MustLoveMusic (3 page)

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.

“May I?” he asked, already reaching for it.

She handed the pages over without a word. Odd, that he felt
he could order her to dress in a certain way, speaking casually of touching her
body as if it was his right, but had to ask for permission to touch her music.

He stepped back, inviting her to enter the spacious two-story
foyer with a casual wave of his gloved hand, even as he eagerly studied the
fanfold of pages. More wrought iron decorated the sweeping stairway to the
second floor, and lined the upstairs balconies overlooking the flagstone
entryway. He closed the doors without looking, his attention on the papers in
his hands. His foot tapped softly, unconsciously keeping the beat as he scanned
the music.

Reaching the end of the piece, he shook himself out of his
fugue state. He folded the music and tucked it under his arm, then took her
hand and lifted it to his lips, brushing the lightest of kisses across the
backs of her fingers.

“Welcome to my home.”

Gayle shivered, the drumbeat of desire beginning to pulse in
her ears. “It’s lovely.”

“The first floor holds the kitchen, living room, music room
and home theater. Upstairs are the bedrooms, playroom, and my studio. We’ll be
visiting the playroom later.” His fingers tightened on hers with relentless
promise, then he turned and led her through an arch into the music room.

A grand piano claimed pride of place in the room, the
mahogany gleaming in the sunlight that streamed through windows covered by rich
gold sheers. Gold satin padded the walls above mahogany wainscoting, and she
realized the room was designed to soak up sound, so the music of the piano
would not echo off the walls and windows.

A neatly folded, padded drape sat on the chair nearest the
piano. The instrument was normally covered, then. Rikard had removed the drape
in preparation for her visit.

Cold chills collected in her stomach, and she stopped dead
in her tracks. “I can’t do this.”

“You can, and you will. While I wear this mask, I am your
master, and you are mine to command.” Rikard’s voice was cold and implacable,
then gentled as he brushed a gloved finger across her cheek. “Come, we will
make a game of it. You will sit with me at the piano, and I will pick out the
tune with one hand. See if you can sing along with me.”

Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she nodded. “Yes,
Master Rikard.” He wasn’t expecting perfection. It was just a game.

He pushed the piano bench to the left, so that he could sit
on the end and still be centered in front of the keyboard. Placing the score on
the music rest, he accidentally hit the corner with the trailing sleeve of his
poet shirt, sending the pages flying.

Gayle bent and grabbed the music, then arranged it before
him, no longer worried about needing to be perfect. She suspected he might have
fumbled the pages on purpose, to put her at her ease. If so, it had worked.
Rikard took his position on the bench, shifting bench and music slightly until
everything was aligned as he desired. Then he patted the bench beside him.

“Join me.”

She slipped onto the bench, her leather skirt sliding
smoothly across the glossy mahogany. Rikard wrapped his left arm around her
shoulders, holding her close, then proceeded to “pick out the tune” with his
right hand.

He played the melody line flawlessly, interspersing it with
accent notes from the accompaniment, his fingers dancing across the keys. She
frowned. If he was this good, he should be playing professionally, not
composing music for other people to play.

“Now sing,” he ordered, as he began the piece again.

Gayle breathed deeply, cleared her mind of everything except
the music, and sang. When she finished, she turned to face him, eagerly
anticipating his reaction. She’d nailed it.

Rikard’s head was bent, his hand curled loosely in his lap.

“You sang every note as written, no easy task in a Sondheim
piece.”

“So why do you sound disappointed?”

“Music is not about getting the notes right, any more than
poetry is about spelling the words correctly. It’s about freeing your soul.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Listen.”

He began the piece again, his voice light and wistful as he
described a love who was with him every single day. Then his voice broke on a
ragged inhalation, and shook with agony as he cried, “And you
won’t
go
away!”

His love would not leave him alone, no matter how much he
wished she would. Gayle’s heart ached for his pain. Then his voice shifted
again, turning flat and toneless as he revealed if she ever did leave, it would
kill him. Dull and hollow with hopelessness, he whispered, “Dying day after day
after day, as the days go by.”

Gayle blinked her blurry eyes, focusing on Rikard’s bent
head, the fall of his blond hair screening his black mask from her sight. His
right hand was fisted on the keyboard, the leather of his glove stretched taut
across his knuckles.

“Did you love her so very much?” she whispered.

“With all my heart and soul.”

“What happened?”

