“Put your shoes on, Eleanor.”

And without another word he turned and walked away. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of watching him go. She stepped back into her house, shut and locked the door behind her and winced in agony.

He was right. She should have put on some fucking shoes. Standing outside barefoot in forty-degree weather was incredibly stupid.

Nora stood with her back to her front door stamping her feet and waiting for the pins in her feet sensation to fade.

She raised her hand to her face and wiped away an unwelcome tear with her fingertips. She hated fighting with Søren. Play-fighting was one thing. Saying “I hate you, you big blond asshole” was one thing. Acting like they were archenemies for the amusement of The 8th Circle’s denizens was one thing.

This was another thing entirely. And it hurt.

She looked at the two beer bottles on her coffee table. The first time she’d gone to Europe she’d been with Søren. The trip was a gift from Kingsley to them both. Søren was a wine drinker, not a beer drinker. Except, he’d said to her, the Trappist monks in Belgium made the most perfect beer in the world. If Christ had turned water into beer instead of wine it would taste like Achel Blonde. He’d taken her to Denmark to meet his family, Belgium to drink their beer, Germany to visit her ancestral stomping grounds, and Paris because Kingsley had grown up there and she’d wanted to see his old house, his old neighborhood, his old life he’d left behind. Those were the two most perfect weeks of her life. And then they’d come back to America, back to Connecticut, back to Søren being a Catholic priest, back to her being his dirty little secret.

She never forgot that trip, never stopped drinking that perfect Belgian beer, and never forgotten how hard it was to come home. In Europe when he was off-duty, they’d walked in the sunlight together. Back in America, she could see him only at night, only in secret, only in the shadows.

Pain no longer needled her feed. She picked up the bottles off the coffee table, poured the contents down her kitchen drain and threw the empties into the recycling bin. She’d yelled at Søren for living in the past.

Maybe she should take her own advice. Right now.

She walked back to her bedroom and found Lance still sleeping. He looked pretty damn comfortable in her bed. Too comfortable. She woke him up with a few bites on his shoulders, a few bites on his chest.

His eyelashes fluttered open and Nora raised a finger to her lips, bidding him to remain quiet. As she bit him and nibbled on him, he managed to stay silent but for a few tight intakes of air.

She bit a path up to his ear and kissed it before whispering, “Two nights ago you made me come using just your mouth and no hands. Now you get to use your hands...but nothing else. Understand?”