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Rikard smiled at the limp, sweat-soaked woman sprawled across the whipping bench. He felt sated with power, relaxed and replete. Her charming insistence that she would never beg had made him as hard as the leather-wrapped handle of his whip, eager to prove her wrong. And her voice as she came! Perfection.
His lips twisted, self-mockery spoiling the moment. His proficiency in playing the human body had grown over the past two years, after he realized the scar tissue in his left hand would never allow him to play the piano again. Like a blind man whose hearing grows acute to compensate, he’d been given another instrument to assuage his loss. Sometimes it helped.
Now, though, his ears were filled with Gayle’s slow rise to that final, drawn-out note. His mind stacked chord progressions beneath, with a series of descending sevenths in staccato triplets as counterpoints.
He freed her arms from the restraints, then lifted her up to lay her on her side on the bench. Popping the recessed latch on the concealed closet, he retrieved a thick white robe in soft French terry. The logo of some hotel he no longer remembered was embroidered on the breast in gold thread.
Carefully, he wrapped her in the fluffy embrace of the robe. She gave no sign of awareness, letting him dress her as if she was a rag doll.
Another thrill of power surged through him, stiffening his cock. He’d well and thoroughly pleased her, his touch shooting her deep into whatever place subs went when their minds left their bodies. If all went well, when she woke, she’d be eager for sex. He didn’t always want sex with his submissives. Often, the rush of dominating them was enough. But he wanted sex with Gayle.
He’d take her from behind, the reddened marks of his whipping visible on her pale, perfect skin as he thrust into her, again and again, driving him into a frenzy until she came in a crying symphony of delight.
But first, she needed to rest in warmth and safety. Swinging her up into his arms, he carried her from the room.
He was almost at the doorway to the home theater when an annoyingly chirped rendition of an old Motown classic stopped him in his tracks. What the hell was that?
“Shit!” Gayle’s cell phone.
Chapter Five
Rikard hurried into the kitchen. Placing Gayle’s limp body in one of the chairs, he held her steady with one hand while he dumped her purse out on the table. There!
Grabbing the chirping phone, he flipped it open and took the call.
“Hello. Gayle can’t come to the phone right now.”
There was a moment of silence, followed by a woman’s accusing voice demanding, “Where is she, and what have you done to her?”
“She’s right here, but she’s asleep. And as for what I did, I’ll say she enjoyed it, and leave it at that.”
“I don’t believe you. Put Gayle on the phone.”
Rikard took a deep breath, and flipped the switch in his mind that engaged the other new instrument he’d been gifted with after his accident. He’d studied self-hypnosis as a way to manage the agonizing pain of the third-degree burns, working with the visualizations his therapists suggested. It hadn’t been very effective until he’d tried recording himself, and playing back his spoken suggestions. Then it was surprisingly successful. Even more surprisingly, he developed the ability to hypnotize others into sharing his visualizations—or any other belief he wanted them to hold.
“Gayle is asleep,” he repeated, his voice vibrating with hidden emphasis. “She is safe, and you have no cause for fear. Call back in an hour, and she’ll speak to you then.”
“Well, if she’s really asleep, I suppose you shouldn’t wake her. I’ll call back in an hour. But if I still can’t talk to her then, I’m calling the cops!”
“You are a good friend to her. She will thank you for your concern when she wakes.”
“She’d better.”
The phone went dead in his hand.
He dropped it onto the table, ignoring the scattered debris from Gayle’s purse, and lifted her into his arms again. That had been close. He’d sworn that she’d told her friend all was well and not to call again. Then again, he hadn’t heard her entire conversation, just snippets between the sizzles of the tuna steaks. It’s possible her friend had convinced her to continue the calls. Or else, her friend had called back despite Gayle’s request to leave them alone.
Carrying her into the home theater, he sighed. He wasn’t sure how long she’d sleep, but it wou
ld probably be long enough that any sex would have to wait until after her friend’s damnable follow-up call.
He kicked out the recliner, then settled into it with Gayle cradled in his arms. She snuggled closer, her cheek resting just above his heart. One-handed, he flipped the top of the built-in table, exposing the storage area beneath housing his remote controls, as well as one of his ever-present notepads of staff paper. After all, inspiration could strike anywhere.
The DVD in the player spun up. Amadeus. Damn, he had been feeling melancholy the last time he’d watched a movie, hadn’t he? Well, he wasn’t about to get up and disturb Gayle’s sleep again. And you couldn’t argue with the beauty of Mozart’s music. He’d just fast-forward through the bits with Salieri falling into a suicidal depression because he’d been given the desire to create music but not the ability.
He was smiling, nodding in time with the music, until he reached the scene where Mozart attended a party, and was asked to play a piece of music in the style of Bach. When that triumph was not enough, the party guests flipped him on his back and demanded he play that way, reaching behind his head to the keyboard. He did, gloriously, until his father’s ominous displeasure ruined everything.
Rikard thumbed the DVD off, his throat tight and his eyes burning. He’d once tried that trick at a party. Had it been the tour in Munich? Although not on a par with Mozart’s movie performance, he’d done a credible job.