“A car accident. Four years ago. A truck’s tire blew, and
the driver swerved out of control, jackknifed and skidded across the highway. A
minute later or a minute earlier, and the road would have been deserted.
Instead, I got there just as he crossed into the oncoming traffic lane. The
truck’s fuel line ruptured. The dragging chassis struck a spark. My windshield
blew out, glass everywhere. The doctors were afraid I was going to be blind. I
wish I had been, rather than—”

His jaw clenched, his entire body going rigid as he fought
the demons in his memory. He breathed deeply, then again, and slowly relaxed.
His fist uncurled.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I’m alive, even if it’s not the life I intended.” He turned
to face her, then smiled sadly as he wiped her cheeks with his gloved thumb.
“It’s I who should apologize to you. I’ve made you cry.”

She bit her lip, good manners warring with turbulent
emotions. Emotion won. “Would it be too hard for you to play it once more? I’d
like to try it again.”

Rikard straightened, his fingers returning to the keyboard.
After a deep breath, he began playing the song from the beginning, although
this time, he played only the melody line, without any of the embellishments.

Gayle couldn’t match the strength of his loving and losing,
but she’d experienced her own losses over the years. Her beloved aunt, dying of
a lung infection. Her dog, Tiger, who had been her inseparable childhood
companion. Even the slow corporate death of spending more and more time on the road,
until her life became a series of disconnected hotel rooms with no goal beyond
reaching the next assignment, the next contract, and her hobbies, interests,
and existence outside of her job faded away.

She put all of that emotion into the song. And when it
ended, she sat, stunned, as the last notes faded. She’d heard the difference.
It was unbelievable.

Rikard brushed his gloved fingers across the keys in a
caress too light to sound them, then closed the piano with a snap. The music
fluttered to the floor.

“Yes. That time you let me hear your soul.”

He stood, gracefully sliding off the bench in a
well-practiced move. Offering his hand to her, he said, “Come. It is time for
that lunch I promised you.”

Gayle slipped her hand into his, and allowed him to pull her
off the bench and out of the music room. She felt somehow lighter than she had
before, yet at the same time, her heart was weighted by what she’d learned of
him. It explained how come such a dishy guy wasn’t already taken. Another woman
had won his heart, a woman he’d loved so fiercely that it had taken him four
years after her death before he was able to reenter the dating scene. No wonder
he was only interested in scene play, at first, rather than a relationship.

That was okay. They’d go slow. It would be better for both
of them that way.

The eat-in kitchen boasted a glass-walled breakfast nook
that overlooked the back deck with a panoramic view of the well established
orchards. The round table and chairs were of white-painted wrought iron, the
table topped by a thick piece of beveled glass and the chairs cushioned with
pale blue and white striped pillows.

Blue- and white-striped placemats were already set
kitty-corner on the table, the matching linen napkins folded in graceful fans beside
them. Condensation frosted the chilled white china plates resting on top of
pale blue chargers. Swirls of blue glass patterned the water goblets, already
filled with ice water and a thin slice of lemon. Condensation frosted their
sides as well.

Gayle shook her head. This was not what she was expecting.

“I was just filling the water glasses when you arrived,”
Rikard told her. He released her hand and walked over to the stainless-steel
refrigerator, opening it and withdrawing a pale blue salad bowl. From what she
could see over his shoulder, the refrigerator was well stocked, but neatly,
rather than filled with things stuffed haphazardly where there was room.

“It’s more Martha than Marquis de Sade.”

Rikard laughed, the sound wrapping her in warmth that made
her stomach flutter. “But I told you, the goal for today was to get to know
each other better, and establish trust. There’s plenty of time to torture you
with food later.”

She stood awkwardly next to one of the chairs. “Do you want
me to serve you?”

“No. I’m not one of those dominants who equates submission
with household service.”

He held out a chair for her, giving her the better view of
the apple trees to the south, and leaving the eastern view of the deck and
kitchen for himself. Once she was seated, he grabbed salad tongs and served the
mix of field greens, sliced strawberries, and a balsamic vinaigrette dressing
onto her plate.

After helping himself, he returned the bowl to the
refrigerator. Then he set a covered platter, no doubt the second course, on the
counter to warm up to room temperature. Finally, he returned to the table and
claimed his seat.

He snapped his napkin open with a sharp crack, making Gayle
jump. A hint of a smile played about his lips, although his mask made it
difficult to read his expression.

She spread her own napkin, waiting until he picked up his
salad fork before reaching for her own. “What kind of a dominant are you,
then?”

“I enjoy caring for my submissives, surrounding them with
elegance and comfort, so that they may give themselves completely to the
moment, with no petty worries to distract them. Skin that has grown accustomed
to fine silks and velvet, redolent perfumes and exotic oils, will feel the
contrast of a loving lash far more than one dulled and deadened by overwork and
uncomfortable clothing.”

Gayle stopped with the first forkful of salad halfway to her
mouth. She could almost feel his gloved hands stroking and caressing her body,
smoothing massage oil into her skin, and trailing wisps of silk across her
sensitive breasts and between her legs.

