MustLoveMusic (2 page)

“Thanks. I was just wondering how many responses you’d
followed up with so far.”

“Judging the competition?” Rikard smiled, although something
seemed vaguely wrong with his expression. The green lenses of his glasses made
it difficult to read the look in his eyes, and even though the sun was behind
him, he hadn’t removed them.

She shrugged, inexplicably nervous again. “Just curious.”

“Yours is the first message I returned,” he admitted. “I
have a musician’s ear, and the other respondents’ voices were frankly painful
to listen to. Whereas yours is a pleasure.”

“Well, I am always the first one asked to make phone
recordings at work.”

“You said you were a programmer. Of telecom equipment?”

The waiter interrupted them before she could answer. She
ordered a grande chai, with whipped cream. Rikard ordered a tall cinnamon
coffee. They turned in their menus, then he indicated she should continue with
a wave of his gloved hand and another of those oddly off smiles.

“No, I’m a general purpose programmer. I do tech support for
a marketing branch office, keep the sales people’s laptops running, clear the
viruses off the manager’s system, and do back office databases and demo code
off the server.” She paused, then laughed and shook her head. “That probably
made no sense to you whatsoever.”

The corner of his mouth crooked up. “I was with you until
back office databases. What are those?”

Gayle launched into an explanation of the difference between
the front office systems used by the sales people, and the back office systems
which ran automatically, collecting and compiling data and taking appropriate
actions, such as issuing bills or prompting follow-up work. She kept the front
office systems patched and running, holding the sales people’s hands and
talking them through the various screens when they had to do anything
unfamiliar. But to the back office systems, she was a god.

“And do you like being a god?” Rikard asked.

A joking reply was on the tip of her tongue, when she
realized he was asking a serious question. Fortunately, the waiter delivered
their drinks, and she bought some time to think by stirring the whipped cream
into her chai, licking the spoon, cradling the mug in her hands, blowing on it,
then taking her first sip.

“No, I don’t think so,” she finally answered. “I like not
having to clean up other people’s messes, or waste my time redoing something
because a sales guy with a one-week database class behind him thought he could
‘improve’ the system. But that’s not the same.”

“Good. Because if we decide to go forward with this, there’s
only room for one god, and it’ll be me.”

She trembled at the dark promise in his voice, her stomach
bouncing like she’d swallowed rubber balls instead of silky chai. “Okay,” she
whispered.

“You have whipped cream on your lip.”

She licked it off, feeling his eyes tracking the movement of
her tongue behind the green shield of his sunglasses. Suddenly her lips felt
parched, and she nervously wet them.

Rikard lifted his coffee and took a hasty sip.

“Speaking of going forward, I’ve never done this before.
What would we do next?”

“You’ve never been in a BDSM relationship, or you’ve never
started one via a personal ad?”

“A little of both, I think. I tried some bondage games with
my old boyfriend, after we’d been lovers for a while, and really enjoyed them.
But that was on top of an existing relationship. I never had it
be
the
relationship.”

“We wouldn’t jump straight into our first scene. There needs
to be trust on both sides—you trusting that I have your best interests at
heart, and me trusting that you’ll tell me how you’re really feeling during a
scene. So I’d start by asking you to do things, little things, like wear a certain
item of clothing, or sit a certain way. I’d touch you, non-sexually, and learn
your reactions to things. And we’d talk, about what you wanted, what you
feared. Then, when we felt comfortable with each other, we’d move on to scene
work, where I’d force you to face your fears and desires. Again, starting
small, with things like binding your body but leaving your breasts exposed, and
tickling your nipples with feathers, furs, and other things, until you came
from the pleasure.” The corner of his mouth quirked in his lopsided grin again.
“It would take a very long time.”

Gayle’s breasts tightened, the nipples hardening and
stretching her clinging sweater, as if he was already teasing them. She
imagined ghostly caresses—wisps of feathers, soft strokes of fur, a quick rasp
of something rough like sandpaper, a sharp nip of teeth.

She gasped, her panties growing not just damp but actually
wet. “No, I don’t think it would take long at all.”

