Pointe Noire (The Noire House Book 1)

by Lacie Thorne

  “I want to see you again soon. Maybe we can go for an actual dinner.” Heat lit up his dark eyes. “Then my place. I’m done meeting you here. It’s too impersonal. I want you in my bed when I take you.”

  I flushed, though I couldn’t say why after the night we’d shared.

  Sam reached in and cupped my chin. “Is that a yes, Emily?”

  “Yes, of course it’s a yes.”

  “Three little letters and yet they fuck with my head.”

  I grinned. “Which one?”

  He laughed and leaned in to kiss me. “Both.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sam

  I waited until her car was out of sight, disappearing down the long driveway lined with an oak tree canopy. My blood still hummed through my veins, brought to life by the most unassuming woman I’d ever met. I’d played with a lot of different women over the years. A veritable smorgasbord because I’d never considered having a type.

  They’d all had one thing in common, however—submissive.

  Emily definitely fit that role, but I worried she was too soft, too fragile. I usually gravitated toward stronger women, those built with iron and steel because I never—ever—wanted to break my partner.

  I’d been careful with her tonight. Made sure I didn’t take things too far, or push her too hard. A constant voice in the back of my head whispered gently over and over as we tested the waters. It was one thing to list bondage and other masochistic activities in a file, and another to actually experience them—as Emily had proven only a couple hours ago.

  Don’t coddle me.

  Her words echoed through my thoughts as I made my way back up to the house. Maybe she was stronger than I gave her credit for. God, I hoped so. I wanted to keep playing with her, bring her deeper into the lifestyle and show her all the joys it had to offer for people like us.

  But the absolute last thing I wanted to do was hurt her.

  “You sure you know what you’re doing, Sam?”

  I jerked my head up at Ian’s question. He stood on the porch with his arms folded, leaning against a stone column with Lulu glued to his leg. I shook my head. “Not this again, brother.”

  He sighed and grabbed my arm when I reached the top of the stairs, eerily timing it just right so he halted my footsteps. “I’m not saying don’t get involved—not this time.” He released my arm. “All I’m asking is if you know what you’re getting yourself into with her. She’s not like the other members of The Noire House, special invitation or not. I don’t want trouble. Not with you or—”

  “Relax, Ian,” I gritted out. Fuck, I was being more careful with her than I had been with any other partner in my entire life. There was no chance I’d hurt her. Not on purpose. “I’m fully aware.”

  “That better be true, Sam.”

  I ignored Ian parting words and grabbed my keys so I could leave, my mood soured by my brother’s warning. Again. He’d never paid such close attention to my love life, but it had to be because his business was involved. Well, not for much longer. The next time I saw Emily, I was adamant it wouldn’t be at The Noire House.

  As I drove home, I replayed the night over and over in my head, picturing Emily beneath me, already eager for the next time I could kiss her lips.

  Chapter Ten

  Emily

  I was on a high for the rest of the week, walking around my shotgun house with a perpetual, stupid grin on my face. Sam had texted later that night, his words sending tingles down my spine even two days later.

  Friday, I arrived early to the theatre, eager to get back to work and also fueled by my blissful mood. Joel frowned at me as though I was crazy, even stopping to ask if I was high on painkillers. In all honesty, my back was fine. Obviously it hurt, but what dancer didn’t suffer some sort of discomfort on a daily basis?

  The day flew by in a whirlwind of rehearsals and final costume fittings. I spent extra care sewing the ribbons on my new, crisp white pointe shoes. They wouldn’t stay that way for long, but Antoine—our resident choreographer—thought I needed to look as pure and innocent as possible. Funny, given my night of debauchery and virgin status.

  As a result of my giddy mood and a few days’ rest, I danced better than ever. I hummed backstage during the few moments I had out of the limelight, crushing lumps of rosin beneath my shoes. Every time the organ sounded through the theatre, chills ran down my arms, the haunting Phantom of the Opera melody so familiar.

