Søren lay with her, leg over her hip, every inch of his long body pressed close to her.

“I’ll take your blindfold off now,” he said, “but you have to promise not to laugh.”

“Laugh at what?” she asked, and he answered by taking off her blindfold.

She raised a hand to Søren’s face and stroked his brand-new blond and gray beard. She didn’t laugh, but she did smile.

“I like it.”

Chapter Ten

For the second time that day, Nora found herself giving a beautiful man a neck massage. She straddled Søren’s lower back and dug her hands deep into the muscles of his neck and shoulders. He released a small groan of pleasure.

“You missed more than my cunt, I guess,” she said.

He grinned, laughed softly. “I did,” he said. “But especially that.”

“Do I want to know what you’ve been doing for the past month?” She ran her fingers through his hair. It needed cutting, but wasn’t quite out of control yet. She decided he looked like a well-groomed Viking with the beard and the longer hair.

“Riding. Thinking. Trying not to think.”

“Did you play with anyone?”

“That is between me and Vegas.”

He laughed and rolled over. She let him. Instead of straddling his back, she straddled his stomach. The bright streetlights of the French Quarter shone into the room. She could see his face, his eyes, his smile. She bent and kissed him, then rubbed her cheek against his cheek.

“Mmm…abrasion play,” she said. “I could get used to this.”

He wrapped his arms around her and dragged her down to his chest. She was content to just lay there a good long while…until she remembered how mad she was at him.

Nora sat up again on his stomach and pointed her finger down at her face.

“Why did you leave us?” she demanded. “Kingsley’s been a wreck. I’ve been a wreck. Even Juliette’s been worried.”

“I sent postcards.”

“Yes. Blank ones.”

“I didn’t know what to write.” He sounded almost sorry. Almost. “Just know every card meant ‘I love you, I miss you, this is where you can find me.’”

“Find you? From a postcard? You didn’t even take your phone with you. What if you’d gotten in an accident? What if the Hells Angels decided to beat you up and forced you to get tattoos and hepatitis?”

His brow furrowed. “Eleanor, what are you talking about?”

“Kingsley was worried the Hells Angels would force you to join their motorcycle club and commit crimes with them. And then he said something about tattoos and hepatitis. He’s having a minor mental breakdown. Again.”

“I didn’t join the Hells Angels. But might have gotten a tattoo.”

“You did not.”

“I did.” He smiled at her.

“I have begged to get a tattoo of the Jabberwocky on my back for a decade, and you’ve told me ‘no’ every time. Why can you get a tattoo and I can’t?”

“First of all—mine is very small. Second, you can’t see your own back. I can. I don’t want to be forced to make awkward eye contact with a creature from a demented children’s book while I’m attempting to sodomize you.”