Still, she kept reading, not looking away from the words in front of her.

“The Count of Monte Cristo,” Kingsley said, as he reached out and plucked the book from her hands. “Excellent choice. A story of bitter vengeance with a perfect ending.”

“I’m enjoying it,” she said. “Was enjoying it, until someone rudely interrupted.” She took the book back from him with a flourish and settled into her pillows. It was nearly midnight so she wore only one of Kingsley’s shirts—a white one with pearl buttons down the front. She crossed one leg over the other and attempted to resume her reading. Then she felt Kingsley’s hands on her legs. He uncrossed them for her.

“Kingsley...”

“Are you feeling better, chérie?”

She looked over the top of her book at him.

“Much.”

“Bon. Très bon,” Kingsley said as he bent and kissed her thigh.

She kept reading.

Kingsley opened the third button on his shirt she’d stolen to sleep in. He pushed the fabric aside and kissed her left nipple. She felt a delicious pull in her stomach.

“Kingsley, are you here to seduce me?” she asked. “While I’m trying to read?”

He rolled his tongue around her nipple before answering, “Oui.”

“Oh,” she said, closing the book with a loud snap. “What the fuck am I doing reading this then?”

She tossed the book across the room. Kingsley laughed and sat up.

“You should be nicer to Dumas,” he said. “The greatest French novelist.”

“I’d rather be nice to you, monsieur. The greatest French lover.”

Kingsley straddled her knees and kissed her on the lips. It was a slow, soft sensual kiss, merely a prelude to whatever decadent plans he had for her that night. As much as she missed Søren when he was gone, at least he always left her with the world’s best babysitter.

Kingsley slipped his hand under her shirt and rested it on her stomach. Like the well-trained submissive she was, she opened her legs for him and gave him access to every part of her he could possibly want.

He parted the folds of her vulva with his fingertips and gently massaged the outside of her vagina. When she grew wet from his touch, he pushed one finger into her.

“You’re the only woman I come inside,” he said, kneading her favorite spot right under her pubic bone. “Did you know that?”

She flushed a little at his words. Kingsley was adamant about using condoms. There wasn’t a room in the house that didn’t hold a crystal bowl of them. But with her he never used one. Her and only her.

“I know, monsieur.”

“Do you know why?” he asked, pushing in a second finger.

“No.”

“He comes inside you,” Kingsley said. “And that makes this hole very special to me.”

She laughed and raised her hips.

“Come inside me all you want. He gave me to you. Until he gets back, I’m all yours.”

They kissed again, kissed for a long time as he fucked her with his fingers. He spread them apart inside her, opening her up for him. Soon she was dripping wet and panting.

“I was thinking of trying something special with you,” Kingsley said. “Since you are so special to him and to me.”

“Anything you want,” she said. “You know I’ll do whatever you tell me to do.”

Kingsley kissed her earlobe, her neck under her ear.

“Come to my bedroom. I’ll tell you there. But...”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“But what?”

“What we do, it will have to stay a secret,” he whispered.

“A secret? From who?”

“From him.”

She stiffened a moment.

“Why do we have to keep it a secret from Søren?” she asked. “He doesn’t care what kink we do.”

“He’ll care about this,” Kingsley said with a smile that for one split second looked almost nervous.

“What is it?”

Kingsley pulled his fingers out of her.

“Come find out. If you dare,” he said, and the old roguish smile was back.

He left her alone in her bedroom as he walked back to his.

Eleanor wanted to follow him, but she hesitated. What could Kingsley have planned for them tonight that was so kinky he didn’t want her to tell Søren about it? She and Kingsley had done every sort of kink she could think of, even the harder stuff like rape-play, breath-play, blood-play. Søren was usually there for it, but not always. All that mattered to Søren was that she was a good girl, submitted to Kingsley when told to and told Søren all the erotic details of whatever happened afterward.

Something they couldn’t tell Søren? A mix of desire and curiosity led her down the hall to Kingsley’s bedroom. When she opened the door she found he’d lit half a dozen candles. They burned on each side of his big red bed. And the dogs that always slept in his room at the foot of his bed were nowhere to be seen.

“Lock the door,” he said, a rare command. No one would dare interrupt the master of the house in his bedroom without knocking first.

She locked the door behind her.

“King, I’m a little freaked out here,” she admitted as she walked to him. He stood by the bed and had already started undressing. He was barefoot and had removed his jacket. He could have been the Count of Monte Cristo with his fitted black trousers, his white shirt and black-and-red embroidered vest. His hair was looking particularly Byronic tonight. His ex-girlfriend Charlie had cut it short, but he’d started growing it back out and now it curled its way to his earlobes.