The Christmas Truce

Part I: Nora's Christmas Truce

This story takes place three Christmases before The Siren during Nora & Søren's five-year estrangement.

Now playing: "River" by Joni Mitchell

Westport, Connecticut

"King, I need your finger," Nora said.

Kingsley rose from her overstuffed gray suede armchair and sauntered—as Kingsley did—across the living room floor, his wine glass in his right hand.

"Only one?" he asked as he sat down on the floor next to her. "I thought three was your finger preference?"

"This is my finger preference," she said, showing him one finger in particular.

He raised his hands, surrendering the battle of innuendo. Good. Nora was too tired to play it tonight anyway.

"Where?" he asked.

"Right there," she said, nodding toward the package she was wrapping. "Put your finger on the twine so I can tie a bow here. Consider it an order."

"You don't have to order me to help you wrap my Christmas gifts."

Nora bumped her shoulder into his. "It's more fun for me if I pretend it's an order."

He laughed drunkenly although he was only on glass of wine number two. Then again, Nora had very large wine glasses.

With the help of Kingsley's finger, she tied the bow on the box.

"Who is this one for?" Nora asked as she picked up the package tags.

"What was it?"

"The Canon? The big fancy camera?"

"Simone," Kingsley said. Nora's eyes widened.

"That's a two-thousand-dollar camera, King. Have you been fucking her lately without telling me?"

"She's been you-know-who's personal whipping girl for months now. He left bruises big as your hand on her back two weeks ago. I caught her in my drawing room taking pictures of them."

"To show the cops?"

"She's making a scrapbook of her favorite bruises. That's why I bought the camera with the tripod and timer. The girl deserves hazard pay."

"I never got hazard pay," Nora said under her breath. She finished writing out the tag—To Simone, Thank you for your service. Love, Mr. King—and tied it to the gift.

"You're frowning," Kingsley said. Nora heard a touch of mockery in his tone.

"Am not."

"Green is a Christmas color."

"I am not jealous," she said and meant it.

Kingsley scoffed. "I am."

"Slut," she said. Kingsley rolled onto his back on her floor and balanced his wine glass—still half full—on his stomach. If he spilled red wine all over her new rug, she would flog him within an inch of his life. As sexy as he looked lying there in his jeans, fitted black pullover, and bare feet, she might flog him within an inch of his life anyway. The best part—well, one of many good parts—of being Kingsley's domme was getting to see him like this—relaxed, off-duty, dressed casually. He'd had to go out into the "vanilla world" today finishing his Christmas shopping and had come to her straight after, bags in hand, begging her to save him from the hellish task of wrapping his own gifts. She could never resist a pouty Frenchman. Who could?