by Nia Farrell
Sir Piers had come upstairs when the action was winding down. If he’d taken part in the orgy, she would never have known it to look at him. He’d brought payment for Jon and for Don, who was the Ren fair equivalent of Eric Clapton on the lute. They were contracted labor, self-employed and responsible for reporting income and paying any taxes due on it. Breanna and Rowena were employed by the resort, with hours varying from week to week, depending on the resort’s needs.
Because of their unique skills, their ability to perform on a variety of period instruments with a repertoire that spanned ancient to modern times, they had managed to negotiate payment for a minimum number of hours per week, regardless of what they were scheduled. Sir Piers had also agreed to a benefit package that included paid holidays, vacation time, and comprehensive health insurance. It wasn’t the first time in their lives that being blonde female identical twins had helped seal the deal.
Sir Piers had told them when they were signed that being employees gave them the option of training in BDSM and participating in scenes, if they were interested. Rowena had talked of little else on the way home that day. She’d kept talking about it, wondering what it would be like, until her curiosity was a burning flame that threatened to consume her. Breanna worried that Rowena would do something stupid, like jumping into a scene before she understood what was involved and how it could affect her. To keep that from happening, she had promised to do one with her, for their birthday, if Rowena would promise to wait.
Rowena was waiting, she thought. She hoped. She had no way of knowing what her twin did while she was teaching. Rowena didn’t do much around the house or yard regardless. She dabbled with writing and art, and read a weird mix of Victorian literature, sci-fi/fantasy, erotica (BDSM, ménage, paranormal), and romance novels (the hotter, the better), while the laundry sat and dusting waited and the vacuum stood idle. There was only time for books and drawing and music and sex, and she’d promised to abstain from the last, at least, until their birthday.
Sir Piers had agreed to do the scene midweek, when crowds were thinner and witnesses fewer. Each sister had her own agreement outlining how she would perform in it. Breanna hadn’t wanted to see Rowena’s contract. She’d tried to show it to her once. When a quick scan had revealed line after line of soft limits, she’d had to look away. It was bad enough that they’d been forced to undergo additional exams. Rowena was already taking shots; now Breanna was on birth control, too.
It had come as welcome news that Rowena was free of STDs and both of them were deemed healthy enough, mentally and physically, to participate in Replay’s SSC scenes. As far as Breanna was concerned, Rowena could do whatever she wanted on the far side of the room. She didn’t really want to know. Her focus would be on Gunnar. Only Gunnar. What he would teach her. What he would show her. What he would allow her to do to him, and what he would do to her in turn.
He’d promised to make her scream.
He would do it, too. She had no doubt. Why she’d let Rowena talk her into anything more than straight sex, she didn’t know. Except she’d done some reading, too. Had watched some porn that her twin had rented while Rowena was off on a date with two hunky brothers, intending to put it into practice. Oh. My. God. She’d gotten an eyeful, all right. Scene after scene of ménage and group sex. Oral. Vaginal. Anal. Men and women with multiple partners, male and female. Just watching, she’d tightened her sphincter so much, she was afraid that she’d have to drink prune juice the next day. Good Lord, how could anyone do that, let alone enjoy it?
She’d wondered then. Now she knew. The right partner made all the difference. She trusted Gunnar to know what she needed. He would take her in every way he could, and give her the pleasure she’d only imagined. If he hadn’t agreed to this and signed her contract, she’d have used her safe word before she’d let another Dom take her from behind. But Gunnar had such control, she knew that he’d make it as good for her as he could. She’d already be sore from losing her virginity, and from being whipped. If she focused on her other discomforts, maybe she could keep herself from tightening up and making it worse than it needed to be.
Thank her porn-watching, erotica-reading, sexually adventurous sister for clueing her in on that little bit.
That, and prepping with butt plugs. With only four days left, considering the thickness and length of Gunnar’s cock, Breanna had skipped ahead to the next bigger size as soon as they got home last night. Rowena had smiled and said nothing, for once. This morning, however, she was making up for it.
“Come on.” Rowena batted her eyes and pouted.
“Need I remind you, that moue does nothing for me?” Breanna flipped the first Belgian waffle onto a plate and handed it to her sister. Sunday morning brunch was the same each week, Belgian waffles with fresh fruit and bacon. Lots of bacon.
With Rowena distracted by food, Breanna finished fixing her own breakfast and joined her sister outside on their postage stamp-size patio. It was just big enough for two chairs and a bistro table, but they’d managed to make the narrow side yard one of their favorite spots. A sliding glass door off the living room opened onto the patio, and where the concrete ended, the adventure began. They had built a goldfish pond and soothing waterfall along the fence and planted a dazzling array of perennial and annual flowers between the house and the flagstone path that led to the backyard garden. Further down was a hammock, strung between two ancient trees, where Rowena could often be found, plugged into her music, reading an e-book or paperback or doodling in a sketchbook.
Breanna brought the coffeepot outside and set it between them, the waft of French vanilla competing with the fragrant spring blooms. This was the last week of the semester, and the first summer in years that she’d actually have some free time for herself, instead of driving hundreds of miles to perform on weekends and recovering from the heat and stress in the days between. Meanwhile, they had to play a special scene tonight and teach their veterans’ group Monday night. Between finals on Tuesday and Thursday, they would celebrate their birthday at Replay.