  I took my final steps as Christine, dancing between the Phantom and childhood friend, Raoul. The applause from the audience echoed through the theatre as we bowed, flowers raining down on the stage. While the curtains drew to a close, the organ bellowed the famous melody once more.

  Afterward, we all rushed to change out of our costumes and into pretty outfits, meant to impress and woo the benefactors attending the gala. People like Garret, I thought with a smile. He had more than enough money to lavish on our company, which he did in generous donations. It had been some time since he’d attended a gala though, unmoved by the fawning of company staff members.

  The crowd applauded as I stepped into the grand hall, no longer able to hide in the shadows. This was the part I hated. I might have been a dancer—a principal and star of our company, small though it was—but I hated the attention. My love affair was with the art form and trying to be perfect in order to showcase the beauty of the choreography. The relative fame and accolades that came with it was an unfortunate means to an end.

  I mostly kept those thoughts to myself though, unwilling to sound ungrateful and rude. Only Garret knew my intense discomfort on gala nights. I prided myself on my fake smile and acceptance of praise. If nothing else, I was a performer, able to put aside my own feelings for a few hours.

  “Emmy,” a voice whispered behind me, breath tickling the exposed skin at my neck—skin I’d taken pains to coat in layers of concealer to hide the marks Sam had left.

  I spun around with a genuine smile only Garret could gain from me on a night like this. He swept me into a tight hug, lifting me off my feet with his much larger build.

  “Holy fuck, that was good. You didn’t tell me it was going to be so good.” He pulled back, still gripping my waist. “I think I’ll have to attend more gala nights if that’s what I’ve been missing.”

  I laughed, swatting at his shoulder, clad in a fancy looking black tux and far too handsome for his own good. “Oh, please, you couldn’t handle it. Why are you here anyway? You never attend these things anymore.”

  A thought struck and my eyes widened. “Tell me Martin didn’t talk you into giving more money. I know he’s obsessed with the finances at the moment, but that’s only because this one cost so much. The whole production. From the stage to the organ, which he had to bring in specifically for the right music. Please tell me he isn’t hounding you. If he is, I’ll talk to him.”

  Garret moved his hands to settle on my shoulders, pegging me with a stern look. “Calm down. Martin hasn’t bothered me.” He smirked. “I pay him enough as it is.”

  My mouth fell open, knowing full well why he donated so much to the company. Before I could say a word though, Garret continued.

  “He did, however, agree to let you out early tonight to please your very biggest benefactor. We’ll discuss why over dinner and the fact you didn’t mention your back, but first I want to introduce you to someone.”

  I cringed, realizing Martin had sold me out to Garret about the injury. So much for keeping the truth from him. My happy mood was starting to ebb, fading away like a distant memory.

  “Emily Charles,” Garret said, seemingly oblivious to my happiness melting away. “This is Samuel Roche, the old friend from New York I was telling you about last week.”

  Garret turned me to face his friend and my gaze collided with a pair of familiar brown eyes. I couldn’t move, frozen stiff even as the man stared at me with a blank expression. He was as gorgeous as ever, perhaps even more so with the pale blue shirt contrasting against his warm, tawny skin. H
e wore no tie, only a black jacket hugging his shoulders to perfection.

  “Emmy, why are you gaping like a fish? Do you two know each other?”

  There was an odd edge to Garret’s voice, but I couldn’t answer, my mind trying desperately to process the situation. Sam was here. He must have seen me dance. I tried to picture him sitting in the audience while I moved about the stage, dancing and acting the lead female role.

  “Perhaps Miss Charles recognizes me.” Sam’s voice was void of any emotion, cold compared to the rich tones I’d come to expect. “You know, the dance world isn’t that big.”

  His last word echoed inside my head, repeating my own words back at me from an entirely different situation.

  You feel big.

  Big.

  I flushed, hoping no one noticed. Or they’d think it was because I obviously had heard of Samuel Roche—a genius choreographer from New York. I’d read plenty of articles about him and his visionary work, none of which ever supplied a photograph.