Rikard’s smile broadened into smug self-satisfaction as he
leaned back in his chair and studied her through lidded eyes. She felt like a
partially devoured bowl of cream being examined by a not-yet-sated cat.

Yet somehow, the blatantly sexual expression didn’t trouble
her the way his earlier smiles had. With a jolt of surprise, she recognized
what had bothered her previously. Now that his eyes were half-closed, they were
even. When he smiled with amusement, one was slightly wider than the other.
That was why his crooked grin didn’t disturb her. She expected one eye to close
more when he only moved one side of his mouth.

Her logical nature immediately kicked in, tossing out
hypotheses as fast as she could test them. Coupled with the sunglasses, and the
way he sat with the light behind him, she suspected he’d had some sort of eye
treatment recently. Maybe he’d gotten laser eye surgery to cure his
nearsightedness, or been given some sort of drops that affected his eye muscles
for an infection.

As if recognizing her change of mood, he straightened and
returned to his previous easygoing manner. “There are a few other things. I
mentioned my fondness for leather in my ad.”

“Yes. But I wasn’t sure what you meant by that.”

“When I touch you, I’ll be wearing gloves.” He extended his
hand, displaying the soft leather driving glove that encased his skin. “And I
also have a mask of black leather that covers most of my face. Without the
mask, I’m just Rikard, your equal and, hopefully, your friend. In the mask,
however, I’m Master Rikard, and expect your complete and total obedience.”

His voice darkened and deepened, hinting at dire
consequences should she fail to obey Master Rikard. He made no movement, other
than returning his outstretched hand to wrap around his coffee mug, which could
hardly be considered threatening. Yet she trembled in fear. And excitement.

“Obedience like we talked about. Little things until we
trust each other.”

“Yes.” He paused, then added, “Since this is the first time
you’ve entered a relationship with someone unknown to you, you’d probably feel
safer the first time if you set up a safe call with a friend. Every hour or so,
check in with someone you trust who knows where you’ve gone and who you are
with, and can inform the police if you don’t respond to her calls.”

Gayle blushed. “I already did that. My friend Carrie will be
calling in about ten more minutes.”

The crooked grin tugged at his lips again. “I hope you
anticipate all of my other suggestions as well.”

Reaching into his jacket’s inside chest pocket, he withdrew
a business card which he placed on the table in front of her.

Rikard Sorenson, Composer
. Below that, in smaller
print, was listed his phone number and address, a semi-rural area to the west
of the city that was in transition from farms to housing developments. She’d
looked at houses there when she’d moved down, but they were executive homes
well outside of her price range.

“Those jingles must pay really well to afford the rent out
there.”

He shrugged. “There’s my phone number. Take the night to
think it over, then call me with your answer. If you want to go ahead, I’ll
expect you at my house tomorrow at one o’clock.”

Her hand closed around the card, the blood pulsing through
her fingers making the card seem to throb beneath her touch.

“That’s it? Just show up at one o’clock?”

“I’ll give you more instructions when you call.
If
you
call. You may change your mind once you’re alone and have a chance to think
things over.”

He tipped back his head and downed the rest of his coffee,
effectively ending the discussion. Setting the empty mug on the table, the tip
of his tongue darted out to lick the stray droplets of coffee from his lips.

Gayle swallowed a hasty gulp of her chai, fighting the urge
to lean across the table and taste his coffee-flavored mouth. But she couldn’t
tear her gaze from the gleaming track of wetness.

“Oh! The coffee must have been too hot. Your lip is
peeling.”

Rikard stiffened, his gloved hand rising to pat his lips.
“You’re right. Fortunately I have a tube of lip balm in my car. But I should
take care of it as soon as possible.”

He stood, pulling out his wallet and dropping a ten-dollar
bill on the table.

“That should cover the drinks. It was a pleasure meeting
you. I look forward to receiving your call tomorrow.”

He bent his head in a gesture reminiscent of a bow, turned,
and walked away from the café without a backwards glance.

Gayle sat at the table, stunned by his sudden departure.
There was something strange about him, no doubt about it.