Not for the first time, she wondered about Gunnar. More specifically, her life after the scene with him. She’d turn twenty-two on Wednesday. That night, she would be forever changed. Rowena was already talking about clubbing together. All Breanna could think about was her growing infatuation with Gunnar and her impossible hope for something more.
She shifted her focus to the upcoming scene that Sir Piers and Gunnar had been discussing last night before Gunnar had pulled her into the janitor’s closet. It was another special event booked with musicians, only they would be in full view, wearing tunicas and playing in the corner while a Roman orgy raged around them.
Rowena played a number of instruments. Tonight she would alternate between the aulos, a twin flute dating to ancient Greece, and a frame drum, while Breanna played the kithara, a double-strung lyre. Much of their performance would be improvisation. Using ancient scales, they would tap into the energy in the room and let it flow through their fingers to create the perfect accompaniment.
As much as she wanted to see him, Breanna knew it would be better for her if Gunnar were kept busy elsewhere. If he came to the orgy…if he took part in the scene, she feared she would have a hard time keeping her mind on her music and her performance would really, truly suffer. Just imagining him in a toga or dressed as a gladiator was a distraction she could not afford.
Chapter Six
Breanna’s fears proved to be for naught. Gunnar didn’t come, and for the first time in her life, she envied their brother Brett his nearsightedness. Had she worn contacts, she would gladly have taken them out and spared herself the sight of mostly older, overweight men pursuing, punishing, and finally taking a number of buxom young female subs and a couple of male switches.
All Rowena could talk about was the pair of “Nubian slaves” that Sir Piers had assigned to guard their corner from the revelers. All six feet seven inches times two of them, built like linebackers, as handsome as underwear models, and k
nown for their ménage play.
Breanna had felt in desperate need of a bath when she got home. The feeling lingered, and with no Monday daytime classes, she decided to go to the beach. They’d been raised hundreds of miles inland, and she could still remember the first time she’d seen the ocean. They were playing a string of East Coast Scottish festivals with their dad. Rowena had read all the Misty books and had begged him to take them to Chincoteague to see the ponies. They’d ended up on Assateague Island’s white beach, with an endless sky and foam-tipped blue-green waves as far as the eye could see. The minute she’d shed her shoes, stepped from their old Volkswagen van, and sunk her feet into the sand, she had felt every ache and every worry disappear.
There was magic in the sea, and healing power in the wind and sun, the crystal sand and ocean waves. She needed it today, although she didn’t plan to swim. She pulled her hair back in a ponytail and dressed for comfort in Capri pants and a tank top. She added a wide brimmed straw hat and put on sunscreen, taking the tube to reapply if needed. Rowena was still in bed with her ebony dreams when she packed the cooler. Breanna left a note, loaded her hatchback, and headed for the cove.
Twenty minutes later, she parked the car and started hauling her things down to the private beach owned by their friend Marcus, an active member of the local veterans’ organization who headed most of their fundraisers. A narrow foot trail led from the unpaved wooded lane to the edge of a dune. She left her shoes at the crest and went on barefoot, feeling, with each step, her cares lessen, her worries dissipate, her spirit lighten as, one by one, her burdens released.
It took three trips to unload and set up her spot. One blanket, a pillow, a beach umbrella, sunscreen, sunglasses, a bound book of 12-stave staff paper and pencils, her baby harp, cell phone, and one cooler later, and she was set for the day.
It was too cold to swim, but she walked to the water and waded in the surf as deep as her ankles until she heard the first lines of melody weaving themselves in her head. Then it was back to her shady spot, using the pillow as a lap desk to write the beginning of her newest composition.
Breanna still hadn’t finished the last one to her satisfaction, but her creative process was such, she had to work on whatever came to her. She could tell that the song she’d been given today was inspired by Barbara Strozzi’s music. With certain note patterns, brief and fleeting but recognizable nonetheless, it would be an original composition but would sound as if it belonged in a mid-seventeenth century drawing room. She couldn’t wait to share it with Rowena.
Happy with her morning’s work, she ate a light lunch from her cooler and took another walk, exploring the shoreline of the cove, watching the strip of sand narrow as the ground grew rocky, until the beach simply disappeared against boulders and granite cliffs that had been carved by the hand of nature. A glint of reflected sunlight drew her eye to a magazine-worthy house high above, with views that she could only dream of. When she’d been hired by the local community college, she’d looked at ocean front property and quickly learned that a midcentury inland bungalow was all she could afford.
Trying not to be envious, she retraced her steps to Marcus’s beach. She rounded an outcropping of water-smoothed rock and saw that she was no longer alone.
She nearly stopped in her tracks. That hair, that height, that amazing body could only belong to one man. A man she wasn’t supposed to see for two more days. The man who would be her first sexual partner. The one who could nearly make her come just thinking about him.
She could forget about getting any more writing done.
“Gunnar?” A dozen other questions swirled in her mind. Why was he here? How had he found her? Why was he here? Great, she was rambling to herself.