  Privacy in all things, Emily.

  Perhaps that was not only a statement regarding The Noire House, but also Sam’s personal life.

  “Please, call me Sam,” he said, reaching out with his right hand. The same hand that had been wrapped around my throat and then buried between my thighs two nights ago.

  My worlds had just collided. My career crashing into my kinky exploration at The Noire House.

  “Emily,” I told him, autopilot taking over as I placed my palm in his.

  Sam’s grip was firm but brief. I tried not to be disappointed by that, but of course I was. My veins were buzzing with the need for him to touch me. Garret was talking, but I couldn’t focus on the words. These two men knew each other? The two most important men in my life right now, and they knew each other. But how—

  “The Noire House,” I mumbled under my breath.

  “What?” Garret asked, his hand going to the small of my back in a possessive gesture he often used, one I’d never given much thought until now. “Emmy, you sure you’re okay?”

  I nodded, noticing the way Sam directed a scowl at Garret’s arm, the one currently wrapped around me. I don’t share, Emily. My jealousy is too severe. His words from Wednesday night haunted me, churning over and over in my mind as he stared at where Garret touched me, his palm heating my back.

  “Well, come on,” Garret said, urging me forward with slight pressure. “I made dinner reservations for the three of us, but I doubt they’d keep a table open after midnight, even for me.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” I said. “Uh, I need to speak to the costume department about—”

  “Did you miss the part where I got permission from your ballet master to let you go?”

  I glared at Garret. “You know I hate it when you call him that.”

  “Why? It’s a legitimate term.” He leaned in and whispered in my ear, breath brushing my skin. “It’s only because you’re kinky that your mind goes there.”

  I risked a glance at Sam, judging his reaction to Garret invading my personal space. Only the tight clench of his jaw indicated that he even noticed, his face angled away from the two of us.

  “My car—”

  “I’ll bring you back later to get it.” We exited the theatre, descending the stone steps with Garret still pressed to my side. “Why are you being so difficult tonight? Is it your back—?”

  “No, Garret,” I growled at him, wishing Sam was not standing two feet away. Tears gathered in my eyes, the stress and confusion drawing them out of me. “Just—please. I’m tired and—”

  I broke off, not committed to my excuses. Garret was frowning down at me, and I couldn’t blame him. I wasn’t acting like myself, especially when the night had been going so well not even half an hour ago. On any other night, I would have bounded out the door with him in a heartbeat even if I was exhausted.

  My best friend knew me too well, but I hoped he wouldn’t push for answers. Not with Sam nearby. I tried to plead with Garret, using my eyes to convey the message to him. It seemed to only increase his confusion.

  “She’s hungry,” Sam offered, his voice low and deep. “I’m sure she’ll be more agreeable once she’s fed.” When Garret turned a questioning glance at Sam as though he’d put his foot where it didn’t belong, Sam laughed. It was so forced, I wondered if his old friend would believe it. “Dancers run on empty most of the time. It’s a guess.”

  Sam shrugged and walked away, leaving me alone with Garret. My dear, best friend sighed and put his arm around my shoulders, leading me down the steps slowly.

  “I’m sorry, Emmy. I didn’t mean to harass you.”

  “You didn’t, and I’m sorry, too. It’s been a long week.”

  He kissed the top of my head. “I still want to hear about your injury though.”

  This was the trouble with having a dominant as a best friend—they didn’t let you get away with crap.

  We left the theatre, the two men taking the front seats of Garret’s car and leaving me to sulk by myself in the back. I spent the drive staring at Sam’s profile and trying to reconcile that my gorgeous and kinky Sam was in fact a legendary choreographer. Who happened to be old friends with Garret.

  Samuel Roche had made me come through a layer of denim. My neck bore the concealed marks from his teeth and lips. Bruises I’d caressed before covering them with make-up. From the Samuel Roche.

  Oh, God.

  My head was spinning.

