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  “Have I not warned you not to contradict me? That merits another twenty lashes with the cat.”

  Gayle whimpered. He teased her with the body of lashes, stroking them over her hot and swollen ass. Was he going to whip her there?

  He lifted the hand holding her down. Oh, God, he was.

  The cat smacked her ass, wrenching a cry from her. She couldn’t endure twenty of those. She couldn’t.

  “Seventeen. Eighteen.” The cat smacked the other side of her ass, pulling another cry from her lips. “We never finished the first set.”

  She moaned. She was going to die. Her entire body was on fire, rivers of flame coursing through her veins with every pulse, driven by the beating tempo of his strokes.

  “Nineteen. Twenty.” He paused, and this time, it was the cessation of blows that made her give a pained cry of helpless need.

  Rikard inhaled deeply, his shuddering breath hinting that he was growing as excited as she.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “You begin to understand.”

  The cat’s lashes landed on her shoulder blade, harder than the previous blows, and spreading further. The tips swept outward from her spine, then outward from her spine on the other side, as if Rikard was tracing giant figure eights. Sometimes harder, sometimes softer, sometimes faster and sometimes slower, he varied the whip’s caress so that she never knew what to expect. Then she stopped trying, and just allowed herself to feel.

  Sting. Smack. Pain. Heat. Pleasure, thick and heady, coiling deep within. She began to grunt, low and guttural, with each blow.

  Rikard paused, his gentle fingers stroking soft caresses over her ass, reminding her that she was still delightfully sensitive there.

  “Do not grunt like a pig,” he admonished. “God gave you a voice. Use it. Sing for me.”

  “I don’t understand.” She nearly cried, devastated that she might not be able to please him.

  “Relax your throat. Open your mouth. Hold in your mind the sound of a perfect high C.”

  The whip fell on her ass, and she released a high, shrill note of pain and pleasure.

  “That was more like an E-flat. But much better.”

  She was being ravished by a pirate with perfect pitch.

  Then his whip landed on her shoulder blades, and she cried out in joy, careful to lower her tone a minor third. Again and again, the whip stroked her with flaming lashes, and she sang out in need and hunger.

  She waited, trembling in anticipation, but the whip did not fall.

  “That was twenty,” he said softly.

  “No. Please. Don’t stop. I’m so close. Please. Don’t stop.”

  “Are you begging?”

  “Yes. Please. Whip me again. Please. I’m begging you.”

  Rikard stroked her shoulders with trembling fingers, then smoothed her skin with his gloved palms. Gayle was certain that he molded her body anew out of sheets of living flame, holding her untouched in the center of the blaze.

  “Please, Captain. Please. Let me come. Don’t stop.”

  “I can refuse you nothing when you sing.”

  The whip fell again, and she sang. Slowly, relentlessly, she climbed the scale, a quarter-step at a time like some strange Indian modulation. Each blow drove her higher, deeper into the heat and flames, surrounded by music that pulsed and rippled like nothing she’d ever heard before. Finally, with a long, drawn-out A above high C, she climaxed, shuddering and shaking as the orgasm thundered through her body like a surging series of arpeggios.

  And then the music claimed her, and she was gone.

  * * * * *

  Rikard smiled at the limp, sweat-soaked woman sprawled across the whipping bench. He felt sated with power, relaxed and replete. Her charming insistence that she would never beg had made him as hard as the leather-wrapped handle of his whip, eager to prove her wrong. And her voice as she came! Perfection.

  His lips twisted, self-mockery spoiling the moment. His proficiency in playing the human body had grown over the past two years, after he realized the scar tissue in his left hand would never allow him to play the piano again. Like a blind man whose hearing grows acute to compensate, he’d been given another instrument to assuage his loss. Sometimes it helped.

  Now, though, his ears were filled with Gayle’s slow rise to that final, drawn-out note. His mind stacked chord progressions beneath, with a series of descending sevenths in staccato triplets as counterpoints.