Smiling, she leaned back in her chair and sipped her chai,
the spicy warmth heating her mouth as thoughts of what tomorrow might hold
heated her blood. Her heart pounded. Rikard had been quite clear that they
wouldn’t have sex until they trusted each other. But how long would it take to
build that trust? Not long, she hoped.

Although, if he planned on talking to her to build trust,
she’d probably be orgasming anyway. The man’s voice could charm the panties off
a nun. And despite six years of Catholic school, Gayle was most definitely not
a nun.

Picking up his business card, she memorized his phone number
and address. She was taking no chances that it might get lost before she could
call him. Sunday afternoon, she fully intended to have her first session with
Master Rikard.

Recounting her date with Rikard to her friend Carrie, Gayle
was at a loss to explain her reaction to him. Her willingness to blindly accept
his comments with no question seemed, in retrospect, strangely suspicious.

Yet, he obviously recognized the effect he had on her, or
else why would he tell her to take the night to think it over rather than
asking for her answer then and there?

“So, what are you going to tell him?”

Gayle rolled over on her bed, the cell phone tucked against
her cheek, and braced her stocking feet against the beige wall that she hadn’t
yet found time to decorate.

“I’m going to say yes, of course.”

“Even though he’s giving off these weird vibes?”

“God, Carrie! He’s giving off sex-on-a-stick vibes. The man
could have had any woman in the café just by opening his mouth and asking.”

Just remembering the warm darkness of his voice made her hot
all over again. Idly, she stroked her fingertips across her nipples, wishing it
was Rikard’s hand caressing her.

“Did I mention his gloves?”

“No.”

“He was wearing black leather driving gloves. They hugged
his hands like they’d been painted on. And they were incredibly sexy.”

“Driving gloves were sexy? Next you’ll say you get turned on
by those woolen crosses between baseball hats and berets that British guys wear
to drive around the countryside.”

Gayle laughed with her friend. “Don’t worry. I’m not that
far gone.”

“Uh-huh. Only because Rikard the Super Stud hasn’t worn one
yet.”

They giggled like schoolgirls.

“So what are you planning on wearing tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. I kind of figured he’d tell me what he wanted
me to wear.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Yeah. It’s one of the first steps for establishing trust. I
show I’m willing to do what he tells me, and he shows he won’t tell me to do
something stupid, like wear high heels, a matching bra and panty set, and
nothing else.”

Carrie’s next question was filled with awkward hesitation.
“Gayle? How, uh, far are you willing to go? I mean, if he asks you, or tells
you, to do something. You can still say no. But would you?”

Gayle stared at her toes, wiggling restlessly against the
wall. “I…don’t know. It’s like he’s some sort of Svengali, his voice leading me
wherever he wants me to go, and I just follow like a little sheep. That’s one
of the reasons we need to build trust.”

“So you can follow him even more blindly?”

“No, so I can be comfortable that he won’t lead me astray.”

“But what about until you build that trust? What about
tomorrow?”

“Will you be my safety net again? Call my cell every hour.
If I don’t pick up, call again in fifteen minutes. If I still don’t pick up,
call the cops.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Gayle sighed, her vision drifting back to the remembered
sight of Rikard lounging in his chair, gazing lazily at her through his
green-tinted sunglasses, while a smug smile pulled at his lips. A languorous
warmth slowly uncurled deep within her. Would he touch her tomorrow the way she
ached to be touched? Leave her hungry for his possession? Or transport her to a
rapturous state she’d never even dreamed existed?

“I hope I know what I’m doing, too.”

* * * * *

Gayle spent the rest of the night working on her audition
number. She wasn’t foolish enough to try and learn something new only three
days before the tryout, but there were plenty of songs she’d sung in previous
productions that she could brush up on with just a little practice.

Since Sondheim songs were notorious for their difficulty,
the vocal line just one of many in the instrumentation, she’d win major bonus
points from the casting director if she could prove that she’d already mastered
one. Back in college, she’d played the role of Beth in a production of
Merrily
We Roll Along
. It was one of Sondheim’s lesser known works, having lasted
all of sixteen performances on Broadway. That was why her school had been able
to afford to perform it. But the musical included the fabulous number “Not a
Day Goes By”, which Carly Simon had later turned into a hit. The song just
happened to be sung by the character of Beth.