He wore hi-tech biking shorts and fingerless gloves and looked like he’d shed his socks and cycling shoes when he’d hit the sandy beach. A pair that she’d never be able to afford dangled from two fingers. His hair was tied back. Sweat beaded his face, chest, and arms. His hair-dusted legs were drool-worthy, and his feet were as beautiful as the rest of his body. It was all she could do to not groan.
He’d promised not to get her wet, damn it.
He swiped his forehead with back of his hand and crooked a smile. “Good afternoon.”
“You don’t sound surprised to see me.” The moment the words flew out of her mouth, Breanna regretted them. She had an absurd urge to assume a submissive’s position and beg for her master’s forgiveness. Instead, she lowered her gaze and offered a heartfelt apology. “I’m sorry. That was rude. Forgive me.”
“Rude, but right,” he admitted. “You’d been here long enough, Marcus thought you needed checked on. I was going riding anyway. I can leave, if you like.”
Cruel. It was just plain cruel of the Universe to play this cosmic joke on her. He should leave. Or she should.
“No,” she said, raising her chin until she met his eyes. Not an easy thing to do, given his height, but the warmth in his gaze and his beckoning smile made it worth the neck strain. “Please. Stay,” she said, a deliberate act of self-sabotage at this point. If he left, she might—just might—finish polishing the movement she’d written this morning. “Unless you need to check in with Marcus…?
“I called him as soon as I saw you coming. Cellular service is sketchy out here, depending on your carrier. Let me see.” Gunnar eyed the old-school flip phone hanging from her front pocket and crooked his fingers. She slipped it from its case and handed to him.
“One bar,” he noted, frowning. He punched in a number keystrokes before snapping it shut and handing it back to her. “I’m in your contact list now, too, just in case. Marcus was afraid, if you needed help, you might not get through to him, even if he was home.”
Marcus was a private investigator with weird hours, depending on the case he was working. The former Navy Seal was the one who’d told them about Replay. She didn’t know how Gunnar and Marcus knew each other, but evidently they were friends.
“Thanks,” she said, telling herself not to read too much into it. So what if Gunnar had come to check on her, had given her his number? “I take it you ride out here.”
Gunnar wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “I live here. I own the next property over.” He nodded in the direction she’d just come from.
“I’m envious.” Remembering the magnificent house that crowned the heights above, the one with views to die for, she really wished he’d ask her over sometime. When all was said and done, hopefully he would remember their night fondly enough to earn an invitation. “It’s beautiful. Your house reminds me of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Falling Waters. Did you build or buy?”
He nodded, impressed. “You have a good eye, Breanna. I bought a house and did an extensive remodel. The square footage is about three times the size of the original. It’s barely recognizable.”
Breanna was so used to thinking of him in the role of Dom, hearing Gunnar speak of his life outside Replay reminded her that he was a complex man. And rich, in money and in experience. She might have earned her Master’s degree by the time she was twenty, but he had taken his and made a fortune with it. She’d be an old maid before she repaid all of her student loans.
Gunnar followed her to her outdoor office. His pale blue eyes missed nothing. “Not exactly period,” he observed, nodding at her bright green instrument.
“This is my baby harp,” she said. “She’s the easiest to haul and the best for playing outdoors. There are only twenty-six strings, but she has a full set of sharping levers for changing keys without retuning. I brought her with me to work on some music. I actually got quite a bit written today.”
The smile he gave her went straight from her heart to her loins. “I would love to hear it sometime, when you’re ready to share.”
With just a little encouragement on his part, she’d be willing to share right here, right now. Except he’d promised that he wouldn’t touch her, and had made her promise to not touch herself. He wanted her orgasms to be intense. He said he woul
d make her scream.
He knew how to coax a response from her body. He’d proven it, more than once. She wondered what he would do if she offered to return the favor.
“Mmm, Gunnar?” Feeling her cheeks grow flush, she bit her lip and looked away, at a loss for words. Dear Lord, what must he think of her, stammering like a tongue-tied schoolgirl? Unable to voice what she wanted, she tried to salvage her pride and asked if he’d like a drink from her cooler. “I brought water, pineapple juice, and blueberry lemonade. The forecast called for sunny and increasing heat.”
And, boy, were they right.
“Water’s fine. Thank you.”
The umbrella was large enough to shade the two of them if they sat close together. Accepting the pillow when she offered it, Gunnar set his shoes beside the large square cushion, folded his long legs, and sat down.
Breanna pulled two bottles from the ice and handed one to Gunnar. He held it on the back of his neck, then against his forehead before twisting off the lid and drinking it. Watching the muscles in his throat work made her mouth dry, and she followed suit, taking small sips, wishing it would cool the growing fever in her blood.
“Do you swim?” he asked her, nodding toward the water.
“Yes,” she said. “My mother was scared to death of drowning from some movie she saw as a kid. She made sure all five of us had swimming lessons—although Rowena only swims in pools, where she can see the bottom. Strange, right? When she’s the risk taker and thrill seeker and I’m the one standing on the side, hoping she comes home safe and sound.”
