Black Velvet (The Velvet Rooms Book 1)

by Linnea May

  Everything about her body language told me that she felt uncomfortable talking to them, but she tried to fight it. She forced a smile, nodding along to whatever they were saying, but never said much herself. Despite her alluring appearance, it didn't surprise me that both men lost interest rather quickly.

  She's one of the untouchable angels, and a quiet one at that. There's very little reason to pursue her when the room is filled with numerous other beauties, the majority of which would not only be more willing to speak to them, but also spend time doing a lot more than that.

  Regardless of these observations, she still piques my interest. If anything, it increases the allure. She's a challenge, a dazzling mystery. Her distant charm has me mesmerized, and I know it won't go away until I've had her—one way or the other.

  She's by herself now, her back turned to the room, uninviting, not calling for interruption. I remain unfazed by the wall she has built and stride toward her, my steps unhurried, but wide and determined.

  She doesn't move or even acknowledge my presence when I come to a halt next to her, placing my elbow on the countertop of the bar and sit down on a high chair, close enough for our legs to touch. The bartender notices me right away and juts his chin toward me, ready to take an order. I glance over to her before telling him what I want. My observations during the past few minutes have convinced me that I need to follow up with a move that successfully catches her attention.

  "A Yamazaki single malt for me," I order. "And a Manhattan for the lady."

  "Very well, Sir Graves."

  The girl turns her head abruptly and her eyes dart in my direction. She looks irritated, but just for a split second before she remembers her place. Unlike me, she's on duty right now. No room for rudeness.

  "Thank you," she says. Her voice lacks sincerity, but it makes me weak in the knees nonetheless. Airy and strong simultaneously, yet carrying a quaint kind of wisdom that matches her ethereal look. She's so fucking... surreal.

  Our eyes linger on each other, and before I can break the silence that stretches between us, she adds, "How did you know that's my drink?"

  "Because I've been watching you," I reply bluntly.

  "Oh," she counters, a smile flashing across her pretty face.

  "Besides, you strike me as a whiskey girl."

  She raises her eyebrows. "Do I now?” She falters and casts me a quizzical look. “What's a whiskey girl?"

  She's still withdrawn, her legs crossed and pointing in my direction, and her upper body is still facing forward but not to me. She's eyeing me cautiously from the side, not looking directly at me as we speak.

  "One that resembles the nature of the spirit," I explain. "Calm, reserved, strong in its own way, full-flavored."

  If the light was more revealing, I'm sure I would see her blushing right now. The bartender slips the drinks onto coasters in front of us and retreats to the other end of the bar, leaving us alone. She deftly brings her dainty fingers to the glass and offers a subtle toast, a soft smile on her lips.

  "And you're a whiskey man, it appears," she acknowledges, nodding toward the drink in my hand. "But I guess every man in here is."

  I nod my head in thought. "Some people say whiskey is liquid sunshine—can't ever have enough of that in your life."

  "Poetic," she comments, her dry, sarcastic tone contradicting the word.

  I observe silently as she takes another sip of her drink. Every one of her movements is rehearsed. The way she's holding the glass to her lips, how she's sitting, her smile, even the way she speaks. It's evident that she senses the eyes on her—not only mine, but those of others here tonight. I'm entranced by her. I'm sure she must sound completely different when outside the club. I want to hear that voice, I want to see that face, that body. I want to see all of it without the mask, without the act.

  I take a sip of my drink, feeling the burn wash down my throat. "What are you doing here?"

  My abrupt question startles her. She swallows hard, putting the glass down on the bar top before she turns to me, her surprised eyes questioning.

  "What do you mean?" she stammers.

  She gestures down her body, my eyes following her hand as it travels along the outline of her white corset, her perky cleavage pushed up almost seemingly to her chin, the laced wrist cuffs, the French manicured nails.

  "I'm an angel," she says. "Here for company, but not for—"

  "I know what you should be doing," I interrupt. "That's not what I'm asking."

  She tenses up, her eyes locking onto mine while she processes my words. Her demeanor has changed from apathetic to highly alert, as if she's afraid of getting caught. I’m suddenly struck by a dark suspicion and the blood runs cold in my veins.

  Is she not here of her own free will? Is she being forced to work here?

  No, that can't be it. She's a Violent Delights girl. I saw her when I was here visiting Miss Barry several months ago, and she confirmed that she worked here.

  So why is she acting so out of place? The thought incites a flurry of questions to streak through my mind. Why does she look at me like that? Why do her shoulders rise up to her ears? Why is she biting her lip like that? Why are her refined fingers fiddling nervously with the glass in front of her?

  "You look uncomfortable," I observe. "You're the only person in this room who looks fucking uncomfortable."

  She flinches.

  "Is that why you came up to me? To complain?"

  "I'm not complaining," I object, shaking my head. "Just observing."

  She takes another sip from her drink, a rather big one this time.

  "I'm sorry," she says solemnly, as she places the glass back on the counter. "I guess I'm just nervous. It's my first day."

  "It's everybody's first day here," I remind her.

