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“Hello, this is Gayle.”
“Hello, Gayle. This is Rikard. I got your response to my ad.”
A wave of warmth curled through her as his voice stroked and caressed her. The soft, slightly husky tone welcomed her to an intimate conversation, and suggested he might have been as moved by her response as she was by his initial ad.
Or, she might be reading way too much into the whole thing, and the poor man was getting over a cold.
She chuckled, half in nervousness and half at her own overblown imagination. “So, I guess you liked the sound of it, since you called back.”
“Yes, I did. Are you a musician?”
“Programmer. But I do some community theatre on the side.”
“Ah. I thought you sounded like you’d had training.”
“Sister Jane would be pleased to know some of her lessons stuck. How about you? Are you a musician?”
He hesitated just a moment before saying, “Composer.”
“Really? What do you write?”
“A little of everything. Jazz. Pop songs. Jingles.”
“Jingles?”
“It pays the rent.” He laughed, the sound spearing to her core as if he’d suddenly appeared in her office, thrown her onto her desk, spread her legs and thrust deep inside her.
Gayle smothered a moan. Her breasts were tight and tingling, aching for his fingers to squeeze the pebbled nipples, or for his hot mouth to cover the tips and suck deeply. Her stomach quivered. And the flesh between her legs pulsed with every heartbeat, wet and steaming, ready for his fingers, his mouth, or his long, hard cock to push deep, again and again, until she screamed her release. Or shrilled it over and over like a demented Mozart aria.
“If you’re a programmer, you’re probably at work.”
Gayle answered with an affirmative noise.
“I won’t keep you long, then. Would you like to get together to talk more in person?”
“I’d love to,” she answered immediately. Then thoughts of all the horror stories about blind dates prompted her to caution. “How about Saturday? We could meet for lunch or coffee at the café on the corner of Washington and Twelfth.”
“Coffee. Say, two o’clock?”
“Sounds great. How will I recognize you?”
“I’m tall, shoulder-length blond hair, and will be wearing green sunglasses and a black leather jacket. You?”
“My hair’s dark brown, in a kind of pageboy, although my stylist had a more expensive name for it. I’ll probably be wearing a denim barn jacket with black velvet trim.”
“Sounds like you’re very sensual.”
“Wait until Saturday, and you can see for yourself.”
He chuckled, a dark rumble of sound that wasn’t quite as intense as his earlier laugh had been—more like he was leaning over her for some intense French kissing, while his hand fondled beneath her skirt.
“I’ll count the hours.”
“Me too.”
After he hung up, Gayle remained clutching the handset, panting for breath, while her clit throbbed, begging for his touch. If he was half as scrumptious in person as he sounded over the phone, she was a goner. She hung up, and furtively pinched her nipples. The sharp pain triggered a wave of heat that rolled over her. It wasn’t as good as an orgasm, but it was some relief.
She’d treat herself to a long, hot bubble bath tonight when she got home, soaping herself all over and pretending it was Rikard’s hands sliding over her slick skin, imagining Rikard’s mouth on hers, dreaming of his cock thrusting in and out, harder and faster, until she came beneath him in a sobbing, screaming rush.
