by Linnea May
His eyes meet mine when I reach the first floor and join him in the kitchen, where he has been preparing breakfast for us.
“So?” I ask, spreading my arms and giving him a little twirl so he can judge my get-up. “Do you think this will work?”
Loran is standing in front me, looking as marvelous as he always does, a dark suit hugging his broad, muscled frame. He’s more used to wearing this kind of work attire, so he’s not moving nearly as stiff as I am when he approaches me.
“Not sure I can let you go out like this,” he says before placing a loving kiss on my lips. “Someone might kidnap you.”
“Charmer,” I say, winking at him. “I need an honest opinion!”
He chuckles and takes both my hands in his.
“You look perfect, Ruby,” he says. “The dark blue goes well with your hair.”
“Doesn’t it?” I ask.
“Perfectly,” he reaffirms. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“Easy for you to say,” I reply. “It’s not your first day.”
He smiles at me. “In a way it is.”
I meet his gaze and can’t help but agree with him. I’m starting my job as a management assistant at a young sister company of his main business. It was brought into being just a few months ago and is still in the fledgling stage, which increases the burden of responsibility for me, because I know he’s putting a lot of trust in me by giving me this position.
I was the one who insisted on putting my college degree to good use, finally, but when I mentioned this in front of him, I didn’t expect him to offer me a position, let alone a position of this magnitude. When I said that I wasn’t sure whether I’d be comfortable working for him, he clarified that he wouldn’t be my boss. In fact, he’s barely involved in the affairs of this young marketing company other than being one of its founders and a shareholder. However, that didn’t stop him from using his influence to guarantee me a chance at a job that otherwise would have been out of reach for me.
And I’m determined not to disappoint him. I was adamant about quitting my former job even before I met him, but I never thought about what else I wanted to do with my life. All I knew was that I needed something of my own, something that doesn’t leave the bitter aftertaste that my former job as an escort did.
I want this, and I can’t wait to start. But I’m feeling sick to my stomach because my nerves are getting the best of me.
“You’ll do fine,” he says, placing his index finger below my chin to tilt my face up to his. “I have complete trust in you.”
“But I’m so fucking nervous,” I utter helplessly, my lower lip quivering.
“Don’t be,” he says. “That’s an order.”
I smirk. “You’re not the boss of me.”
He lets go of my chin and hooks his finger underneath the slim sterling silver neck cuff encircling my throat.
“At home I am,” he whispers, pulling at the collar as if to remind me.
There’s a little heart-shaped lock attached to it at the back, barely visible and as discreet as day collars come. He gave it to me when it was clear that I’d be returning to public life, giving room to the person I am outside the kink that brought us together. I now wear a subtle silver cuff around my neck, as well as the bracelet that sustained me during a very different time in my life.
“Yes, here you are,” I agree, getting on my toes so I can leave a little peck at the corner of his mouth.
“Thank you,” I say in a low voice. “Thank you for this opportunity.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says, letting go of my silver collar and running the tip of his finger along my cheek, careful not to mess with my make-up, not today.
“It may just be a selfish move,” he says.
“Selfish? How so?” I ask, leaning into his gentle touch.
“You’re a part of me,” he says. “By handing this responsibility over to you, I could be following a wish that’s been driving me for a very long time.”
I look up at him, my face slightly tilted to the side and my eyes wide and questioning. “What wish?”
“The wish to truly build something of my own,” he explains. “You know, I’ve never been involved in my family’s business too much, it wasn’t wanted - either by them or by me. I’ve always wanted something of my own. My own family business - a family empire even.”
The smile on his face strengthens, and it’s joined by a strong sense of hope.
“You’re helping me to build just that,” he adds. “And you look so damn good doing it.”
“Family,” I reply, getting up on my toes to steal another kiss from him.
“I like the sound of that.”
Thank you for reading!
If you enjoyed this book, check out the rest of my VIOLENT Series here, all free in Kindle Unlimited! I suggest you start with VIOLENT DELIGHTS, which will tell you the story of Liana, the girl who stole Ruby’s coat in the bar at the beginning of this book.
Want to know more about The Velvet Rooms for now? Just skip the page for a sneak peek of BLACK VELVET.
The Velvet Rooms
Prequel to Black Velvet
1
Elene
I can’t do this anymore.
I thought it would get easier. It hasn’t always been like this, and I thought maybe I was just going through a phase.
There was a time when things were different, when I almost enjoyed this, a time when it came easy to me. I felt like the luckiest girl on earth, because I had discovered a job that allowed me a level of freedom unknown to any nine-to-five office slave. I only had to work two days a week, sometimes less, and still made more money than most of my friends.
But at some point, things changed. I started doubting myself. I started doubting this profession. I started doubting my moral compass and my own emotional health.
I started disliking what I was doing.
But that’s normal, right? Everybody hates their job once in a while, don’t they? It’s called work for a reason. It’s not a hobby, not fun. Most jobs aren’t fun.
