both, j’espère.”

“Bonne chance,” Nora said and hung up the phone.

She had a lovely session with Judge B, a brutal session with Rabbi Friedman. She had dinner in the city with Griffin before heading back home. But when she arrived back at her house that evening, Nora couldn’t bring herself to open the front door of her house. Once the key was in the lock, she realized the last place she wanted to be was alone in her own house with her own thoughts and her empty bed. Instead of going home, she walked across the street and down the block.

When she stepped through the side door of St. Luke’s she almost stumbled from pure sensory overload. She could smell the faint memory of incense in the air, a scent she’d recognize anywhere. And there was no light quite like the light of evening through stained-glass saints and angels and no sound quite like the sound of high heels on church floors. She climbed up the choir loft steps and took a seat in one of the pews. Inside her day planner she jotted down her appointment for Thursday. Usually she wrote down the initials of her client so she could better prepare for the scene but she didn’t know who it was. Not that it mattered much. She’d beaten every sort of masochist there was. Whatever he wanted, she could give it to him.

When she’d finished updating her schedule, she pulled her laptop out of her bag. She should have been thinking of Noah. She’d spent the night with him, and the morning. But as always it was Søren who consumed her thoughts. She started writing a memory simply to have some mastery over it. When she put Søren on paper he became hers again. If only for a little while.

* * *

He sat at the table in the bar of the club drinking a glass of red wine with their king. They spoke in French too rapidly for her to understand more than a few words here and there. It didn’t matter what they spoke of, however. Nothing mattered except His thigh under her chin and His left hand on the back of her neck, caressing the tender skin under her collar. She sat on the floor at His feet, a white pillow between her knees and the floor.

He didn’t speak to her, but He did tap her under the chin. She lifted her head and met His eyes. He dipped two fingers into His red wine and brought them to her lips, and she drank the wine off His hand.

Their king said something followed by the word “parfait.” Perfect. He was speaking of her, their king was, speaking of her submission to Him. A perfect submissive. Not true although she was flattered. It was not she who was perfect, but Him. Don’t call the painting perfect even if you see it that way. The painting didn’t create itself. Call the artist perfect. If she was perfect it was only because He was perfect first.

He rose to His feet and she waited. She would not rise until He bid her to rise. She would stay there all night if she must waiting for the order.

“Come, Little One,” He said, brushing her cheek with His fingertips.

He didn’t tell her where they were going, because it didn’t matter. As long as she never lost sight of Him, she would never lose her way.

She followed Him to His dungeon, which was a terrible word to describe a beautiful room. In the olden days, prisoners were kept and tortured in dungeons. But long before that the word held a different meaning. It came from Latin, from the word “dominus,” which meant lord or master. The master’s keep, that’s what a dungeon was. The place where the castle’s lord kept his precious things, not a dank, dark hole for prisoners.

He was the master, and she was that which He kept.

Once safely inside His keep He kissed her with a claiming kiss, a conquering kiss, a master’s kiss. He called her by name and the name He called her was “Mine.” He stripped her of her white shoes, her white dress, her white stockings, until she wore nothing for Him but her white collar. He ran a bath of warm water and set her into it. As she sat in the water He rolled up the sleeves of His black shirt, revealing strong forearms, strong wrists, a pale dusting of hair and a small white scar left by His father.

“Don’t look at the scar, Little One,” He said, lathering his hands with gentle soap.

“I hate to think of you hurt, sir. I wish I could have been there for you.”

He pushed her onto her hands and knees. Her nipples hardened as the water kissed them.

“You weren’t even born yet,” He said, spreading her thighs with His hands and washing inside of her. He had told her what would happen tonight so she braced herself as two wet fingers entered her anally.