The Virgin
Page 121
“I realize this.”
“You know I’m not capable of behaving under the best of circumstances. You are asking the impossible.”
“Is this going to be a problem?”
“It is the opposite of a problem. It is the best thing that ever happened to me.” Eleanor walked over to him and looked him up and down. He was in full Scottish regalia—black-and-blue plaid kilt, black socks, black shoes, blue sporran, black clerical shirt with his black jacket. He hadn’t put on his collar yet so his shirt was open at the neck. His blond hair was wet and combed back and with the hint of his lean and muscular runner’s legs peeking out from under the kilt, he looked as if he’d stepped out of a fever dream she’d had once and was apparently having again.
“Clergy in Scotland have their own tartan. I’m to wear it during the ceremony.”
“I need your cock, not a lecture on Scottish fashion,” Nora said. “Right now.” She grabbed his hand and attempted to drag him toward the bed. He didn’t budge.
“This is not happening, Little One.”
“I’m going to violate you in so many ways you’re going to have PTSD when I’m done with you.”
“I already have PTSD from this conversation.”
“Shut up, blondie, and get on the bed.”
“Eleanor, no. Red. Stop. Safe word. We have work to do.”
“Fucking first. Work after. You can slice me up like a Thanksgiving turkey if you want. Get hard and lie there. I’m getting under that kilt whether you like it or not.”
“Rape-play is one of my hard limits.”
“Who’s playing?”
“Eleanor.”
She looked at him and pouted. Really pouted. The pout to end all pouts.
Søren took a heavy breath.
“Fine. Best we get it out of your system now so I don’t have to worry about being fondled during the ceremony. But make it quick. I’m supposed to meet with the wedding party in half an hour.”
“You’ll never know what hit you.” Twenty-two years in love with this man and she still wanted him as much today as she did when she was a teenager. More even, but that was the kilt’s fault. She pushed him down onto his back on the bed and straddled his hips. She ripped off her shirt and threw it on the floor. Pulling her down to him, he kissed her lips, then her neck.
“Are you a true Scotsman?” she asked, sliding her hand up under the kilt. She encountered nothing but Søren.
In an instant he had her on her back, his hand pressing lightly on her throat. He roughly yanked her bra down her arms to bare her breasts. He lowered his head and bit her hard on the shoulder. Søren needed to inflict pain to get aroused, and she didn’t mind at all. If he had to set the bed on fire and sacrifice a virgin to get hard, Nora would hand over a lighter, a dagger and every unsullied teenager in a ten-mile radius—that’s how much she wanted him right now.
So of course, right then, someone knocked on her goddamn door.
“Unless the castle is on fire and the British are invading, go away,” she yelled at the knocker.
“We have an emergency, Mrs. Sutherlin.”
She looked up at Søren.
“If you’re Mrs. Sutherlin, who’s Mr. Sutherlin?” he asked with his eyebrow cocked in suspicion.
“Vanillas.” She sighed. To the girl at the door she yelled, “What’s the emergency? Somebody better be dead.”
“We’re missing the groom.”
“Oh my God.” She dropped her head back onto the bed. “Next time I agree to plan a wedding, please tie me to the bed until the fit of madness passes.”
“I’ll do that anyway. Go. Save the wedding. We’ll play later.” He got off of her and straightened his clothes.
“You’re in a kilt and you’re not inside me. This is the worst day of my life.” She sighed. “And I’ve been kidnapped.”
She grabbed her shirt off the floor and pulled it on more angrily than she’d ever put on a shirt in her life. That shirt was lucky to survive.
“You.” She pointed at Søren. “You guard that kilt with your life. I plan on violating the sanctity of it and you as soon as I can.”
“The kilt is not going anywhere, and neither am I,” he said. “Now go, before you assault me again.”
“You’re not out of the woods yet,” she said. “Tonight you and your body and your kilt are mine.”
“Have you forgotten who the Dominant is in this relationship, young lady?”
She exhaled heavily.
“Do I have your permission to violate you ten ways to Sunday tonight? Please and thank you, sir?”
“Yes, you may.”
“Thank God.”
She threw the door open and looked the interrupter in the face.
“Now tell me, please, what the fuck is happening?” Nora demanded of the girl. “I’m trying to fornicate with a priest in here.”
Before the scared Scottish lass could speak, Juliette came running down the hall toward her looking both panicked and elegant which was a look only she could pull off.
“Nora, we need you,” Juliette said. “He refuses to come out of his room.”
“Which he?” she asked. “Groom A or Groom B?”
“Groom A,” Juliette said.
“Thought so. Wait, which one did we decide was Groom A?” Nora asked.
“A,” Juliette said, waving her hands like wings. “For Angel.”
