personal slave whether she fucked him or not. Dominants got off on dominating, and submissives got off on submitting, and if Nora wanted him to mop his floor with his hair, he’d do it with bliss. Finally his long hair would come in handy. But something about that line—Don’t bother packing your halo—made him think that Nora intended to use him for something other than janitorial services. Awesome.
You took my halo over a year ago, he wrote and hit Send with a smile.
Making a quick mental calculation he realized he had forty-nine hours until the car came for him. Forty-nine hours … He’d pack tomorrow, leave the next day, and today he’d be lazy and read.
Digging behind his headboard, he found his copy of Nora’s newest novel. He hadn’t read this one yet. He’d been forcing himself to wait until school was out so he could properly enjoy it. Propping himself up on his pillows, Michael started to flip through to the first page. On the way he stopped at the dedication and looked for Nora’s usual secret message to Father S.
Michael’s eyes widened a little when he saw the dedication page.
To W.R. Many waters …
Michael furrowed his brow at the message.
Who the hell was W.R.?
It took a lot of money to impress Nora Sutherlin. She had enough money of her own to not think very highly of it. And she’d had enough wealthy clients, very wealthy clients and stratospherically wealthy clients and acquaintances, and seen their homes, at least their bedrooms, to know there was more elegance and beauty in Søren’s rectory than in all their mansions combined.
But at her first glimpse of Griffin’s house, farm, estate … dukedom, she couldn’t hold back a flabbergasted, “Holy shit, Griff …”
Nora double-checked her GPS to make sure she hadn’t ended up in Scotland by mistake. Soft rolling hills lay back under sheets of softest green. A white fence ran the length of the fore and back land. And the house—Greek Revival with a touch of medieval castle—rose up proudly, straining across her field of vision. No wonder Griffin had been haunting The 8th Circle less these days. Now that he had installed himself in this secluded Wonderland, he had a private playground of his very own.
She drove up to the massive gate—wrought iron and guarded by two stone griffins on either side. It seemed Griffin had been named for the family avatar.
Nora pressed the call button on the intercom. She’d expected to hear the voice of a servant or security guard.
“Hey, bad girl,” came the deep, sexy voice of The Griffin himself. “Can’t believe the Pope let you out of the Vatican.”
“Call it an indulgence. Now are you going to let me in, Griff?”
“Say please and call me sir.”
“Did you forget who you’re dealing with?” Nora raised her eyebrow and directed a stern stare at the security camera.
“Never, babe. Come on in. Let’s get this orgy started.”
The iron gate screeched open and Nora pulled up to the house—even more impressive up close than from a distance—and turned off the car. The door yawned open as she neared it. Stepping into the cathedral-like foyer, she gazed around her with unabashed awe at the interior; it might be a farm in name but it was a castle in spirit. And coming down the main spiral staircase taking two steps at a time and wearing nothing but a black kilt and Doc Marten boots was the lunatic laird of the manor himself.
Griffin Fiske … He was one of Kingsley’s finds seven years ago. Griffin had been only twenty-two then but he was damaged, dangerous and dead sexy—Kingsley’s favorite combination.
Apparently one night Griffin had been partying at the Möbius, Kingsley’s infamous strip club, and Kingsley watched Griffin beat the hell out of a guy who’d crossed the line with one of the strippers. Six feet tall, bronzed skin and with the broad chest and shoulders of a heavyweight boxer, there wasn’t much in the world more fun to stare at than Griffin Fiske. He had elaborate armband tattoos around both biceps, dark hair that spiked up just too perfectly, and the dirtiest smile she’d ever seen on anyone besides her. The house might be Greek Revival but the master was Greek warrior.
“Fiske isn’t a Scottish name, Griff,” Nora reminded him as he skipped the last four steps to land right in front of her.
“But the house is from Mom’s side. And she was a Raeburn. Anyway, I heard you had a weakness.” He grinned at her before pulling her into a bear hug.
“Two words—easy access,” she said, giving him a sharp swat on the kilt.
“Topping me already? Can’t have that.”
Nora squealed as Griffin picked her up, slung her over his shoulder and started up the stairs.
“Sir?” came a low, well-modulated English accent from the bottom of the stairs. At the landing Griffin turned around before Nora could glimpse the source of the voice.
“Alfred, are you looking up my skirt?” Griffin demanded as Nora squirmed on his shoulder.
“Master Griffin, I would marry my own mother for the excuse to stab my eyes out with her brooches rather than see anything under your kilt,” the man’s voice said with elegant aplomb. “Where would you like your guest’s things, sir?”
“That’s an Oedipus Rex reference,” Nora, the eternal English major, supplied. The voice clearly came from Griffin’s butler, who sounded utterly unperturbed by the sight of his employer strolling around in nothing but a kilt and boots with a woman over his shoulder. Nora guessed this was not an uncommon occurrence.
“Stick them in the Blue Room. And no interruptions for the next couple of hours, please. My guest and I will be fucking. Two hours, Nora?”
“At least,” she agreed.
“Better make it three, Alfred.” Griffin shifted Nora higher on his shoulder and continued up the stairs.
“This is going to be a long summer, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Eight and a half inches long, if you’ll recall.”
Griffin kicked open the door to the master bedroom. He threw her unceremoniously across the monstrous bed draped in mountains of black pillows and luxurious white-and-black-striped sheets. Nora’s heart raced as Griffin climbed on top of her. She playfully put up a struggle but only for the pleasure of having Griffin capture her wrists and push them over her head. If she had to choose only one man to be with the rest of her life, it would be Søren, hands down and for all eternity. But as Griffin held her down with one hand while digging under her skirt with the other, she couldn’t deny Griffin had his own charms.
“Left boot or right?” he asked, teasing her clitoral piercing through her lace panties.
“Right.”
He dug around her right boot and pulled out a condom.
“Griffin, before you fuck me, I have to tell you something.”
Griffin paused after ripping the condom wrapper open with his teeth. He leaned close and put his mouth at her ear.
“Tell