  We arrived at the restaurant just before eleven, Garret’s money paying for a nice table even as most patrons were finishing their meals.

  I sat with them on either side of me, discomfort eating away at my insides. Not even a minute after we’d taken our seats, I excused myself to visit the ladies’, forgetting to leave a drink order. I half expected Sam to follow me, but he didn’t. In the bathroom, I locked myself inside one of the stalls and tried to regain what little composure I could.

  Without thought, I’d followed Sam’s lead when he pretended we didn’t know each other. There had to be a reason for that, but I didn’t understand. I’d have to ask him at some point, but for now it left me in the dark. How was I supposed to deal with this situation? Lie to my dearest friend?

  A woman reapplying her lipstick frowned at me as I washed my hands and used the excess water to cool my neck and chest. It left droplets of water on my lilac dress, but I didn’t care. When I arrived at the table, I downed a glass of water to calm my nerves—not that it helped—and ignored the looks both men shot at me.

  “Wait, I should have ordered champagne to celebrate the success of the gala,” Garret announced.

  He tried to flag down a waitress, but when he failed, he disappeared from the table. I felt the weight of Sam’s gaze and glanced up at him from under my lashes. Silent words travelled between us, more than we could safely say out loud before Garret returned. I jerked my gaze into my lap, concentrating on smoothing the ruffles of a dress I didn’t even like. The champagne only took a few moments to arrive, yet another perk of my friend’s deep pockets.

  Garret held his glass in the air and smiled at me. “To Emmy, on a most successful opening night. Hopefully this one doesn’t leave you in tears every night like Le Petit Prince.”

  I snorted—in a very lady-like manner, of course—and shook my head. We clinked glasses, my eyes pointedly avoiding Sam’s face as I tipped my flute against his. I sipped eagerly at the tart bubbly, perhaps drinking too much on an empty stomach and painkillers.

  “Le Petit Prince?” Sam asked, the question directed at Garret. I wondered if he too was avoiding me on purpose.

  Garret swallowed his sip of champagne. “The previous production was a version of The Little Prince and Emmy here was in tears almost every night.” Garret laughed. “Apparently this rose does not like princes.”

  Sam didn’t join in the laughter, instead staring at me with a questioning frown.

  “It’s a very sad story,” I said with a shrug, unable to put into words how it affec
ted me night after night.

  I felt Sam continue to look at me, but kept my eyes fixed on the menu in front of me, still sipping at the dregs in my champagne flute. I needed a refill—or better yet, a shot of something much stronger. The waitress arrived and took our dinner orders, Garret adding to mine as he often did.

  I recognized it was out of concern for my health and never complained, always going home with more food than most people ate in one sitting. When the waitress stepped away, Garret refilled my champagne glass, not even commenting on how quickly I’d flattened the first one.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said. “You two talk in the meantime. After all, that was the point of this. At least in part.”

  With a smirk, he wandered off in the direction of the bathrooms. I took another deep drink of the champagne, my head starting to buzz and my vision already blurry. I stared off into the restaurant, pretending the man I lusted after wasn’t sitting a foot from me. But I couldn’t pretend I didn’t feel his hand on mine.

  Sam tugged the champagne flute from me with gentle fingers and set it aside. “Emmy?”

  I shrugged. “Garret’s the only one who calls me that and won’t stop no matter how much I ask.”

  He grunted. “Yeah, and words don’t seem to be a problem with him.”

  My head snapped in his direction. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what I said, Emmy.” I glared at him as he used Garret’s term in a mocking tone. “I don’t think I’ve heard you say as many words as you did to him at the theatre. Maybe you only have an issue voicing your thoughts when it comes to me.”

  He was angry. I could tell by the harsh grate of his voice and the set of his eyebrows. His jaw was clenched tight, the muscles working beneath his skin. He’d slung his jacket over the back of his seat and rolled up his shirt sleeves while I was in the ladies’, revealing strong forearms. I pictured those arms holding him above me the other night and wrapped around me.