  He freed her arms from the restraints, then lifted her up to lay her on her side on the bench. Popping the recessed latch on the concealed closet, he retrieved a thick white robe in soft French terry. The logo of some hotel he no longer remembered was embroidered on the breast in gold thread.

  Carefully, he wrapped her in the fluffy embrace of the robe. She gave no sign of awareness, letting him dress her as if she was a rag doll.

  Another thrill of power surged through him, stiffening his cock. He’d well and thoroughly pleased her, his touch shooting her deep into whatever place subs went when their minds left their bodies. If all went well, when she woke, she’d be eager for sex. He didn’t always want sex with his submissives. Often, the rush of dominating them was enough. But he wanted sex with Gayle.

  He’d take her from behind, the reddened marks of his whipping visible on her pale, perfect skin as he thrust into her, again and again, driving him into a frenzy until she came in a crying symphony of delight.

  But first, she needed to rest in warmth and safety. Swinging her up into his arms, he carried her from the room.

  He was almost at the doorway to the home theater when an annoyingly chirped rendition of an old Motown classic stopped him in his tracks. What the hell was that?

  “Shit!” Gayle’s cell phone.

  Chapter Five

  Rikard hurried into the kitchen. Placing Gayle’s limp body in one of the chairs, he held her steady with one hand while he dumped her purse out on the table. There!

  Grabbing the chirping phone, he flipped it open and took the call.

  “Hello. Gayle can’t come to the phone right now.”

  There was a moment of silence, followed by a woman’s accusing voice demanding, “Where is she, and what have you done to her?”

  “She’s right here, but she’s asleep. And as for what I did, I’ll say she enjoyed it, and leave it at that.”

  “I don’t believe you. Put Gayle on the phone.”

  Rikard took a deep breath, and flipped the switch in his mind that engaged the other new instrument he’d been gifted with after his accident. He’d studied self-hypnosis as a way to manage the agonizing pain of the third-degree burns, working with the visualizations his therapists suggested. It hadn’t been very effective until he’d tried recording himself, and playing back his spoken suggestions. Then it was surprisingly successful. Even more surprisingly, he developed the ability to hypnotize others into sharing his visualizations—or any other belief he wanted them to hold.

  “Gayle is asleep,” he repeated, his voice vibrating with hidden emphasis. “She is safe, and you have no cause for fear. Call back in an hour, and she’ll speak to you then.”

  “Well, if she’s really asleep, I suppose you shouldn’t wake her. I’ll call back in an hour. But if I still can’t talk to her then, I’m calling the cops!”

  “You are a good friend to her. She will thank you for your concern when she wakes.”

  “She’d better.”

  The phone went dead in his hand.

  He dropped it onto the table, ignoring the scattered debris from Gayle’s purse, and lifted her into his arms again. That had been close. He’d sworn that she’d told her friend all was well and not to call again. Then again, he hadn’t heard her entire conversation, just snippets between the sizzles of the tuna steaks. It’s possible her friend had convinced her to continue the calls. Or else, her friend had called back despite Gayle’s request to leave them alone.

  Carrying her into the home theater, he sighed. He wasn’t sure how long she’d sleep, but it wou
ld probably be long enough that any sex would have to wait until after her friend’s damnable follow-up call.

  He kicked out the recliner, then settled into it with Gayle cradled in his arms. She snuggled closer, her cheek resting just above his heart. One-handed, he flipped the top of the built-in table, exposing the storage area beneath housing his remote controls, as well as one of his ever-present notepads of staff paper. After all, inspiration could strike anywhere.

  The DVD in the player spun up. Amadeus. Damn, he had been feeling melancholy the last time he’d watched a movie, hadn’t he? Well, he wasn’t about to get up and disturb Gayle’s sleep again. And you couldn’t argue with the beauty of Mozart’s music. He’d just fast-forward through the bits with Salieri falling into a suicidal depression because he’d been given the desire to create music but not the ability.

