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  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 ba
ck 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.

  Chapter Two

  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.”