She walked barefoot to the dormer window that overlooked Chartres Street. Pedestrians passed by, some sober, some not. Some laughing, some not. Two lovers kissed in the glow of a streetlamp before stumbling off to darker corners for deeper kisses.

The floor creaked under the carpet behind her. Nora smiled.

Although she desperately wanted to turn to him, look at him, drink him in, she kept her eyes forward and down. She removed her collar from her bag, and dropped the bag onto the floor. She held her collar up in the palm of her hand.

He took it from her without a word and locked it around her neck.

When he lifted her hair and kissed her neck, Nora tensed. Instinct told her to panic, to pull the curtains closed and to step back into the dark where no one could see them together. Habits die hard, especially the habit of hiding that she was the mistress of a Catholic priest.

But now…Nora let go.

Søren brought his hands to her head and tied a sash around her eyes. Two cool fingers slipped under the straps of her black dress. He slowly brought the straps down her arms, down her body, down her legs, down to the floor. Black panties came next. In seconds, she was naked but for the blindfold. She felt the scrape of soft fabric on her bare back. He was still dressed.

She felt a hand between their bodies—her lower back and his waist—and the brief touch of cold metal. A belt buckle. Then the rush of sliding leather on bare skin as he pulled his belt out of the loops. It grazed her skin as he brought it around her.

She didn’t need to see to know that he held the ends of the leather belt in both hands in front of her. First, he pulled it taut against her hips, forcing her back against him so that she couldn’t run or flee if she wanted to, and no, no, no she did not want to, especially not when he kissed her naked shoulder. The kiss felt different. Off, somehow…like it wasn’t him. She stiffened in fear and confusion. Had someone tricked her into coming here?

“Shh…” he whispered into her ear as he caressed the side of her face with two fingers. She turned her head toward him, into his hand, into his palm and it was like breathing in a gust of winter wind. Oh yes, this was him.

She relaxed and started to say something like, “You scared me, you monster,” when he brushed his fingers over her lips, silencing her. She didn’t need his words to tell her none were allowed. Not until he gave her permission to speak.

He kissed her shoulder again. A chill as delicious as a cool breeze on a steaming New Orleans night passed through her, down to her toes. Twenty-three years together, and he could still make her toes curl and give her goosebumps and scare her down to the bone. Especially when he lifted the belt to her neck and pulled her back against him again. The pressure on her throat wasn’t painful—the collar protected her vocal cords—but it did change her breathing. Her breathing and his.