A clock gently chimed from somewhere in the house, telling them the hour was nine. The sun was almost gone.

“Lay on the bed, on your back, hands behind your head.”

His only act of rebellion was to wait a full three seconds before obeying. But obey he did. He went to the bed, lay down on the thick white antique lace counterpane and rested his head on the pillow.

“Safe word?”

“Yours will do,” he said. Hers was Jabberwocky.

“Hard limits?”

“Decapitation.”

“Søren.”

He looked at her, his eyes saying “silly girl” and his expression patted her on the head.

“Do you really think I have any limits when it comes to pain?”

No, of course she didn’t.

She placed a candle on the bedside table, picked up the handcuffs and took out the key, which she set next to the candle. She wanted to have it in case Søren changed his mind about being restrained.

Carefully, as if he were a wild animal easily startled into attack, she moved onto the bed, kneeling at the head. She took his wrists into her hands, pulled them into place, feeling his pulse under her thumbs. Steady pulse, cool skin. She cuffed his right wrist, and wrapped the links around the center iron bar. Then she snapped the other bracelet on the left wrist, where Søren had his son’s name tattooed over his pulse point. Fionn’s name. Nora’s handwriting. Now she knew what she was going to do to him.

Only when the cuffs were on did she let herself enjoy the moment. She touched his side, touched that shivery spot between his ribs. His skin was cool and supple but at the first trembling contact between his body and hers, gooseflesh rose up all over his chest. Smiling, she lowered her head, kissed the spot she touched. Søren breathed once, hard, but held still. When she raised her head, she saw him watching her every move, like a captured wolf watches its captor from the back of the cage.

Nora left him on the bed and went to the steamer trunk. She took a deep breath and opened the lid of the trunk. Kingsley did not disappoint. One whip. Two sets of floggers. Spreader bar. X-bar. Rope. Rope cuffs. Lube. Bamboo cane. Misery stick. And a tiny brown leather bag full of scalpels. And under the scalpels, a first-aid kit.

While he was looking at the ceiling—no doubt ruing whatever idiotic romance impulse that had led him to make this offer—she looked at him, all six-feet-four long lean strong perfectly proportioned body of a man half his age inches of him. He was probably hating every minute of this. She was in unholy heaven.

Nora took the scalpels out of the trunk and tossed the case on the bed. He wasn’t aroused, not yet, but she could tell he was intrigued. He knew perfectly well what was inside that leather case.

While he watched her, she undressed, laying her clothes on the armchair next to his. She could have tormented him, tossing his clothes on the floor, walking on them, bossing him around and about like he did with her for the sheer heathen pleasure of it all. But she didn’t, couldn’t. This meant too much to her to make light of it. And she knew he’d meant it when he said this was it. She only had this one chance, and she wasn’t going to waste it.