  She frowns. "Yes, but I mean..."

  "And you're not new to the agency."

  Her gaze turns to me, and this time she doesn't even try to hide her irritation. "How would you know that?"

  I shrug. "It's true isn't it?"

  She bites at her lip again and her eyes drop, idly resting on the Manhattan. Her shoulders tuck in and sink, signaling defeat. I don't like that look on her, and what bothers me even more is that I don't understand it. Something is bothering her, and I can’t figure out what it is. I hate it when people don't let me read them.

  "Look at me," I demand, and she complies immediately. Her eyes obediently find mine in a robotic motion, even though her focus lacks conviction. She's the type of girl who will go down on her knees if you tell her to, the type of girl who will spread her legs for you, the type of girl who aims to please, without asking for anything in return except payment from a satisfied client.

  I can handle that type. I've had years of practice.

  Chapter 9

  Elene

  I fucked up.

  I don't know what it is with me tonight, but I'm seriously failing to do my damn job. He's right; it's the first night for everybody here. Yet I seem to be the only one struggling. I know all there is to know about this club, and whether we’re dressed in black or white, we all have our corresponding instructions.

  There are far fewer angels than devils, because we all know what these men want. They're not here for angels, they're here to play. They’re here to discover the rooms upstairs, and they’re seeking out the girls who will accompany them up the spiral staircase to learn about them firsthand.

  Still, he insists on sitting here with me. My nervousness was bad from the get-go, but it only got worse once he sat down next to me.

  He’s the most attractive man in the room. I noticed him earlier, stalking the room like a panther in search of prey. In addition to being handsome, he stood out for two things: his age and his height. He's much younger and taller than most, if not all, of the other clients. His dark suit hugs his broad shoulders and stretches around his strong upper arms perfectly, making him appear even more striking, as does his strong j
aw, dabbled with the shadow of a two-day stubble. I thought his hair was black at first, but it's actually dark brown, and he has surprisingly bright eyes. Are they blue? Or gray? It's hard to tell, and I can't find the courage to look directly into them for too long.

  Damn, he unravels me. His presence is weirdly unsettling.

  And scary. I'm scared of letting him down, of disappointing him. All because I'm dressed in white. I know he must be aware of the rules, but the way he's looking at me suggests that he's not above breaking them.

  His eyes narrow as he studies me thoughtfully. He told me to look at him, so I do, but it’s nearly impossible to withstand his piercing gaze.

  "Why are you so nervous?" His voice is deep and pervasive.

  I cast him a coy smile, trying to transform my vulnerability into allure. Men like him exert power over others for pleasure, power. It speaks to their nature, and it's my job to yield with grace so he can ride out his high, even if he's not allowed to touch me.

  "It's a big day," I say, lacing my voice with faux sweetness. "Opening night. We've been waiting a long time for this day."

  He nods, but doesn't look happy.

  "You're a Violent Delights girl," he says. "I know what you girls are paid for. This shouldn't be easy play compared to the things you're used to doing."

  Now I'm the one narrowing my eyes as I regard him with suspicion. What is he getting at?

  The stoic expression on his face changes into a smile, and I suppress the urge to jerk away from him when he leans in closer. Magnetic attraction often has the opposite effect on me than it does on others. He's so close now that I can smell his cologne, masculine, with a hint of citrus.

  "Let's try something," he says, his voice so low that I can barely hear him over the background filter of jazz music and the noise of muffled conversations. "Just relax and treat this as if it’s a normal date. Forget about who you are tonight, forget about who I am. Just act as you would on a normal date."

  A normal date? Not that again.

  I try to smile, but it must appear as fake as it feels.

  "Yes, sir," I retort. "We can certainly do that."

  He shakes his head, clearly disappointed in my response.

  "No, no," he says. "That's exactly what I don't want to hear from you."

  I arch my eyebrows in confusion. "I'm sorry, I—"

  "I know you know how to please," he interrupts sternly. "Don't stage your fake persona for me. Just be yourself."

  He pauses, catching my gaze once again before he raises his hand, pointing his index finger at me.

  "I want to know who you are," he says.

  I don't know whether to be flattered or scared, but my response is a perfect example of what happens when I forget the parameters of my job.

  "Why?" I blurt out.

  He leans back then, putting distance between us while he reaches for his drink. Disappointment runs through my veins, but I can't stop myself from letting out a gasp of relief nonetheless. His proximity cages me in more than it comforts me, but I still take pleasure from it.

  "Why?" he repeats my question, taking another sip of his drink before shaking his head.

  Shit, I'm really bad at this.

  "I'm sor—"

  "If you say you're sorry one more time, I will file a complaint about you," he warns, side-eyeing me. "I'm sure the madam wouldn't be happy to hear about how you displeased a well-paying customer, a VIP member even."

  I swallow hard, the forbidden words almost slipping from my lips again. I stop myself from apologizing just in time by taking a sip of my drink. The tangy blend of bitter and sweet warmth tickles my throat as it goes down. Soon, my cheeks will start glowing from the effects of the alcohol. I will have to be careful about my intake, and not only because of the metal spines that cinch around my waist. I can't get drunk. The evening is only getting started, and he's not the only client who'll be expecting conversation tonight, though he may be the only one who proves this challenging.