But my job is all about fun. Fun and pleasure. Not mine, of course. It’s the client’s pleasure that counts.
I provide a taboo service—unthinkable, dirty, immoral. I’ve never been bothered by that, but it seems that all of those societal judgments are catching up to me. I can’t shut down the self-doubting voices. They’ve been gnawing at my conscience for too long. Things that once came easy to me, no longer do.
I want more than this.
Or at least something different. Something… better.
I shake my head, trying to clear my mind. Now is not the time for me to be thinking about all of this. I have to focus.
I have work to do.
I shut my eyes firmly, forcing out the uneasy thoughts, as I wrap my lipstick-painted lips around his cock. It’s a smaller-than-average version that almost disappears inside my hand when I enclose my fingers around it. He’s rock-hard, so I know it’s all I can expect. This is all he has. Poor bastard.
I don’t care. I don’t need to care. This is not about my pleasure, it’s about his.
I moan and squirm beneath him, moving my hips seductively while I feel his eyes glued to my every move. He’s panting heavily, standing tall and tense before me, his right fist clenching around a riding crop. He’s almost ready to burst, and I know I could make this end any moment now. I open my eyes and look up, trying to catch his gaze, but I’m really just making sure he’s too deep in the zone to realize where my eyes wander next.
He closes his eyes, now not even looking at me while I’m working his pathetic cock. I peer over at the clock on the nightstand next to the bed. Still twenty minutes to go. He paid for a full hour, and I need to give him his money’s worth. I can’t let him come just yet.
He lets out a desperate moan when I ease my lips away, keeping my fingers locked around his stubby member, my eyes wandering up to his sweaty face. He’s old enough to be my father, but in g
ood physical shape and fairly good-looking. He wants me to call him “Sir,” and that is all he is to me. I don’t know his real name, and I don’t care to know, even though he’s one of my regulars. The fact that he can afford our services multiple times a week speaks of his wealth, as does his appearance. His expensive suit, the obvious—and somewhat tacky—Rolex on his wrist, the Salvatore Ferragamo shoes that are waiting for him next to the door. He’s fucking loaded, and I know I’m not the only girl at this agency who serves him regularly.
I have no idea who he is, but he’s one of the big guys, for sure. He might not even be from this area. He might be married, even though I’ve never seen a ring on his finger. He might have kids, a family. He leads a life that’s completely unbeknownst to me, because I’m not a part of that life.
All I am to him is this.
I am his whore.
He has his own schedule, just like every other regular. He wants to see me about every other week, always for an hour, always in this particular hotel room, always with similar requests. He is all about routine. He likes black and never wants to see me in any other color; he always expects to see the same hairstyle and the same makeup. He always wants to hear the same words from my mouth, and he always wants to come on my face to finish.
He is so fucking boring.
“Slut,” he breathes, glaring at me with a look that’s supposed to deliver dominance but somehow seems misplaced on his face. “You’re lazy today.”
He always calls me “slut” and never cared to learn my real name. Most of them don’t.
“Seems like you need a little encouragement,” his voice thunders above me, shortly before the riding crop meets my ass, sending a hot wave of pain searing through my behind. I flinch and yelp, exaggerating my reaction for his benefit. Another blow strikes my skin, then another one, and the one following that is strong enough to rob me of my breath.
Shit, that fucking hurt.
My pulse speeds up and my head is painfully clear in an instant.
It happened again. I drifted away. I retreated back into my head, dwelling on my newfound resentment for this job.
Soon, I won’t be good at this anymore and I won’t have a choice but to quit. And that’s a big fucking deal, because I’ve always been good at this. No, not good… great. It’s not arrogance that leads me to say this, but I know I’m one of the best because of the prices clients are willing to pay for me and the number of times I’ve had to turn down taking on a new customer. I can choose my own clients, and don’t have to fuck every moneybag that comes around.
I groan when he hits me again, closing my eyes as my hand tightens around his cock. His strikes are painful. Deliciously painful. Each blow makes my core tingle with heat, making me yearn for more. It’s the best I can get out of this job and my key motivation for disobeying. I crave the punishments, the pain. Agony is the only thing that my body responds to.
I wish I could beg for more, but I know he doesn’t like that. He just wants two things: dedication and obedience. Right now, I’m reluctant to give him either.
“Move!” he barks. I know what he wants from me, despite the vague command. He wants me to lie on my back, so he can shove his puny dick between my legs and fuck me. For two minutes, maybe three tops. Then he’ll pull out, climb on top of me, and stroke his cock, panting, sweating and...
“Slut!”
His exclamation is accompanied by another striking blow with the crop. I yelp in pain. A devious smile finds its way to my face when I look up at him.
“Take it,” I tell him, my voice hoarse and creepy. “Take what you want from me.”
His eyes flicker for a moment. I’ve never said anything like this to him, and his reaction is hard to predict. Usually, I’d be more careful. I’d never risk upsetting my clients.
But today I don’t care.
