The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(19)

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

the bed and kicked at her ankles until she parted her shaking

thighs. He pressed the barrel of the gun into her throat. “But

I like how you do it.”

Tossing the gun aside, he opened his pants and slammed

inside her. Her body clenched around him tighter with each

thrust. Despite her pleas and her protests, she grew wetter

the more he rammed into her, the harder he worked her. But he couldn’t come, not yet. Although he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. Sex with Phoebe was business, not

pleasure, and he hated the work.

As she moaned underneath him, crying against the intrusion, Kingsley closed his eyes and disappeared to another place,

another time. The elegant and well-appointed bedroom he

stood in disappeared and dissolved. The hunter-green walls

and the modern art prints faded away and rough wood took

their place. The king-size bed adorned with silk sheets and

pillows was gone, and now a small cot sat on the f loor near a

fireplace. And Kingsley lay on his side facing the fire. “You have a bruise on your neck under your ear,” S?ren

said, touching the sensitive spot with his fingertip. “It’ll go

above your collar.”

“If someone says anything, I’ll tell them a tree hit me.” S?ren laughed softly and kissed the bruise.