  I take a deep breath, which doesn't go unnoticed by him. His eyes are on me when I turn back to him.

  "Can I tell you a secret?"

  He tilts his head to the side, his curiosity obvious as he beckons me to continue with a swirl of his hand.

  "Normal dates are a mystery to me," I admit.

  "You've never been on one? I don't believe that," he scoffs.

  "It's been a long time," I say. "And even then... I don't think what we did counts as normal."

  "What you did?" he asks, visibly intrigued. “What did you do?”

  I feel myself blushing as I recall the last time I went out on a first date with a guy who was not a paying client. It was more than three years ago. I know that because my dating life became pretty much nonexistent when I started working for the agency on a regular basis. I've always been open and upfront about my job, and for obvious reasons, it didn't sit well with potential love interests. Most guys don't like to share, let alone date a call girl, and when I was faced with choosing between a normal dating life and my job, I chose the latter.

  Dating had never been as rewarding as this job. At least it didn't seem so at the time. The lack of true pleasure was the same in both worlds, but at least I was getting paid for my services at the agency.

  But maybe I'm just really bad at this normal dating thing because I'm not... normal.

  "The last time I went on a date, we had anal sex in the guy’s car about an hour after we met up," I answer bluntly. "I don't think that counts as normal."

  A dark smirk graces his handsome face. "Certainly not what an angel would do."

  "So, I wonder," I say, unable to prevent myself from switching my voice into that tone of seduction that has been part of my job for so long. "What do people do on normal dates?"

  "You mean when they don't jump each other like horny teenagers," he says, causing me to raise my eyebrows at his brutally sharp remark, "or when there's no money exchanged between the parties?"

  "Yes," I say, not missing the condescending tone in his voice. "Exactly."

  "They drink, talk," he lists. "Get to know each other."

  An awkward pause follows his words, because I don't know what to say. I reach for my drink, but without the intention of taking a sip. It's almost gone and finishing it would only prompt him to order me another one, and I know I wouldn't be able to say no.

  "What's your name?"

  It's a natural starter question, but still it baffles me. I'm not used to clients asking for my name. No one has ever cared.

  "Elene."

  "Elene," he repeats. "Is that your real name?"

  I nod. "Yes. I don't have a call-girl name."

  He raises his hand in defense. "I didn't mean to offend you. It's a beautiful name."

  "What should I call you?" I ask.

  "My name is Damon, so I think you should go with that," he says. "But we might come up with something different along the way."

  I shoot him a look from the side. Along the way? What is that supposed to mean?

  "You know I can't accompany you up to the velvet rooms," I remind him.

  He looks at me, but his facial expression is impossible to read. The hint of a smile is playing at the corners of his mouth, and there's a certain smugness in the way he leans into me, supporting himself on the bar with one hand while using the other to lift my chin with the tip of his index finger.

  I gasp, unable to hide the effect his touch has on me. It's electric, searing, brimming with taboo vibes.

  No touching, it says. Does that include a gesture like this? Does he care?

  "I know we can't go up there," he says. "But you can tell me about it, right?"

  "About the velvet rooms?" I answer breathlessly. Why does his touch have such an effect on me?

  "Yes," he affirms. "You can tell me about them—and what you would do up there, if we were allowed to go up there together."

  Chapter 10

  Damon


  The most alluring thing about her?

  I can't have her. Not a single part of her. Everything I want—her body, her mind, the true person behind that outfit she's wearing—none of it is accessible to me. It has to be earned through hard work. It will take time. It may not even ever happen, though I highly doubt that outcome.

  I always get what I want. Always.

  But this time, with Elene, I will have to put some work into it. I won't get my fix just like that. Laying more money on the table won't help, buying her an extra drink won't help. She's a good girl, and she knows how to follow the rules. Besides, there's a reason why she's dressed in white tonight. She has slept with men in exchange for money before, but she won't do it here. There must be a reason.

  Her fake eyelashes flutter nervously as she fights to find the right words. I don't think I could ever grow tired of watching her. The constant back and forth between her professional persona and the insecure girl hidden behind it. The girl I can't see. Not the girl in the tight corset, with seductive stockings decorating her long legs and her small breasts pushed up with such force that it's almost impossible to look away. Her platinum strands are loose today, her narrow shoulders draped in soft waves that are only slightly darker than the brilliant white corset around her torso.

  "Tell me," I urge. "Tell me about the velvet rooms. Your madam refused to say much."

  A smile crosses her face.

  "Well, they are exactly what you would expect from the name," she begins, shyly looking up at me through her thick lashes. "Dark rooms with damask wallpaper and thick velvet curtains, the only means for privacy."

  She pauses, displaying a cute smirk when her attention wanders across the room to something behind me. I turn around, my eyes following hers to the spiral staircase. A devil is leading a customer by the hand, swinging her hips seductively as she climbs the stairs in front of him.