She jumped, certain she’d felt a light swat against her ass.
But that was impossible. She was sitting in a padded chair. Unless he’d hidden
some sort of spanking device under the cushion?

Rikard’s low chuckle swirled around her. “You’re very
responsive. Are you that responsive in bed, too? Are you a moaner or a
shouter?”

Gayle licked her lips, her gaze locking on his blue eyes
glimmering in the depths of the black leather mask. “I like to beg.”

He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, as if she was a fine
wine and he was sampling her bouquet.

“Eat your salad.”

Obediently, she slipped the forgotten forkful of greens into
her mouth. Her eyes widened in surprise. It was unexpectedly good, with a hint
of…was that ginger? And something sweet besides just the strawberries—brown
sugar or maybe honey.

“This is great!” She forked up another mouthful.

Rikard had already regained his composure after her
confession, and turned his attention to his own plate. “Thank you. It pleases
me to know you enjoy it.”

They ate in silence for a brief interval, giving the
delicious salad the attention it deserved. Then he asked, “What things give you
pleasure?”

“You mean, in bed?”

“In bed or out. What warms your soul?”

She considered. “Well, I like performing, singing onstage.”

“What exactly about performing do you enjoy? The adulation
of a crowd? Making a public act out of your private emotions? Touching their
hearts and minds?”

She blinked. “I never really thought about it. Are those
some of the reasons the performers you know like performing?”

“Don’t dodge the question.”

“Yes, Master Rikard.” She bent her head, staring at the
half-eaten salad while she puzzled out what she enjoyed about singing onstage.
“I think it’s the challenge. I like working hard to get it right, and the
audience reaction is like a grade, telling me how close I came to doing it.”

“Ah. So as your Master, I should set challenging tasks for
you, and provide feedback so you know whether or not you succeeded.”

The flesh between her legs began to pulse, hot and wet with
arousal. Her breasts tingled, the nipples tightening, and her breath came in
short, quick gasps. She loved to learn new things. The constant training was
the best part of her job. But it had never occurred to her that a skilled
Master would want to train her.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered. “Please, Master.”

“Very well, then. Here is your first task. Finish your
salad.”

A muffled sigh escaped her lips as Gayle picked up her fork.

“You don’t think it’s a challenge? Perhaps if I tell you,
you aren’t allowed to make any noise while you eat?”

She looked up at him, her mouth opening to ask what he meant
before she realized that would be disobeying his instruction. Instead, she
shook her head.

“I’ll just have to make it more challenging, then. You eat,
and I’ll tell you all the things I plan on teaching you.”

He began with the simple things, that he would teach her how
to speak to him with proper deference yet still giving him all the information
he needed to care for her, and how to sit beside him so that he could touch her
at his leisure. He would teach her how to remove her clothes so that each item
stroking across her flesh enflamed her desire. He would teach her how to
position herself so that she was completely open to him, her hot, wet pussy his
for the taking, and how she would beg him to take it.

Gayle felt the moisture growing between her legs,
instinctively spreading her legs as wide as her tight leather skirt would
allow. She wriggled against the cushion, struggling for relief. At least, if
she’d been wearing underwear, the friction of the cotton or lace against her
swollen clit and wet lips would have offered some pleasure. But she was bare
beneath her skirt, with nothing to rub against.

A soft whimper broke from her lips.

Rikard’s hand slapped the glass tabletop, making the plates
bounce. “No!”

She jumped, her wide-eyed gaze locking on his face. Was he
angry? No, he was smiling.

“You made a noise,” he said. “Perhaps this is a challenging
task after all?”

She nodded vigorously.

“Finish your salad. We will begin again. And since the task
is more challenging than you expected, I think you deserve a reward if you
complete it. What reward shall I give you?”

His blue eyes glittered with desire, and the ambrosia of
power, as he pondered his answer out loud.

“You seem to be having trouble sitting. Perhaps I should
investigate, and do a thorough probing between your legs to determine what is
causing the problem.”

Gayle bit her lip to keep from moaning. Hot liquid ran down
the inside crease of her thigh, to pool beneath her ass on the supple leather
of her skirt. She wriggled her hips, imagining his gloved fingers pressing
between her folds, slipping inside her, stretching her opening as he slowly
added fingers, until his entire hand forced its way over the ridge of muscle
into her vagina.

Her vision was blurring, her breath coming sharp and fast.
Her nipples were so tight they hurt. And all she could do was shovel
strawberries and lettuce into her mouth as fast as possible, to end this torture.

“You’re not savoring your food,” Rikard warned her. “If I
think you’re not appreciating it, I’ll have to give you a second helping.”

