Single White Submissive Page 9

  “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.

  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.”

  “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.