The Priest (The Original Sinners #9) - Tiffany Reisz Page 0,7
monsieur.”
“What is it?” Nora asked, walking over to her.
“We have company. Very handsome company.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. You’re so hopped on up hormones you flirted with the UPS driver yesterday. That’s my job.”
Nora peered out the window and saw a man on the sidewalk staring at his phone in the shade of a magnolia tree—a trim black man with a tight fade. He wore a tailored brown suit and aviator sunglasses. Nora put him at about thirty, thirty-five years old. He took off his sunglasses, and she had to admit he wasn’t bad at all. Tall but not too tall. Strong build like a former high school quarterback who’d stayed in fighting shape. Something about his strict posture, his confident bearing, put her in mind of the sort of man she’d had dealings with before.
“Handsome, yes. Bad news, definitely.”
Juliette looked at her from the side of her eyes.
“Police?” Juliette said under her breath so as not to scare Céleste. No woman lived with Kingsley Edge for ten years without learning how to pick out a plainclothes detective in a crowd.
“I definitely get that vibe from him,” Nora muttered in reply. “Don’t see a badge on him, though.” The man had put his hand in his pocket, which revealed nothing—no badge, no gun. “I better talk to him. He’s either here for King or he’s here for me.”
“Why would he be here for you?”
“Why wouldn’t he be?” Nora replied.
“Ah, true,” Juliette said, patting Nora on the back. “You’re so good to us, sometimes I forget how bad you are.”
Chapter Four
Cyrus tried to never go into a new situation blind, a habit that had saved his ass more than once. In the shade under the magnolia tree, he took a moment to search for this Nora Sutherlin. Supposedly she was a professional dominatrix, according to Katherine, but the only hits were for her dirty books.
He clicked on the one with the most reviews on Amazon. The Red: An Erotic Fantasy. There was a half-naked lady on the cover, which he did not object to in the least. He bought it with one click, smiling at the idea of it sharing space on his digital bookshelf with Carl Jung and Walter Mosley. He doubted either gentleman would mind.
He found the About the Author section in the table of contents. Nora Sutherlin lives in New England. Find her online at norasutherlin.
That was it? Just one line? Okay. He went to her website. Not much more there. Her bio had been updated to read, Nora Sutherlin lives in New Orleans.
Great. So the lady liked her privacy a little. He could respect that. How many cheating husbands had he caught because they were sloppy online with their social media pages, leaving geo-markers on, claiming to be on a work trip while their phone tattled on them? Just out of curiosity, he went back to her book, picked a chapter at random and started to read.
“Put your arms behind your head,” he said. “Clasp your fingers and keep your elbows open. Like a butterfly’s wings.”
She did as she was told. The move made her arch her back, thrust her breasts forward. He stood before her, inspecting her.
“Legs wider,” he said. He touched the floor with the tip of the riding crop in two places—here and there, showing her where to place her feet. She moved her feet wider apart, a foot and a half, and stood quivering in place.
“Very nice.” He raised the crop and tapped her left nipple with it. Then her right. He caressed the underside of each breast with the triangle of leather on the crop’s end. He ran the shaft of the crop down the sides of her body from each elbow to each ankle and back up again. It tickled and made her shiver. She would have given anything to feel his body against her right now. She craved it and with every passing second she craved it more. No doubt this was the intention.
He stepped close again. It was torture to be so close without touching. He brought the crop up between them and pressed the flat side of the tip to his lips. Then he pressed the opposite side to her lips.
“Think of it as a kiss,” he said when the leather lay against her mouth. “That’s all it is. Just a kiss from me to you.”
“Most kisses don’t leave welts,” she said. “I prefer French kissing.”