Gayle wanted to scream in frustration, but she didn’t make a
sound. She slowed the pace of her eating, her trembling hand making it
difficult to carry the salad to her mouth, and slowing her even further.

She’d never felt so turned on in her life.

“Very good.”

She glowed, warmed by his praise. All she wanted was to
please him, to make him happy. Then he would reward her. But pleasing him was
its own reward. He’d gone to so much trouble to put together a nice lunch for
her. The least she could do was enjoy it properly.

Her tongue swept out, licking the dressing from her lips.
Looking deep into his eyes, she opened her mouth and sucked the dressing from
the tines of her fork.

His eyes darkened, and she could hear his labored breathing
in the silence of the kitchen.

“You seem to enjoy that salad dressing,” he said, a rough
huskiness marring the smooth fluidity of his voice. “Perhaps I should anoint
you with it, drizzle it on your breasts, let it drip onto your thighs. Then I
could lick it off you.”

Gayle fisted her free hand, her nails digging into her palm.
The sharp pain distracted her from phantom sensations of liquid running across
her skin, followed by a warm, wet tongue.

Triumphantly, she popped the last slice of strawberry into
her mouth, and laid her fork down with a clatter.

“Excellent,” Rikard purred. “You have done very well. And
that was a challenge, indeed. Come here.”

He held out his hand. Gayle rose, unsteady on quivering
legs, and tottered over to his side. He drew her onto his lap, her leather
skirt squeaking softly as it slid across his leather pants. His gloved hand
cupped her hip, anchoring her yet burning her with the heat of his banked
passion.

His velvety voice was low and strained as he asked, “I know
I said I would not touch you sexually until we’d established trust, but am I
right in thinking that’s what you want me to do now?”

She nodded.

“You may speak now. Your challenge is completed.”

“Yes, Master. Please. Touch me.”

“Where?”

“Put your fingers inside me. Make me come in your hand.”

He smiled tightly, recognizing his own words. Then he
reached beneath her skirt, his gloved fingers trailing lightly up the inside of
her thigh. They were soft, and warm, and everything she’d dreamed of.

Gayle’s head tipped back and she moaned, arching against his
supporting arm behind her back, lifting her hips and spreading her legs. His
fingers brushed her clit, and she gasped, jolted by a sharp rush of pleasure.
He worked his way between her folds by touch, guided by her breathy moans. Then
his fingers slid over the edge of her opening, and she cried out, “Master!”

He pressed two fingers inside her, thrusting up to the second
knuckle.

“Yes! Yes! More!”

A third finger joined the other two on the next thrust,
stretching her to the edge of pain. His thumb worked her clit, sliding over and
around it, his glove wet with her fluids, as his fingers stroked in and out. He
found her nerves and pressed them against the bone, wrenching a scream of
ecstasy from her.

“Beg me,” he rasped, his breath hot against her neck. “Beg.”

“Please, Master. Please. That feels so good. Touch me. Deep.
Deeper. Ahhh.” A rush of pleasure blanked all thought for a moment.

“Beg!” he growled.

In a flash of insight, she knew what he needed her to say.
He wanted to fist her, the way she’d imagined earlier, but he wouldn’t risk
hurting her unless she gave her permission. “I want you. All of you. I need
your whole hand inside me. Please, Master. I’m yours. Take me. Take me now.
Please. Make me scream for you. Only for you.”

His shuddering breath told her she’d guessed correctly.
Gently, he stretched her opening even wider, until the muscle burned. All four
of his fingers slipped inside her, to the first joint. The second. And still he
stretched her, wider and wider, until his knuckles thrust past her opening.

She gasped, the brief pain swirling streamers of red and
black through her vision.

Then his hand was inside her, filling her as she’d never
been filled. His fingers stroked the walls of her vagina, rubbing and circling,
as slowly, slowly, he reached deeper and deeper. Her muscles clenched his fist,
seizing and releasing him again and again. Each time, he moved just a little
bit further inside her.

She was going to go insane from the pleasure. He was killing
her. She never wanted it to end.

“Please, Master. Please. Please.”

She didn’t know what she was begging for, to have him put
her out of her agony now or to keep her writhing in his lap for hours.

Then the tip of his middle finger brushed her cervix, and
she exploded. She screamed, a wordless howl of ecstasy, as she bent back over
his arm, lifting her hips in a final thrust against his fist. The force of her
shudders pushed his hand out of her in a wet rush, as if she was in the final
stages of giving birth, and she screamed again as his hand stretched her
opening on the way out.

He held her, cradled against his soft poet shirt, as she
sobbed into the warm cotton. And continued sobbing, helpless to stop the tears.
She felt the tension that rippled through him as he realized this was more than
a simple release.

He brushed the hair away from her face, tipping her head
back to look at him.