  He was smiling, nodding in time with the music, until he reached the scene where Mozart attended a party, and was asked to play a piece of music in the style of Bach. When that triumph was not enough, the party guests flipped him on his back and demanded he play that way, reaching behind his head to the keyboard. He did, gloriously, until his father’s ominous displeasure ruined everything.

  Rikard thumbed the DVD off, his throat tight and his eyes burning. He’d once tried that trick at a party. Had it been the tour in Munich? Although not on a par with Mozart’s movie performance, he’d done a credible job.

  He’d had a gift, and he’d wasted it, playing tricks at parties. What he wouldn’t give to just once be able to play the piano again, to let his soul fly free on the waves of sound, and carry the audience with him to heights they’d never dreamed existed. Hell, he’d play in a deserted basement, as long as the piano was in tune. But that would never happen. The scarring on his left hand had damaged his extensor tendons. He could hit the notes just fine, but he couldn’t lift his fingers away from the keys, not at anything approaching the right speed.

  Softly, he began singing the Sondheim melody he’d played for Beth earlier. Not a day went by that he didn’t think of the music he could no longer play. It had been his life, his heart and his soul. Sometimes, he thought it would be easier if he could just forget. But that way lay madness and death. If he ever lost the memories as well as the music, he knew it would kill him. A man may be able to live with a blade of ice imbedded in his heart, but he could not withstand the removal of his soul.

  * * * * *

  Gayle woke slowly, aware of warmth and a soft thudding drumbeat. And music. Rikard was humming softly to himself, occasionally punctuated by “No, that’s not right”, or “Yes, that’s it”. A pencil scratched frantically across paper.

  Awareness returned to her body. She was sitting curled on his lap, wearing something heavy yet soft, her cheek pressed to his chest. His left hand was cupped loosely around her hip. Her ass throbbed in time with her pulse, still sensitive from the thorough whipping and spanking he’d given her.

  Experimentally, she rolled her shoulders. No stiffness there, although she could feel the muscles, like the burn of pressing a stretch when working out.

  Rikard’s humming stopped.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “No, that’s all right. I was just waiting for you to wake up.”

  Gayle sat up, hissing as her weight rolled onto her ass. The brief flash of pain was followed by a delicious warmth, spreading out over her skin while at the same time spiraling deep to ignite the slumbering desire within her. She wriggled on his lap, stoking the flames.

  He inhaled sharply, and tightened his grip on her hip, holding her still. She recognized the firm pressure against the back of her thigh as his suddenly hard cock.

  “I don’t have any condoms in this room. And if you keep that up, I’m not going to remember why I need to go get them.”

  She froze at the low threat in his voice, more than the words he used. When she remained still, his hold loosened and he released his breath in a soft gust.

  “Thank you.”

  Careful to move only her head, she glanced around the room. They were no longer in the playroom. He’d carried her downstairs, to the reclining couch in the home theater.

  Her glance dipped down to the fluffy white robe she was wearing. The breast was embroidered in gold thread with a fat bird. A bird wearing antennae. At least that’s what it looked like upside down. She struggled to read the scrolling print beneath. L’ Perdrix. That didn’t help.

  She flicked her gaze upwards to Rikard, meaning to ask him about the logo. His blue eyes watched her from within the dark depths of his black mask.

  “You’re still wearing your mask.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’re still Master Rikard, and not just Rikard?” She couldn’t explain the sadness this caused. After all, Master Rikard was the one who had given her the best orgasm of her life in the kitchen, then topped that with the full-body meltdown of ecstasy in the playroom.

  Maybe that was it. Master Rikard was about the sex. Held close in his arms, cuddled and cared for, she wanted an emotional connection. If it had been Rikard holding her, she’d have thought that’s what he wanted, too. But it wasn’t Rikard. It was Master Rikard who held her on his lap while his cock pressed hard and solid against her thigh. Master Rikard who wasn’t done with her yet.

  Her breath quickened, her breasts tensing and tightening despite herself. He was watching her reaction carefully. When her breathing shifted, he slipped his gloved hand between the folds of her robe, the black leather dramatic against the fluffy white terry.

