never once looking away from Blaise.
“Tell him what it does.” Kingsley pinched her on the thigh,
and she shuddered in pleasure. “Our Blaise is très altruistic.” “It’s called Slut Pride. We educate people about women’s
sexual freedom, especially in regards to women’s participation in BDSM activities. Some people like to tell us that it’s
not feminist to enjoy being f logged. I say it’s not feminist to tell a woman what she can and can’t do. But enough about
me. What do you do?”
“I’m a Catholic priest.”
Blaise said nothing. She gawked at S?ren with her full redlipped mouth agape. And then she laughed, a warm throaty
sound that filled the room.
“You’re terrible,” she said. “You had me there for a second.” S?ren winked at Kingsley. Kingsley had never guessed
S?ren had this f lirtatious side to him. Back in their school
days S?ren had been feared and envied by all the other boys,
and S?ren had almost never spoken to anyone but the other
priests. Kingsley realized that, other than his sister, he’d never
seen S?ren around a beautiful woman before. Interesting. The
man was human after all. Even if he was a priest.
“I must be off. You two chat, become friends. Blaise, peutêtre you should take my friend upstairs and show him what
BDSM looks like in action. I’m sure he’ll find it fascinating.” “I’m sure I will,” S?ren said. “We’ll be fine, Kingsley. Have
a lovely evening.”
Kingsley patted Blaise’s shapely bottom, and she stood up
and let him out. On his way from the dining room he heard
Blaise asking S?ren, “So what do you really do?” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” S?ren answered. Kingsley chuckled on his way upstairs. He needed to grab
a few things. That was it. Think about what he needed to
take with him, not what he had to do. Just a job. He’d done
hundreds of jobs in his life. He’d get a file, a mission, a plane
ticket, a target. This was child’s play in comparison. Digging his keys out of the pocket of his jeans, he opened
a locked box in his closet and took out his Walther P88. He
removed the clip and pulled the slide, checking that no bullets remained in the chamber. He snapped the clip in, shoved
it into his holster on his jeans and pulled on his leather jacket. Kingsley left the house and neither hailed a cab nor took a
car. On foot he made it to the apartment in twenty minutes.
He rang the doorbell, and a housekeeper let him in without
a word. No words necessary. The look of disgust and disdain
said everything. Fuck her. Kingsley wasn’t here to make the
housekeeper happy.
He raced up the stairs right as Phoebe Dixon stepped into
the hallway in her long silk bathrobe. She had a towel to her
wet hair and walked toward her bedroom at the end of the
long hall. She didn’t look back or speak. She hadn’t seen him. Good.
Kingsley took a quick and silent breath and pulled his gun
out. Careful of the creaking f loor, he stalked her down the
hall. When she reached for the door handle to her bedroom,
he put the gun to the center of her back.
“Don’t scream,” he ordered as he slapped a hand over her
mouth. “Not if you want to live.”
8
PHOEBE’S ENTIRE BODY STIFFENED LIKE A CORPSE. She whimpered but didn’t scream.
“Open the door. Now.”
She opened it, and he pushed her inside, pushed her so hard
she landed on the f loor, her bathrobe coming open to reveal
her naked body underneath.
He grabbed her by the arm and shoved her into the f loor
again.
“Don’t…” she begged, her voice breaking with tears. “I
have children.”
“Are you offering them?” he asked, ripping the robe from
her body and wrenching her to her feet.
“Please, don’t kill me. My husband’s an attorney. He has
money—”
“Keep begging. It won’t work,” he said as he bent her over