a time he found her attractive, but today she repulsed him. He wanted to take her arms off him, but it wouldn’t do to upset her. He needed her. More accurately, he needed her husband. Robert Dixon was working his way up. He’d be mayor someday if he continued on his current career trajectory. Kingsley would love to have a mayor in his pocket.
So he smiled at her, played nice and let her kiss him.
“I laughed because I was remembering something.”
“What were you remembering?”
“I don’t remember,” he lied.
She went to a chest of drawers, opened the top drawer and pulled out a leather makeup case. She opened it and laid out two lines of cocaine. She’d probably been on it while he’d fucked her. Would explain why she couldn’t shut up now.
“I heard you and Robert went shooting together,” Phoebe said.
“I had to discuss something with him.”
“Me?” she asked with a saccharine smile.
“Work,” Kingsley said. “Just work. Your name didn’t come up.”
“Good,” she said. “Just checking.” She handed him the rolled up bill. “Have some. We’ll go for round two.”
Kingsley tried to look enthusiastic about the prospect of fucking her again. She laid out two more lines for him. He hated coke, hated how much one hit made him want another hit half an hour later. But maybe if he couldn’t get it up again for round two, he’d have the drugs to blame.
Phoebe got on her knees in front of him and took his cock in her mouth. He breathed deep and tried to think of the most erotic images he could conjure, anything to get him back in the mood. For some reason all that came to mind were memories of Søren and those stolen nights together when they were teenagers. Luckily that worked, and he felt himself starting to grow hard again.
“Mom?” A small boy’s voice called out in the hallway. Phoebe pulled back and exhaled with frustration.
“Give me a minute, Cody. Mommy just got out of the shower.”
“I got sick at Tyler’s. They brought me home.”
“Wait there, baby. Mommy’s coming.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes.
“He’s supposed to be with friends tonight. Sorry,” she whispered to Kingsley as she stood to her feet. She started to pick her robe up off the floor but then noticed the semen stain. She grabbed a terry-cloth bathrobe from inside her closet and pulled it tight around her.
“I’ll go. It’s fine,” Kingsley said, relieved to have such an easy out.
“I’ll call soon. I promise.”
“Take your time,” he said, wishing she’d never call him again.
“You’re amazing.” She gave him a long deep kiss that Kingsley returned with no enthusiasm whatsoever. “The sexiest man on earth. See you soon? Please?”
“Bien sûr.”
“I love the French. Rape me in French next time.” She kissed him again and pointed at the nightstand. “It’s in there. I’ll call.”
She left him alone in the room. Kingsley waited until the voices disappeared from the hallway. He opened the drawer she’d pointed to, and he found the envelope. He slipped out the door, down the stairs and grabbed a cab. All he wanted to do was take a quick shower, wash Phoebe off him and get back to his blackjack game with Søren.
He raced up the stairs to his front door, his heart pounding as the coke hit his bloodstream.
When he strode through the foyer, he noticed two well-turned ankles shod in a pair of beige pumps resting on the arm of his sofa in his sitting room.
“Blaise?” He peered over the back of the sofa and found a rather euphoric-looking Blaise laying supine and looking sublime. She had a bowl of strawberries balanced on her chest.
“Bonne soir, monsieur.” She gave a tired happy laugh and popped a strawberry in her mouth. Her usually perfectly coiffed hair was now mussed, and it appeared she’d gotten undressed and redressed at some point. “I love your house. It’s the best house in New York. Have I ever told you that?”
He narrowed his eyes at her.
“Are you stoned?”
She shook her head and giggled. “Nope. This is all afterglow.”
“Afterglow?”
“You know what’s amazing, King? He didn’t even lay a hand on me. But that was easily—” she made a huge sweeping gesture with her arm “—easily the best pain I’ve ever experienced.”
“Pain?”
“A little B, a little D and a lot of S&M. I was the M.”
“You were the M, were you?”
“It was amazing. Your friend is a god of pain.”
“Who? Who’s a god?”
“Your blond friend. Søren.”
Kingsley glared down at her.
“You had sex with Søren while I was gone?”
“No, Silly. I said he hardly touched me. He didn’t have to. His soul touched me. His pain touched me.”
“You’re out of your mind. How did this happen?”
“I don’t know.” She raised both hands in the air to stretch. “After you left he asked me how I spelled my name. I said like Blaise Pascal, and then he told me about how Blaise Pascal, he was a mathematician who—”
“He hated the Jesuits. Wrote all sorts of slanderous, and therefore true, things about them.”
“That. Anyway, we were talking, and then I did what you said I should do and I took him up to the playroom—the one with the Francis Bacon painting over the bed—and suddenly I’m getting flogged and whipped, and then I had an orgasm from the pain alone. Then I was down here with my skirt on backward. I raided your fridge. You know kink makes me hungry.”
She lifted her bowl of strawberries and offered him one. Kingsley ignored them.
“Do you think you and your friend would tag-team me someday?”
“No. Eat your strawberries. I need to talk to the god.”
“Tell him I want to kiss his feet. Again.”
“I’ll pass that along.”
She waved her hand, shooing him from the room.
“Søren?” Kingsley shouted as he ran up the stairs.
“I’m
