The Angel

Suddenly Michael realized he wasn’t alone in the back of the lavish car. First he saw riding boots, black riding boots, and dark gray trousers. The trousers belonged to a rather old-fashioned but dashing-looking suit worn by a crazy-good-looking dark-haired man who studied him with a little smile on his sculpted lips. Michael had no idea who the man was, but he had no doubt in his mind that he sat in the presence of a dominant friend of Nora’s, and probably a very important one.

Michael hazarded a timid, “Hello, sir.”

“Bonjour, Michael,” the man said with a French accent, pronouncing his name like Michelle. French? So this was Kingsley, Father S’s necessary evil. The man looked Michael up and down once more before reclining back and throwing his riding boots on the seat opposite him and crossing them at the ankles. “Mon Dieu, chérie does have good taste in her pets, doesn’t she?”

“Pets?” Michael repeated, in some distress.

The man leaned forward and Michael nervously studied his handsome face—the dark umber eyes, strong European nose, the sensual tilt to his mouth.

“Tell me, Michael, have you ever had sex in the back of a Rolls Royce?”

Nora arched her back and tilted her hips high. Finally she found the right angle of penetration. Admittedly, it had been her idea for she and Griffin to fuck on top of her Aston Martin, but once he tunneled inside her, she realized that car hoods and sex didn’t always mix. Not that Griffin seemed to mind. While she lay on her stomach across the car hood, her hands tied behind her neck, Griffin thrust blithely into her. Once she raised her hips, he slipped his hand under her and found her clitoris. Now equally blithe, Nora turned her head to the side and smiled.

“When did you get a Ducati?” Nora asked, noticing for the first time the motorcycle sitting in the corner of Griffin’s garage stocked with Ferraris, Porsches and one hardcore Shelby Mustang.

“I’m fucking you and you’re asking me about my motorcycle?” Griffin gasped through gritted teeth.

“Sorry, sir,” she said without any actual contrition. “A Ducati is the reason Søren and I are together.”

“Dammit, I hate that he has one too.”

“I don’t …”

Nora closed her eyes as a memory floated up out of the mists of the past.

“Eleanor Louise Schreiber! Get out of bed this instant,” her mother shouted at her. Nora remembered throwing the covers over her head in her determination that this would be the day she broke her mother’s spirit. This would be the day she would defeat the tyranny of organized religion. She’d skip Mass today and never, ever, go back.

“I’m a Buddhist,” she shouted back from under the sheets.

“Eleanor, get out of bed this instant and get ready for Mass.”

Nora remembered hearing real anger in her mother’s tone. Good. Anger made her erratic. She’d either kill her or storm out. Either way, it meant no church today. If Eleanor could just fight her way out of Mass, she’d be free … unchained, unfettered, unbound by the Catholic Church forever.

“I’m an atheist.” She flipped over onto her stomach. “I’ll incinerate the second I walk into church. It’s for everyone’s good that I stay away from that place.”

Her mother had growled under her breath. So that’s where Nora got that habit from?

“Eleanor,” her mother said, sighing. Damn. Sighing wasn’t good. Sighing meant her mother was going to try to either reason with her or bribe her.

“What?”

“Father Greg is retiring soon. Today is the day the new priest is starting at Sacred Heart. If the new priest hires someone else to do the church’s books, you don’t get free tuition to St. Xavier anymore.”

“Don’t care. Send me to public school. No more uniforms.”

Nora remembered the sharp breath her mother took. That her mother hadn’t just beat the shit out of her yet was one of life’s great mysteries.

“Eleanor,” her mother began, her voice dripping with saccharine. “Mary Rose told me the new priest is supposed to be very handsome.”

Rolling her eyes, Nora had flipped back over and glared at her mother.

“Mom, he’s a priest. That’s gross.”

But her mother continued.

“And he rides a motorcycle.”

That got her attention.

