The Queen

Kingsley narrowed his eyes at her. “But Griffin’s a dominant.”

“So?”

“You topped him?”

“I did.”

“You topped a top.”

“I’ve topped you,” she said.

“I’m a masochist. Griffin isn’t.”

“Griffin’s barely twenty-three and couldn’t scare someone if he wore a suit made out of knives. He’s a puppy, King. It’s pretty easy to top a puppy when you’ve already topped a...” She looked down at Brutus sitting at Kingsley’s heels. “A Rottweiler.”

Kingsley cocked his eyebrow at that. Probably the first time in his life a woman had ever likened the inestimable Kingsley Edge to a dog.

“You enjoyed it with Griffin?”

“As much as he did. So...a lot.”

“My office. Now.”

“Now? I’m so tired,” she said. “I came like eight times today. I need to put an ice pack on my pussy.”

“Ice later. Talk now. Go.”

Elle went. The fantasy of owning her own house was growing stronger every day. Wouldn’t it be lovely to return home from a day of debauchery to an empty house? Or if not an empty house, a house devoid of her boss. She wouldn’t have to answer questions about where she went and what she did and with whom she did it. Someday...once she got her money. Not money, she corrected. A lot of fucking money.

Since Kingsley would be the source of her getting “a lot of fucking money” she dutifully trudged up to his office and sat gingerly in the chair opposite his desk. Next time she took a year off cock, she’d pick a guy with a much smaller penis to help with her reentry into the world of PIV intercourse.

“I have good news,” Kingsley said. He sat on the edge of his desk in front of her.

“I like good news.”

“Milady will be at the party we’re attending tomorrow night.”

“Good,” Elle said. “Can’t wait for the beat and greet.”

“You think you’re ready to go out again? Be around our people?”

“He won’t be there, will he?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“But eventually you will have to see him again. You need to prepare yourself for that. If you saw him right now, could you handle it?”

Elle paused before answering. Finally she spoke.

“While we were having sex, Griffin called me something. He called me Mistress. Mistress Nor.”

“You liked that?” Kingsley asked.

“I loved it.” She heard the heat in her own voice, the emotion betrayed, and she quickly worked to cover it. “I don’t want to go back to being Eleanor. I want to be Mistress Nor.”

“Nor?”

“Griffin hates the name ‘Eleanor.’ He just started calling me Nor one day and that’s what he calls me. Then he called me Mistress Nor, and when he called me Mistress Nor, it was like I heard my real name for the first time.”

“There is a queen named Noor. Queen of Jordan. Beautiful woman. Brilliant and accomplished. I send her roses on her birthday. It’s a good name for a queen but perhaps not a dominatrix. Nor. Rhymes with whore. Can’t have that, can we?”

“No, I guess not.”

Kingsley leaned over and took her chin in his hand. He looked at her, looked into her eyes, at her face, looked like a man aiming for a target. Where was the bull’s-eye?

“Nora.”

The name sounded elegant with his accent. Strong, sophisticated. Not her name and yet there was her name buried inside it. Those three letters—Eleanor, Nor, Nora...it was her and yet it wasn’t.

“I like it,” she said.

“Mistress Nora. Yes...parfait.”

“It is.”

“Mistress Nora,” he said again. “Nora, la Maîtresse. Son Maîtresse.”

“Votre Maîtresse,” she said, completing the conjugation. The Mistress. His Mistress. Your Mistress.

“Oui,” he said. “Ma Maîtresse.”

My Mistress.

“Mistress Nora,” she said, rolling the name around her mouth and loving the way it tasted—sweet and spiked like Christmas punch.

“What’s my name?” Nora asked.

“Mistress Nora.”

“Who am I?

“Mistress Nora.”

“Who will be Queen of the Underground?”

Kingsley smiled. “Mistress Nora.”