She found the marked-up music in her stack from past shows.
The recorded accompaniment for her numbers was buried at the bottom of her box
of cassette tapes.

Over and over again, she practiced the song, working until
she got the tricky shifts in meter to flow smoothly, and started jumbling the
words because she was so tired. But she’d successfully kept herself from
thinking about her upcoming date with Rikard.

In the morning, she busied herself with laundry and other
household chores until ten o’clock, when she judged it was late enough to call
Rikard without risk of waking him. She paced back and forth across the kitchen
while she waited for him to pick up. He answered on the second ring.

“Good morning, Gayle.” His velvety voice wrapped around her,
making her shiver.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Caller ID. It’s a local number I don’t recognize, so I
guessed it was you.”

Gayle laughed self-consciously, leaning back against the
counter. She’d expected to hear him say he was psychic, or confess to some
other bizarre power. His voice seemed to drive all rational thoughts from her
brain.

“I’m glad you called,” he continued. “I’ve planned a late
lunch for us, to get to know each other better. Do you have any food allergies
I need to be aware of?”

“No. Well, I’m not allergic to them, but avocados make my
lips go numb.”

He chuckled. “Most people would call that an allergy.”

Her knees went weak, and she collapsed into one of the
chairs at her kitchen table. His voice should be registered with the FBI as a
lethal weapon.

“So what did you do when you left the café yesterday?” he
asked.

“I had a long talk with my friend, Carrie. She’s the one who
will be doing the safe calls today, too.”

Rikard’s voice was noticeably cooler when he asked, “What
did you tell her?”

Gayle blinked in confusion. “Just what you told me. I
thought you wanted me to set up safe calls.”

“Yes, I did. That’s fine. I’m sorry. I thought you meant
you’d discussed me.”

“Well, but we did. I mean, that was part of the deal for her
doing the safe calls, that I had to dish about how my date went. I didn’t say
anything bad, though. Just about how good-looking you were, and how your voice
made my stomach do back flips, and—”

“Back flips, hmm?”

“At least. Possibly an Olympic floor routine.”

“What about after your call?”

“I worked on the song for my audition next week. I’m trying
out for
Into the Woods
.”

“What song are you singing?”

“I thought I’d sing ‘Not a Day Goes By’ from—”

“
Merrily We Roll Along
. Good choice.”

Gail sat upright in surprise. “You know it?”

“A cautionary tale about a composer who gives up everything
that matters in a fruitless pursuit of meaningless fame and fortune, by one of
the greats of American musical theatre? It would be surprising if I didn’t know
it.”

“Oh, right. Because you’re a composer.”

“Bring your music with you. I’d like you to sing for me.”

Her cheeks heated. “I’m not that good.”

“I’m not expecting a concert. And it will be good practice
for obeying me even when my orders make you a little uncomfortable, and push
you outside your comfort zone.”

“Oh. When you put it that way…”

He chuckled, sending another shiver quivering through her.
“And speaking of pushing you outside your comfort zone, I’d like you to wear
that leather miniskirt again, but no panties, and no pantyhose. So that if I
wanted to, at any moment, I could reach up under it and put my fingers inside
you, teasing you until you trembled and came on my hand.”

Gayle’s breath caught, her breasts tightening and heat
pooling between her legs at his suggestive words.

“Did you hear me, Gayle?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “I heard you.”

He chuckled again. “Ah. Imagining my fingers inside you already,
are you? Stroking in and out, sliding between your slick folds, then pressing
deep, my thumb rubbing your clit—”

She gasped, her legs falling open and her head lolling back
as waves of warmth crested within her. She shuddered, and cupped her pulsing flesh
through the heavy interference of her jeans.

“Yes,” she whimpered.

“I’m the only one allowed to touch you,” he cautioned, as if
he knew where her hand was and what she was doing.

“But I’m—”

“That’s an order, Gayle.”

Reluctantly, she lifted her hand away from her hot,
throbbing crotch. “Yes, Master Rikard.”

“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.