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“Don’t sound so sad. Think of the anticipation, the constant state of arousal as you wonder when I’ll finally touch you and give you the climax you deserve.”
“Soon, I hope.”
“Oh, no. You’re going to have to work for that reward. When you get here, we’ll start with our light lunch. Then you’ll sing for me. And then, maybe, if you’ve been good, I’ll give you what you want.”
“I’ll be good. I’ll be very, very good.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. I’ll expect you at one o’clock. Don’t be late.”
“Wait! You didn’t tell me what top you wanted me to wear.”
“Something clingy, so I can see how tight and hard your nipples are. And no bra.”
Gayle moaned softly, the idea of displaying herself before Rikard’s avid gaze making her insides clench. Her breasts were already tingling, the nipples tightening as if he was looking at them right now.
She shifted, trying to get comfortable on the hard wooden chair. But what she really wanted was to straddle the curved arm, riding the wood and crushing it against her clit until she came, screaming Rikard’s name.
“I’m going to be in agony for the next three hours,” she protested.
“I have it on the best authority that suffering is good for the soul.”
“Then I’m going to be damn near angelic by the time I get to your house.”
“I look forward to helping you fall. One o’clock. Bring your music. Don’t be late.”
* * * * *
Once again, the sensual haze consuming her faded once Rikard was no longer speaking to her. After some time spent staring into her closet, Gayle dressed in a bright blue exercise top that hugged her curves, clearly outlining her nipples. It also showed the slight pudginess in her upper arms, and a thickness around her waist that she’d rather not reveal. She needed to start wearing wrist weights when she jogged.
She pulled on the leather miniskirt, the leather cupping her bare ass like a pair of hands. Like Rikard’s hands.
Forcing the image away, she concentrated on finding a pair of sandals to match the skirt. She wouldn’t think about Rikard’s long, graceful fingers, sheathed in leather, stroking and caressing her sensitive skin.
“Oh, hell.”
She leaned against the closet door, eyes closed, and let her imagination run riot. She pictured him doing her against the wall as soon as she entered his home. Or maybe stripping her and serving the late lunch he’d mentioned on her quivering body, licking and nibbling his way through a three-course meal that included her for dessert. Or setting her down, legs spread, on the keyboard of a piano, while he coaxed melodious cries of passion from her.
“No.” She shoved away from the door, stalking out of her room to the computer set up in the living room. Quickly logging on, she surfed over to an online mapping site and printed out driving directions to Rikard’s home. She wanted to trust him, but found herself filling in his name in the Google search box, just to be sure he was who he said he was. Nothing. She frowned, and tried R. Sorenson. Some lyric sites popped up, attributing various songs she didn’t recognize to R. Sorenson, as well as listings for diatribes from a political activist in California and genealogical information on the Sorenson clan. But no news articles, and no home page. She wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. Then she checked her email and surfed the news sites, killing time with distractions until she needed to leave her house.
She’d allowed an extra ten minutes for traffic downtown, and cruised into the suburbs with a comfortable cushion of time, allowing her to arrive with leisurely grace. Rikard’s home was a two-story modern design of angled cedar planks and plate glass windows. It appeared to be situated to maximize the view of the sprawling apple and pear orchards behind the house, as well as the distant green hills. A stone wall, high enough to keep out animals but easily scaled by a determined person, surrounded his property, or as much of it as she could see before it faded into the distance. The black scrollwork gates at the end of his crushed stone drive stood open, and didn’t appear to have been moved since the last time the drive was graded.
The gravel crunched beneath her tires as she rolled slowly up the drive, stopping next to the flagstone path that curved gracefully to his front door. After giving herself one last once-over in the rearview mirror, Gayle grabbed her purse and sheet music, and exited the car. It chirped as she engaged the locks, but her attention was already focused on the path beneath her feet, and the man awaiting her inside. A decorative wall fountain burbled happily beside a stone bench, the feet carved to resemble two squirrels. Their cheerful welcome counteracted the subdued menace of the wrought iron safety door that matched the gates at the end of the drive.
The inner door swung open before she could ring the bell. Rikard must have been watching for her. Then he stepped around the door to open the safety door, letting her see him for the first time.
His features were hidden behind a black mask of boiled leather that covered his face from just above his jaw to mid-forehead. His eyes—a medium blue, she could see now that he’d gotten rid of his green sunglasses—looked through cutouts their precise size and shape, and the lower edge of the mask curved up to reveal his lips but no more. The mask had clearly been designed specifically for him.
If the mask had left her in any doubt, the rest of his outfit showed his fondness for leather. Black riding boots encased his narrow feet in elegance. Tight black leather pants clung to his legs, laced up the sides rather than zipping in front. They were tight enough that she could appreciate his endowments, a moderate bulge between his legs promising that he had enough to satisfy her, without being uncomfortably overlarge.
He wore his black leather driving gloves, the cuffs hidden beneath the flowing sleeves of a white poet shirt, the only thing he was wearing that was neither black nor leather. She wondered if that meant he planned on taking it off, later, and found the thought made her throat dry with anticipation.
His gaze slid up and down her body, checking her out with all the thoroughness she’d given him. He smiled, his attention lingering on her pebbled nipples, clearly visible beneath the clinging exercise top.
“Very obedient. Good.”
Gayle felt her nipples tighten in response, and her breath quickened. “Thank you, Master Rikard.”
Her fingers clenched, rustling her music. Rikard’s gaze focused on the sheet music clutched in her hand.