I’ve made a long-overdue decision.
“On your back!” he yells at me, grabbing a fistful of my hair at the back of my head and yanking me up. I’m smiling sadistically as I hurriedly gather myself to my feet, stumbling when he drags me over to the bed, where I fall into the sheets, dropping onto my back. My legs spread apart on instinct, and I produce a well-rehearsed moan when he parts my lips with his hard tip. I coil and squirm, knowing that his small cock is gliding inside with ease. The agonizing strikes with the crop—the pain—made me wet for him.
But I know I won’t come. I never do. Never have. Never will. Climaxing while a man has his way with me is nothing but an illusion.
And that’s fine with me. I developed my own routine to handle this particular shortcoming.
In about a minute or two, I will tense up, rolling my eyes back into my head as I let out a tirade of groans that will make him believe what he wants to believe. I won’t come for him, but he will think I did.
I count to myself as he rams into me with rhythmic motions, waiting for the perfect moment to start my act. It’s a routine, a boring routine that only awakens the voices of self-doubt. But I don’t care tonight.
Because I’ve decided.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth when I close my eyes, getting ready to make him feel good about himself one last time. One last fake orgasm, one last showering of his cum on my face, one last smile as I lick my lips when I clean it off. He doesn’t know it yet, but this will be our last time together.
It’s decided.
I am going to talk to Miss Barry.
I’m quitting.
2
Damon
It’s never enough.
No matter what I do, no matter what I achieve, no matter what I buy, no matter...
Nothing ever gives me that elevated feeling I crave. Nothing ever makes me feel full and accomplished. I’ve reached higher and higher, earning what others can only dream of making, and all I’m left with is this damn void. Nothing ever lasts.
I know what it feels like, that euphoria rushing through your veins when you get what you’ve wanted for a long time, when you finally make something—or someone—yours. But after that first rush is over, it’s gone, and there’s nothing. Nothing, like the hollow emptiness that lingers after the effects of a drug has worn off, leaving me back to the shell of a man I was before.
Why does it come so easy to other people? Does it come easy to them? Or are they pretending? The smiles plastered on their faces might be as fake as most women’s gasping orgasms when anyone fucks them except me. I know it’s common for them to pretend to get off, but they can’t lie to me. And they better not fucking try, either, because I will know. I hate being lied to. Who doesn’t? But it’s even worse for me, because I can smell a lie from a mile away. Betrayal reveals itself to me so easily it’s almost tedious.
I pace back and forth in my living room, a tumbler of scotch in one hand and my phone in the other, restlessly pondering the conversation I just had. Is the revenue promised by this new endeavor going to make any difference in my life? Do I even care if it does? The call didn’t excite me as much as it probably should have, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe I shouldn’t be excited about a mere business deal, an investment. It’s the first time for me to consider doing something like this, so of course I’m curious, maybe even nervous. But excited? Hardly. I have very little to lose and a lot to gain if this investment turns out to be lucrative.
I sigh and then idly take another sip of my scotch, my gaze drifting across the bustling city skyline below. I literally live at the top of this city—at least it seems that way when I look down at it from here. Very few buildings are as tall as this one. My penthouse stretches across the entire uppermost floor, and about a third of it is an open terrace. I’ve only been living here for a few months, and I’m continually surprised that I haven’t grown tired of this place yet. It’s by far the nicest, most expensive place I’ve ever called home, and there’s hope that it will calm my restless nature at least for a while. Before moving here, I could barely stand to stay in the same place for longer than three months. I was always on the m
ove, quite literally.
I flinch in surprise when the buzz of my phone disrupts my rambling thoughts. I expect it’s Scott, the start-up guy I just spoke to, but am taken aback when I glance at the screen. I recognize the number, but it’s not him.
“Hello,” I greet, my voice subconsciously laced with caution.
“Mr. Graves, Belinda Barry here,” a female voice pipes at the other end. “Calling from Violent Delights.”
“Of course, Miss Barry,” I answer. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Graves, I’m not calling with bad news,” she responds with a defensive edge in her voice.
“Why would I think that?”
“Well, you wouldn’t be the first,” she says, and even without seeing her, it’s easy for me to imagine the face she’s making. It’s been a while since the madam and I have met face to face, but Belinda Barry is a character to remember. “Most clients seem to anticipate bad news when I call.”
So, I’m not the first one she’s calling today about whatever this might concern.
“I’m simply surprised. We haven’t spoken since—”
“Since you first signed the contract. Yes, I’m aware,” she says briskly, finishing my sentence. “And I promised you back then that we’d only contact you outside of commissions if there was an urgent matter to discuss.”
“Correct,” I agree, downing the last of the scotch in my glass in one full swig as I wait for her to continue.
“I don’t know if urgent is the correct word for this,” she goes on. “But I was wondering if I could steal a few minutes of your time to discuss an opportunity that I’m sure you’d be interested in.”
“An opportunity?” I inquire, surprised. “What kind of opportunity might that be?”