  His warm hand cupped one of her breasts, his thumb rubbing gently across the nipple. Gayle arched into his touch with a sigh, her eyes closing to focus all her attention on the feel of his hand upon her. Her nipple tightened even further, to a hard point.

  He tugged lightly with his thumb and forefinger, ripping a gasp from her lips. Her hips bounced without conscious volition, pulling an equally sharp gasp from him. His cock dug into the soft flesh of her thigh.

  “Where are those condoms?” she asked.

  “Upstairs, in the guest bedroom. But we can’t go up just yet. Your friend will be calling soon, and she’ll be distressed if you don’t answer the phone.”

  Gayle blinked. “How did you know…?”

  “She already called once, while you were asleep.”

  The blood drained from her face. “Oh my God! What did you say? What did she say?”

  “It’s fine. I told her you were sleeping, and she promised to call back in an hour.”

  “An hour? How long was I out?”

  “Forty, forty-five minutes. Something like that.”

  “Wow.”

  He tugged on her nipple again, soothing and inflaming her at the same time. Gently, he untied the belt on her robe, and pushed the collar off her shoulders, exposing her body to his gaze. His hand stroked her thigh and hip beneath the robe, then glided up her rib cage to once again cup her breast, while his head bent, and he pressed a soft kiss to the pulse point in her neck.

  She shivered and moaned. Reaching up, she thrust her fingers into his thick blond hair, clutching his head and pressing his mouth against her neck.

  Rikard stiffened, just long enough for her to fear she’d done something wrong, before he relaxed and resumed kissing and licking her neck. His hand dropped away from her breast, making her whimper softly in disappointment. He chuckled softly, the sound rolling through her like a wave of pure delight.

  “I’m not stopping,” he whispered. “Just moving us to the kitchen, so we’re not unduly interrupted by your friend’s call.”

  He slipped his arm beneath her thighs. Then, with a fluid surge of graceful power, he rose with Gayle in his arms. He carried her through the house, into the kitchen, and sat down at the table. Her purse was upended, with the contents strewn across the glass tabletop. She had a brief spike of worry. Was there anything in her purse she’d have preferred him not to see? Although, since her cell phone was sitting on top of the pile, she
doubted he’d looked at anything else.

  Then he lowered his head, this time covering her breast with his mouth. His tongue swirled around the tight nipple, then he tugged lightly on it with his teeth. She groaned, already hot and wet for him.

  His fingers stroked up her thigh, making soft circles that drove her insane with need. Then he slipped his hand higher, slicking his fingers between her folds.

  She moaned, letting her legs fall open, encouraging him to touch her deeper.

  “Are you going to fist me again?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Would you like that?”

  “Oh, yes. Please.”

  “Then I will. But you must take your friend’s call when it comes. Even if my hand is all the way inside you, and you’re writhing with pleasure, you must take the call. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, Master Rikard.” She’d promise anything to feel him inside her again.

  He stroked the circle of her opening with his fingers, probing with first one, then two. “You’re not ready, yet.”

  The leg supporting her jiggled, bouncing her up and down, awakening her sensitive ass. Gayle moaned, and felt the change in his touch as his gloved fingers became coated in her fluids. He found her clit with his thumb, and worked her, swirling around the thickening bud, then brushing back and forth across the tip, and finally pressing against it.

  She gasped, and his fingers slid inside her.

  “Now you’re ready,” he whispered.

  Licking and kissing the tender tip of one breast, he built her to a frenzy of need, then scraped his teeth across her nipple. When the wave rippled through her, he slipped a third finger inside her. Shifting position slightly, he turned his attention to her other breast, and repeated the process. This time when the wave broke, he slid a fourth finger through her opening.

  He moved on to kiss and lick her neck, sensitizing her pulse points with openmouthed kisses then blowing lightly across the damp skin to make her shiver with need. Each time, his fingers pressed ever so slightly further into her. His fingers were in her up to the second joint, his thumb stroking her opening preparatory to joining them. Then the phone rang.