“What kind? Not some no-thrust piece of crap from Japan, is it?” Her father hadn’t taught her much but he had taught her cars and motorcycles.

Shaking her head, her mother tapped her chin. “I can’t remember what it was called. Something Italian sounding. Du-something.”

“A Ducati?”

“That was it.”

Nora remembered her heart racing a little right then. A handsome Catholic priest who rode the finest, fastest, most wicked motorcycle money could buy? She’d have to see it to believe it.

“Fine,” she’d said, throwing off the covers. “I’m coming.”

Nora came hard and relaxed against the hood of her Aston Martin as Griffin made a few more spiraling thrusts inside her before pulling out of her and untying her hands.

“Good idea,” he said, dragging her back to him. With her hands now free, Nora tugged down her skirt and leaned back against Griffin. “Never fucked on an Aston Martin before. Something for the scrapbook,” he said.

“Neither have I. Or in it. Came close with Zach though. He had a major hard-on for this car.”

“Zach?” Griffin asked, peeling off the condom and zipping his pants up.

“Blue Eyes, remember? My insanely hot Jewish editor who left me for his wife?”

“Right. That guy. I think he had a hard-on for you. The car was just a bonus.”

“She is a very nice car,” Nora said, running her hands over the hood. The Aston Martin had been a gift from a lover three years ago—a member of a Middle Eastern dynasty who came to the States every few months to indulge his very top-secret obsession with female dominants. Gorgeous man. He loved painting Arabic poetry on her naked body after sex. After their first week together she’d found the Aston Martin in her garage as a thank-you. “She’s my baby.”

“Why did you have me drive her up here and put her on blocks then?” Griffin asked, making a circuit around the car.

Nora kissed her fingers and touched the hood in a little benediction. Noticing the smears on the paint, she grabbed a chamois. With care and elbow grease she buffed the Nora/Griffin smudges off the inferno-red finish.

“I was going to give it to Wes, my old roommate.”

“You had a roommate?”

“Live-in intern. Never told you. Gorgeous kid. You would have tried to fuck him.”

“That’s probably true. What happened to this gorgeous intern?”

Nora sighed heavily. “He fell in love with me. Bad situation. Had to let him go.” She tried to sound cold but she could tell Griffin wasn’t buying it.

“Sounds like he wasn’t the only one in love.” Griffin eyed her meaningfully.

“Griff, you’re too pretty to also be smart.”

Nora deserved the glower he leveled at her.

“Do you still talk to him?”

“He calls, but I don’t answer. All I know is that he withdrew from Yorke and went back to Kentucky.”

“You ever Google-stalk him? See what he’s up to on Facebook or Twitter?”

Nora shook her head. “I’ve been tempted, but I don’t know. What if he was still sad and lonely? It would break my heart.”

Griffin came around the car and stood in front of her. He cupped her chin and forced her to meet his eyes.

“What if he was happy? Dating somebody even?”

Nora exhaled heavily.

“It would break my heart.”

“Nora,” Griffin sighed. “You really need to—”

“Master Griffin? Mistress?” came an English-accented voice from the door to the garage.

“God, it turns me on when he calls me Master Griffin,” Griffin groaned as Nora laughed and straightened his clothes. He’d actually put on pants today—khakis with a white T-shirt that stretched across his powerful tattooed biceps. Pants and a shirt but no shoes or socks. Still, they were making progress.

“Your other guest has arrived,” Griffin’s stately white-haired butler said.

A grin spread across Nora’s face. “Junior kinkster’s here. Let’s go.”

Nora grabbed Griffin’s hand and raced past his butler.

“So tell me about this kid,” Griffin said. “You said he’s a seventeen-year-old submissive from your church. Anything else I need to know about him?”

“Like what? Food allergies?”

“Let’s just say I barely remember being seventeen. I think I spent half the year drunk and the other half of the year high.”

“You don’t have to worry about Michael. He’s very straight edge. Søren said he doesn’t even drink. But there’s three things you probably should know about him.”

