His grip on her hair tightened. He pulled—not hard but firmly—and she knew he wanted her to stand. She moved into a kneeling position again, tucking her toes under and rising straight up off the floor, a skill she’d learned at his knee when she was young and had never forgotten.

When she came to her feet, he turned her toward the bed. With the tips of his fingers alone, he pushed her forward until her face rested against the duvet. She placed her hands on the bed by her head as he used his bare feet to spread her legs apart.

A snap. She flinched. He hadn’t struck with the belt. Not yet. For now, he was merely using it to get her attention.

He had it.

“Thirty-four,” he said, and that was all he said. Thirty-four…that was how many nights he’d been gone. It was also how many times he would belt her. She’d belted enough of her clients to know he would double it in his hand to shorten the length and make it easier to control. And with the first strike right on her upper right thigh, she knew she was right. When it came to a sustained beating, precision was far more important than power.

The second strike was far harder than the first, and she buried her mouth against the bed to silence her cries of pain. They were in the middle of a bustling neighborhood in a hotel with dozens of guests in the rooms around and under them. Screaming was discouraged…but not forbidden. This was the French Quarter. These things happened.

The blows built and built upon her ass and thighs. She breathed harder, moaned softer. She’d lost count at twenty. The impact barely registered anymore, only the fire, only the burning. Leather on flesh creates friction. Friction creates heat. The room was cold when she’d arrived. Now it felt like a hundred degrees.

Nora flinched as something landed next to her on the bed. She waited, but nothing happened. It was over. The beating done and the belt discarded. With her eyes hidden behind the sash, her sense of hearing heightened. She heard the sounds she wanted to hear—the rustle of fabric as Søren took off his clothes. When he came back to her, she felt his bare thighs against hers. He touched the welts he’d left on her body, probing them lightly with his fingers, tracing the raised edges, feeling the heat of them against his palm. Admiring his work, of course.

Nora let herself go limp as Søren pulled and turned her this way and that, until she lay on the bed on her back, hips at the edge of the mattress. He spread her thighs wide as he moved between them and pushed his fingers into her. He stroked upward, rubbing the front wall where she was so wet and tender and aching. He wetted his fingers inside her and massaged the wetness over her throbbing clitoris. Nora’s shoulders nearly came off the bed as he touched every part of her that needed touching.