The Queen

“Have you seen him?”

“I have.”

“How is he?” she asked.

“Not the question someone usually asks about someone she hates.”

“I want to know he’s hurting.”

“Then you’ll be happy to hear he is.”

“Good,” she said. That made her happy. So happy. So fucking happy she wanted to cry. “He’s still a priest, isn’t he?”

“He is.”

“I was afraid he’d leave the church.”

“He didn’t.”

“That’s good then.” She exhaled a breath she’d been holding for over a year. “He... Whatever his faults, he’s a good priest, isn’t he?”

Kingsley put his hands on her shoulders.

“Yes, he’s a very good priest.”

“I’m glad I left, then. He...he would have regretted leaving the Jesuits for me. I know him. It was good I left him if he’s still a priest.”

She knew she was speaking to convince herself, not Kingsley.

“This life I’m offering you isn’t easy money, Elle. The things dominatrixes do with their clients? Not even the priest would dream of some of it. It will be hard work. You’ll be tempted to return to him. Better to face that temptation head-on instead of running and hiding from it. Tu comprends?”

“Je comprends.” He was right although she hated to admit it. No way could she avoid Søren forever.

“Don’t be afraid. You won’t have to see him right away. He doesn’t know you’ve returned. No one outside this house does, and Calliope and Juliette will keep the secret.”

“What’s the plan? How do we ‘depose’ this Milady of yours?”

“In six weeks’ time, there will be a party at The 8th Circle. The summer solstice party—the Midsummer Night’s Fling. Everyone will be there. I will let it be known that I have a new domina who will make her debut that night. I will warn the world that she is the most dangerous, most sadistic and most beautiful domme they’ve ever seen. A domme who will put the great Milady in the shade. She will come, of course. If she doesn’t, she’ll be seen as a coward.”

“Six weeks? You think I’ll be ready in six weeks?”

“We’ll start your training tomorrow. I’ll work on a plan of attack, and we’ll build your dungeon.”

“I get my own dungeon? At the club? Seriously?”

“You will have the best dungeon in the house.”

Elle couldn’t repress a grin at that thought. Her own dungeon—she’d dreamed of such a thing but never spoke that fantasy aloud. That alone would be worth all the work Kingsley would demand of her.

“Okay. Six weeks. Milady shows up to this party. Everybody’s there. I turn up. And then what?”

Kingsley looked at her without smiling and the look on his face both scared and excited her.

“Then you will do what you do best.”

“What is that?” she asked.

“Hurt men.”

Elle laughed, her first real laugh since she’d set foot in this house.

“Hurt men? With pleasure,” she said. “Theirs and mine.”

“And mine,” Kingsley said and he knelt on the floor at her feet, sitting between her knees. He cupped her face with his hands and brought her mouth to his. A kiss... The very last thing she expected him to do was kiss her. And not a simple, benign, friendly kiss between ex-lovers greeting each other after a year living separate lives. No, this was a kiss that meant something. His lips pushed hers apart, his tongue slipped between her teeth, his thumbs brushed her cheeks. She returned the kiss, pushing close to him so that her legs wrapped around his back and her hands found their way to his hair. She dug her fingers into the soft dark waves and pulled, tilting his chin up, taking control of the kiss.

“I’m glad you came back,” Kingsley said between kisses, his voice low and intimate, his French accent thick and his erection pressing against her thigh.

“Why is that?” she asked, aching for more than a kiss.

“Because,” he said, kissing her neck under her ear and breathing the words so that she felt them brush across her skin like fingertips, “I’m your first client.”

5 (#ulink_154b3984-07f2-5f42-9b2f-755c59877e82)

Flogging Lessons

“HARDER,” KINGSLEY SAID. Elle did it harder, hard as she could. “You call that harder?”

She threw the flogger down and turned to Kingsley.

“How do you know how hard I’m hitting when I’m not hitting anyone?” She pointed at the towel on the wall. “That is a bath towel, not a person. No matter how hard I hit it, it’s not going to scream.”

“It’s still hanging on the wall. And if it’s still hanging on the wall—” Kingsley picked up the flogger, threw it once with a practiced snap, and the towel fell to the floor landing in a soft pile at their feet “—you aren’t hitting it hard enough.”

Elle exhaled heavily and scooped the towel off the floor to pin it back in place. They were in Kingsley’s playroom. It boasted a red St. Andrew’s Cross, a leather kneeling bench, two dozen floggers, canes and enough rope to truss up an entire herd of cattle. From the ceiling hung an elegant glass chandelier, which gave the playroom that touch of class everyone expected from the King of the Underground. For the past two weeks Kingsley had brought her here for four hours a day, training her in the various arts of pain. Caning was a breeze. Clamps were a blast. Flogging, however, had proven to be more difficult than it looked.

Once the towel was back in place, Elle held out her hand. Kingsley gave her the black-tailed elk-hide flogger, slapping the handle into her palm.

“I could knock it off with a whip,” she said.

“No whips. No single-tails. You could kill someone with one of those. You get to touch the whip when you’re ready and not a moment sooner.”

“I like whips.”

“Don’t we all, but you’ll use floggers more often than whips. No whipping until you’ve mastered flogging. Then I’ll find you a whip master. Now do it again,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “Make it hurt.”

“I’ll make it hurt.” Elle narrowed her eyes at the towel. “I can make it hurt. Who knows more about pain than the submissive of a sadist?”

“You are not a submissive. You never were.”