“You know I’m not capable of behaving under the best of circumstances. You are asking the impossible.”
“Is this going to be a problem?”
“It is the opposite of a problem. It is the best thing that ever happened to me.” Eleanor walked over to him and looked him up and down. He was in full Scottish regalia—black-and-blue plaid kilt, black socks, black shoes, blue sporran, black clerical shirt with his black jacket. He hadn’t put on his collar yet so his shirt was open at the neck. His blond hair was wet and combed back and with the hint of his lean and muscular runner’s legs peeking out from under the kilt, he looked as if he’d stepped out of a fever dream she’d had once and was apparently having again.
“Clergy in Scotland have their own tartan. I’m to wear it during the ceremony.”
“I need your cock, not a lecture on Scottish fashion,” Nora said. “Right now.” She grabbed his hand and attempted to drag him toward the bed. He didn’t budge.
“This is not happening, Little One.”
“I’m going to violate you in so many ways you’re going to have PTSD when I’m done with you.”
“I already have PTSD from this conversation.”
“Shut up, blondie, and get on the bed.”
“Eleanor, no. Red. Stop. Safe word. We have work to do.”
“Fucking first. Work after. You can slice me up like a Thanksgiving turkey if you want. Get hard and lie there. I’m getting under that kilt whether you like it or not.”
“Rape-play is one of my hard limits.”
“Who’s playing?”
“Eleanor.”
She looked at him and pouted. Really pouted. The pout to end all pouts.
Søren took a heavy breath.
“Fine. Best we get it out of your system now so I don’t have to worry about being fondled during the ceremony. But make it quick. I’m supposed to meet with the wedding party in half an hour.”
“You’ll never know what hit you.” Twenty-two years in love with this man and she still wanted him as much today as she did when she was a teenager. More even, but that was the kilt’s fault. She pushed him down onto his back on the bed and straddled his hips. She ripped off her shirt and threw it on the floor. Pulling her down to him, he kissed her lips, then her neck.
“Are you a true Scotsman?” she asked, sliding her hand up under the kilt. She encountered nothing but Søren.
In an instant he had her on her back, his hand pressing lightly on her throat. He roughly yanked her bra down her arms to bare her breasts. He lowered his head and bit her hard on the shoulder. Søren needed to inflict pain to get aroused, and she didn’t mind at all. If he had to set the bed on fire and sacrifice a virgin to get hard, Nora would hand over a lighter, a dagger and every unsullied teenager in a ten-mile radius—that’s how much she wanted him right now.
So of course, right then, someone knocked on her goddamn door.
“Unless the castle is on fire and the British are invading, go away,” she yelled at the knocker.
“We have an emergency, Mrs. Sutherlin.”
She looked up at Søren.
“If you’re Mrs. Sutherlin, who’s Mr. Sutherlin?” he asked with his eyebrow cocked in suspicion.
“Vanillas.” She sighed. To the girl at the door she yelled, “What’s the emergency? Somebody better be dead.”
“We’re missing the groom.”
“Oh my God.” She dropped her head back onto the bed. “Next time I agree to plan a wedding, please tie me to the bed until the fit of madness passes.”
“I’ll do that anyway. Go. Save the wedding. We’ll play later.” He got off of her and straightened his clothes.
“You’re in a kilt and you’re not inside me. This is the worst day of my life.” She sighed. “And I’ve been kidnapped.”
She grabbed her shirt off the floor and pulled it on more angrily than she’d ever put on a shirt in her life. That shirt was lucky to survive.
“You.” She pointed at Søren. “You guard that kilt with your life. I plan on violating the sanctity of it and you as soon as I can.”
“The kilt is not going anywhere, and neither am I,” he said. “Now go, before you assault me again.”
“You’re not out of the woods yet,” she said. “Tonight you and your body and your kilt are mine.”
“Have you forgotten who the Dominant is in this relationship, young lady?”
She exhaled heavily.
“Do I have your permission to violate you ten ways to Sunday tonight? Please and thank you, sir?”
“Yes, you may.”
“Thank God.”
She threw the door open and looked the interrupter in the face.
“Now tell me, please, what the fuck is happening?” Nora demanded of the girl. “I’m trying to fornicate with a priest in here.”
Before the scared Scottish lass could speak, Juliette came running down the hall toward her looking both panicked and elegant which was a look only she could pull off.
“Nora, we need you,” Juliette said. “He refuses to come out of his room.”
“Which he?” she asked. “Groom A or Groom B?”
“Groom A,” Juliette said.
“Thought so. Wait, which one did we decide was Groom A?” Nora asked.
“A,” Juliette said, waving her hands like wings. “For Angel.”
