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She made sure her mother’s phone was within easy reach then paused in the doorway in case she had any last requests before Sam left. Today was a good day. No pillows needed adjusting. Her mother did not discover any sudden needs for water or tea.
Sam tiptoed carefully from the room.
She grabbed her bag of books out of the trunk then hurried up the stairs to the finished room above the detached garage. It had been her father’s haven when she’d been growing up, someplace he could go to escape the estrogen-laden atmosphere of a house filled with a wife and two daughters. Even their dogs had been girls, their mother insisting that she wasn’t going to clean up after a male dog who wanted to mark his territory.
Fishing poles were lined neatly in racks against one dark-paneled wall, ranging from short and stiff to long and whippy for different conditions and types of fish. Hand-tied lures studded canvas-covered boards, organized according to some system that had been known only to her father. A worktable sat beneath the boards, the bench pushed under it. The hooks, strings and bits of feather and fur used to craft the lures were stowed neatly in boxes under the bench.
Her mother had sold his boat shortly after his death, blaming it for the swamp sickness he’d caught while helping with hurricane rescue and relief efforts. That illness had rapidly escalated to the pneumonia that killed him. But she couldn’t bear to get rid of the fishing gear that had meant so much to him.
Sam dusted the rods, reels and lures occasionally, if only because the workshop was her space now and she wanted it to be clean. The only other reminder of her father’s hobby was the small black vise mounted on the end of the table. The rest of the table had been given over to her escape hobbies—piles of books and skeins and balls of yarn.
She cleared a space on the table and set her newest bag of books down. Taking the heavy, leather-bound volume with her, she crossed to the beat-up brown recliner that faced an old portable color TV. It was so old it still had independent dials for adjusting UHF and VHF stations.
Unzipping her jeans, she pushed them and her wet panties down around her ankles. Rather than sitting in the recliner, she straddled one of the arms, pressing the rough leather against her swollen pussy.
She moaned, her head dropping back to rest against the back of the recliner. The pressure felt so good. But it wasn’t enough.
Slowly she began rocking back and forth, rolling her spread lips against the leather padding, pressing the recliner’s arm deeper between her lips. But no matter how hard she rocked, it couldn’t go as deep as she wanted. It couldn’t slide inside her.
She whimpered and reached between her legs. Two fingers slid inside her with no resistance, she was so wide open and ready. Her inner muscles clenched around her fingers and she stroked the hot, wet walls of her vagina, her fingers quickly growing sticky with her body’s lubricant.
It still wasn’t enough. Struggling one-handed, she opened the book. It fell open on a picture of the woman seated at the end of what looked like a padded sawhorse, her legs spread wide and tied to the supports while her body bowed backward to where her arms were tied to the supports at the other end. The man held her by the hips and thrust his cock deep into her open pussy as she screamed in ecstasy.
Sam scooted to the very edge of the recliner’s arm and arched her back, mimicking the woman’s posture as best she could. As the angle of her hips changed, her fingers slid deeper inside. She pumped her fingers back and forth, imagining the man’s hard, commanding cock was thrusting deep with every stroke. Her thumb teased her clit, sliding across the sensitive flesh at the end of each stroke, pressing as hard as she imagined the root of his cock would crush against her as he thrust deep inside her.
An agonized whimper built deep in her throat and her hand moved faster, harder.
“Please,” she begged her imaginary lover. “Please.”
With a final thrust of her fingers, she came, the spasms lifting her hips and slapping her ass against the leather recliner again and again. She moaned, lost in the waves of heat and pulsing thunder that swept over and through her body with every beat of her heart.
When her heartbeat finally slowed to normal, she opened her eyes. She was draped half naked across the recliner. The book had fallen to the floor, leaves spread and spine up.
Her limp and passion-wrung muscles didn’t want to obey her but eventually she turned to her side and reached for the book with one flailing arm. Her fingertips brushed across the leather cover, trailing a line of wet fluid across the gilt title.
“Damn!” She’d reached for the book with the hand she’d been pleasuring herself with. She hoped the leather didn’t stain.
The gilt sparkled in the late afternoon sunlight where her juices crossed it. Then a faint steam rose from the leather as the rest of her trail evaporated, leaving the cover looking the way it had when she’d picked it up in the bookstore.
Sam’s eyes widened. Not quite the way it had been. The gilt lettering had been worn and faded in places when she found it. Now it glittered as if it had been newly made.
And steam was still rising from the leather in faint wisps, pooling around the book and drifting toward the legs of the recliner. She jerked up her panties and jeans, pulling her legs away from the strange phenomenon, and huddled on the recliner’s seat.
A quick glance over one arm confirmed that the strange mist had spread across the floor while she’d been pulling up her pants. There wasn’t any way out without going through it and she was reluctant to let the vapors touch her if she could avoid them. She was trapped on the recliner.
The fog coalesced before her, rising in a column over the spot where the book had been, now invisible in the swirling mist. The scent of the ocean drifted past her, borne on a faint breeze. The wind strengthened, ripping fluttering plumes of vapor from the column of fog, thinning it just enough to show a glimpse of black at its heart.
Sam held her breath.
The mist rippled, bulging outward. The wind caught it and tore it to tatters. A man stood before her, shirtless, his strong hands on his hips, black leather pants molded to his legs. A wide belt hung low on his hips, a black leather riding crop dangling from one side and a multi-tailed black leather flogger from the other. A thick silver bracelet encircled his left wrist, etched with delicate and flowing scrollwork that both matched and contrasted with the masculine power of the black tribal tattoo on the back of his right hand.
Her startled gaze lifted to his face. Black hair curled past his shoulders, softening a face that was otherwise dominated by dark unforgiving eyes, strong jaw and patrician nose. A face she had seen only minutes past in the illustrations from her book.
“I am Master Giacomo,” he said, his English bearing a heavy Italian accent. “You used the book to summon me. Now you will serve me.”
Chapter Two
“What do you mean, I summoned you?” Sam demanded. “And I sure as hell am not ‘serving’ you!”
