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Rikard put down the knife and cupped both of her exposed breasts in his gloved hands, his thumbs flicking back and forth across her pebbled nipples.
“I had to be sure of you,” he whispered huskily. “You could have screamed.”
“I will never betray you,” she choked out through her tears.
He grabbed her savaged dress and pulled it over her head, tossing it aside as soon as the heavy skirt cleared her face. Her legs were spread, exposing her pulsing need for him. He cupped he
r pussy, and she groaned in agonized pleasure. Her entire body throbbed in time to her heartbeat, from her tingling breasts all the way down to her toes. He slipped two fingers inside her soaking wet channel.
“Please,” she sobbed. “Please. I need you inside me.”
“Enough games,” he growled. “Let Zorro have Consuela. Master Rikard wants to make love to Gayle.”
“Yes! Please.”
“And I want to do it in a comfortable bed.”
Swinging her up into his arms, he carried her into the guest room. A moment later, his pants were down, a condom sheathed his cock, and he was kneeling between her widespread legs.
“Please, Rikard. Don’t make me wait any longer.”
He thrust, hard and sure, filling her with one strong stroke. Gayle arched up off the bed, screaming her fulfillment as the orgasm ripped through her. Rikard just held her, letting her shake and shudder with his cock buried deep inside her. When she finally began to breathe normally, he started to move slowly in and out, quickly whipping her into another frenzy. His pace accelerated, faster and harder, until they were slamming together in mindless need, both straining desperately toward release.
Rikard stiffened, his arms locking and his spine bowing as he trembled, then came in a powerful explosion. Gayle writhed against him, then arched upward, coming in a shuddering rush. They collapsed onto the bed, hot, sweaty and tangled in each other, but neither willing to move.
“God,” she breathed. “I had no idea being scared out of my mind was such a turn-on.”
“As was scaring you. I think we’d better back off on that scenario for a while.”
“Why? It was great!”
“Because I need to be able to remain in control during a scene. And now that I know what fear of knives does to you, I don’t think I could. That makes it too dangerous. I won’t risk you getting hurt, no matter how great the sex is.”
Gayle smiled, a warm glow of contentment settling deep within her chest. He might not know what he was saying, but she did. He wasn’t just interested in sex. He wanted a real relationship.
Chapter Eight
Gayle woke disoriented and alone. Amazingly soft sheets scented lightly with citrus caressed her naked body, and a pillow so fluffy it had to be one-hundred percent goose down cradled her head. Light streamed into the room from the wrong direction, allowing her to recognize the furniture in Rikard’s guest room. She stretched, feeling the stiffness of last night’s vigorous lovemaking in her hips and thighs. No jogging this morning for her.
She glanced around the room, until she located a small clock on the dresser. Quarter after six. She had plenty of time to drive back home, shower, dress, and still get to work. But only if she got a move on.
Tossing back the covers, she encountered heavy resistance. Rikard had left the bathrobe she’d used before draped across the bottom of the bed. She shrugged into it, then went looking for him.
She checked the attached bathroom and studio first. Both dark and empty, although she took the time to admire the décor of the bathroom. Black and white tiles set off towels, fixtures, and shower curtain patterned with swirls of musical notes and flowing staves, and black-framed prints of pianists graced the walls. It was the first obvious nod to his career she’d seen, other than the music room and studio, and those had been purely practical. Idly, she wondered if the bathroom decorations had been Rikard’s idea, or simply a way to use up music-themed gifts he’d accumulated from friends and family over the years.
She frowned. She assumed he had friends and family. But he’d never spoken about them. Oh, he’d made general references, like saying his family was from New York, which had made it easy for him to attend Columbia. But nothing recent. She didn’t even know if his parents were still living, or if he had any brothers or sisters.
Her next stop was the playroom. It was empty, except for her neatly folded clothes on one of the tables. As she was getting dressed, she heard water running on the other side of the wall in the master bathroom.
She went back out into the upstairs foyer, and politely knocked on the doorframe before poking her head inside the open door of Rikard’s bedroom. It shared the same oak-and-iron furniture as the guest room, but the walls and linens were all soothing blues and greens, shading from dark to light as they swirled upward. It felt like she was standing at the bottom of the ocean looking up through the water toward the light of the surface.
“Rikard?”
“In here,” he called from the bathroom.
She followed his voice, and found him leaning against a cream and white marble countertop, wearing only black silk pajama bottoms. Droplets of water clung to his broad back, and his wet blond hair was slicked back into a ponytail. In the mirror, she could see that shaving foam coated his face from eyes to halfway down his neck, except for a stripe the width of his razor on the right cheek and jaw.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I’ll be another few minutes shaving. But if you’re willing to wait, I can make you breakfast. How do blueberry pancakes sound?”
