The Priest (The Original Sinners #9) - Tiffany Reisz Page 0,8
He glanced over his shoulder just to make sure nobody had heard him, or worse, seen what was on his phone. He scrolled a few pages ahead.
“Open your eyes,” he said, and when she did it was to find him holding the dripping tip at her chin. He didn’t have to tell her to take it into her mouth. He placed his hand under the back of her head and lifted it with all the gentleness of a nurse raising the head of a sick patient to drink some water. She did it willingly, wrapping the tip with her lips and sucking. A small burst of semen shot into her mouth and she swallowed it eagerly. It was merely a taste of what was to come…
“Jesus H.” Cyrus decided he better shut that right down before he had to take a personal break. They let people put stuff like that on Amazon?
Cyrus was about to search for a photo of the crazy lady who’d dreamt this stuff up—he’d finish the book later, then go to confession after—when he saw the front door of the big white house opening. A woman half-walked, half-skipped down the stone stairway to the walkway that led to the main gate. She didn’t look like the sort of woman to emerge from such a grand door in such a grand house. She was white, pale, and not very tall. Her black hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. Her cut-off denim shorts were ratty, her black t-shirt rattier. Tiny paint splotches dotted her from head to toe.
She came to the gate but didn’t open it. She left it closed and smiled at him through a six-inch space between the bars.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked.
“I’m looking for a woman named Nora Sutherlin. I’m told she knows the owners of this house.”
“Are you a police officer?”
When he’d watched her nearly skipping down the steps, he’d guessed her age at about twenty-four, twenty-five. When she pushed her sunglasses up to her head to reveal a pair of cunning green eyes regarding him ironically, he revised his estimate up a little. Thirties, definitely. Too confident for her twenties. Too cynical, too suspicious.
“Private detective. Cyrus Tremont.” He handed her his business card and showed her his identification.
“That was my next guess. Who are you working for?”
“Don’t we all ultimately work for ourselves? I take cases that talk to me.”
“Give me a second, will you?”
“For what?”
She didn’t answer. She took an iPhone out of her back pocket, typed something in. He waited as she scrolled. Finally, she nodded in approval.
“You have very good Yelp reviews, Mr. Tremont. ‘Betty P’ says, ‘He caught the bastard in the act in twenty-four hours. Never getting married again but if I do, I’m putting Cyrus Tremont on the job. Five stars.’ Well done.”
He smiled. “You Googled me.”
“ID’s can be faked.”
“So can reviews.”
“Touché,” she said, continuing to look at her phone. “Says here on your website you only take the cases of women and children. Why is that?”
“They need the help. Grown men don’t.”
“So, a knight-errant.”
“You could say that.”
“Well, since you are who you say you are, what can I do for you?”
“You can tell me where to find Miss Nora Sutherlin. I’ll take an address, a phone number…”
“I’m Nora Sutherlin. Pleased to meet you.” She extended her hand through the bars for him to shake. It was covered in pastel paint the color of cotton candy. Whoever this woman was, she did not intimidate him. He was fairly certain a dominatrix would intimidate him, or at least try to.
“Yeah, no, I don’t think so. But nice try,” he said, ignoring the hand. This little lady did not write about ladies getting their pussies slapped around with riding crops. She definitely didn’t do the slapping in her free time, either.
“I swear, I’m her,” the woman said, smiling.
If there hadn’t been a gate between them, he might have laughed in her face. “Ma’am, Nora Sutherlin is a dominatrix,” he said. “And a porno writer.”
“I know. I’m her, remember? Although technically it’s erotica, not porn. Not that there’s anything wrong with porn.”
“Right. Fine. I’ll leave you my card. If you see her, you can have her call me.”
“I can call you right now, but we’re already talking. Just picture me in a corset. And not splattered with paint.”
To humor the woman, he started to fish his phone out of his jacket when a little black girl wearing a pink ballet tutu came running out the front