MustLoveMusic Read online

  “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.

  “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.

  Chapter Three

  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.”