“I’m ready,” Griffin said, opening the front door just as Kingsley’s silver Rolls Royce pulled up in front of the house. “Hit me.”

Nora slapped his arm.

“First, Michael doesn’t talk.”

“Is he a mute?” Griffin asked, sounding slightly horrified. Griffin only shut up when you put something in his mouth—preferably a body part.

“No, just really quiet. Nervous type. Quiet.”

“Submissive?”

“That,” Nora said as the door to the Rolls opened and Michael stepped out. He pushed his sunglasses onto his head and smiled up at her. Raising his hand, he gave her a nervous wave.

“Holy shit,” Griffin breathed, his dark eyes widening at the sight of Michael.

“Yeah,” Nora said, smiling back at Michael. “Number two—Michael is absolutely, completely, ridiculously beautiful.”

“Nora …” Griffin said in a distressed voice. “I think I’m in love.”

“You’re in heat, Griff. Big difference. Oh, and number three … Søren says you can’t fuck him.”

Skipping down the steps, Nora left a speechless Griffin behind her. She grabbed Michael and pulled him into her arms.

“Hey, Angel,” she said, kissing him on the lips. “How was the trip?”

“Bizarre,” Michael whispered. “There was a guy in the backseat. In riding boots. We dropped him off at Father S’s.”

“Oh, that was just Kingsley. He likes to inspect the new recruits. Did he hit on you? Ask you if you’ve ever had sex in the back of a Rolls Royce?”

“Um, yeah,” Michael confessed, blushing. “But I didn’t—”

“Good,” Nora said. “You passed inspection. Go say hello to Griffin while I make out with your driver.”

Nora bodily spun Michael, aimed him toward the steps and slapped him on his jeans-clad bottom. Robin, one of her and Søren’s favorite submissives from The 8th Circle, stepped out of the driver’s seat in her chic gray chauffeur’s costume complete with driving hat and leather gloves.

“I love a woman in uniform,” Nora said, giving Robin a long, thorough kiss. From the top of the steps, Nora heard applause. She pulled back from the pretty submissive and saw Griffin clapping and Michael gaping. Michael looked at Griffin, who looked at Michael. Michael looked at her. Griffin kept looking at Michael.

Nora groaned. “Robin, take me back to the city with you.”

“I’m sorry, mistress. Mr. King said I wasn’t allowed. Oh, and Mr. S has a message for you.”

“What, pray tell, is Mr. S’s message?” Nora asked, already dreading whatever message Søren decided to pass on to her through an underling.

“He wanted me to ask you if you still had that note he left for you? The one that said ‘Do not open until instructed’?”

“Yes. I still have it. What about it?”

“He said you still can’t open it.”

Nora nodded. “Fine. Great. Wonderful. You can tell Mr. S that he can take his note and shove it up—”

“Nora?” Griffin called down to her. “Kiss Robin again. I want to get a pic.”

Nora rubbed her forehead. Long summer ahead. Too long.

Nora shook Robin’s hand goodbye, a move that led to booing from the peanut gallery at the top of the steps. Robin got into the Rolls and drove off, leaving Nora alone with a timid teenage boy and a horny Griffin.

Looking up at the blue sky above her, Nora sent up a quick prayer to St. Mary Magdalen, patron saint of ex-prostitutes, and St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes. Her prayer consisted of one word.

“Help.”

Suzanne took a deep breath and whispered one word to herself—”Afghanistan.”

An odd mantra, but it worked for her. She’d been in Afghanistan for the past three months, and in that desolate, broken country, she’d eaten fear and slept with courage. Lieutenant Hatton, the handsome Texan who always called her Red—IED took his right arm. Staff Sergeant Zimmerman, the New York Jew who couldn’t stop flirting with her—a bullet to the sternum. And Private First Class Goran, the shy North Dakotan with a one-year-old daughter back home—a bullet to the brain. His own.

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