Eighty Days Yellow by Vina Jackson

Author:Vina Jackson [Jackson, Vina]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Romance, Erotica, General, Contemporary, Fiction
ISBN: 9781409127758
Google: heOWYaaibU0C
Amazon: B008B8DXDY
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2012-07-18T23:00:00+00:00

8

A Man and His Guest

It was a room in Dominik’s house that Summer had not yet encountered. On the top floor. It might well have been an attic at one time, but had undergone extensive renovation and conversion. Here and there the ceiling curved, following the path of the roof above. Only two of the walls were covered with bookshelves, mostly housing long runs of often yellowing-spined literary and film magazines, although the upper shelf on the left-hand wall was dominated with an assortment of older, leather-bound volumes of some sort, mostly with French titles. Summer was not allowed the time to take a closer look at the bookshelves and investigate further. There were no windows and the only light came from two square skylights carved into the ceiling.

The room featured nothing else, as if Dominik had deliberately emptied it of furniture or anything that might prove a distraction.

She had been asked to report at 10 p.m. This was to be an evening performance. Her first at such a late hour of the day, as all their previous encounters, as part of the unwritten contract between them, had taken place during the course of the day or in the early evening.

Dominik had greeted her at the door and given her a casual peck on the cheek. As ever, his features were inscrutable, and Summer knew she would not get any answers out of him, so she remained silent. He escorted her up the stairs and opened the door that led to the topmost level of the house.

‘Here,’ he said.

Summer settled her violin case on the wooden floor.

‘Now?’ she asked Dominik.

‘Yes, now,’ he nodded.

She was dying to ask who would be in attendance in addition to him, but thought better of it. Pangs of arousal were beginning to swirl inside her at the thought of the audience who would witness her recital, her service, spying on her every movement and gesture.

She undressed. She’d come to Dominik’s wearing a pair of old jeans and a tight white T-shirt. He had told her there was no need to dress up today. Neither stockings nor high heels, he had indicated. She was to be totally nude. He appeared to enjoy the subtle variations of dress and undress in the continuing process of her ongoing exhibitions, the way he orchestrated her successive performances like a madcap, if thoughtful conductor.

She swiftly shed her few clothes and stood there naked, facing him. For a brief moment, she wished he would just take her right there and then, on all fours on the wooden floor, but she realised this was not his intention today, or at least not before she had conjured up the music that made him so lustful. Once again, they had agreed beforehand on the piece she would be playing: the solo from the final movement of the Max Bruch violin concerto.

His eyes kept on X-raying her. The room was warm; dying embers of sunlight filtered through the skylights.

‘Is that a new lipstick?’ he queried, glancing at her lips.

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