Black Velvet (The Velvet Rooms Book 1)

by Linnea May

  "And inside the rooms?" I ask, turning back to her. "What will they find inside?"

  Elene straightens her back, gaining height on me. She's no longer sitting at the bar as she was before, her body mostly turned away from me. Her position has shifted, her knees pointing my way and her body turned to face me.

  "It depends," she says. "Everything has been accounted for."

  "Everything," I repeat. "That's pretty vague. You'll have to give me more than that."

  "Well, there's a room for pain," she starts, lowering her eyes to escape my gaze. "That's the red room. There are several of those. You know, for spankings, whippings—that sort of thing."

  I nod when her eyes dart up to meet mine again.

  "Then there's the blue room," she continues. "For sensory deprivation. There's no light and no sound. It's the only room that can be locked and it has a soundproofed door."

  "No spanking in there, I assume."

  "No spanking in there," she confirms, smiling. "Then there are group rooms, with larger upholstered surfaces."

  "For orgies."

  "Something like that, yes."

  "I don't like sharing."

  The smile on her face changes when she tilts her head to the side, shadows dancing on her porcelain skin as she looks at me.

  "What do you like, Sir Graves?"

  "Damon," I correct her. "And I don't think we should discuss this question. Not here, not tonight."

  The expression on her face hardens.

  "The black room," she says. "Maybe you'd like that."

  "The black room?" I question. "What's that all about? Like a dark room?"

  She shakes her head. "You would think that, right? But no, the black room is not defined by its lack of light."

  "But?"

  Elene leans forward. It's the first time that she's the one who closes the distance between us.

  "It's the lack of everything," she explains. "Color, furniture, toys, utensils of any kind. Unlike the other rooms, this one doesn't provide you with anything but a blank canvas. It becomes what you make it."

  Her face is so close to mine that I can feel the heat from her glowing cheeks and smell the vermouth on her lips. Only an inch, maybe two, that's all that separates our lips. I could kiss her. I know she wouldn't pull away, rules or no rules. I could steal that one thing from her.

  But I won't.

  She will only taste better if I wait. If I wait until she lets me in.

  Until she lets me take her up to that room. The black room. Void of anything. The perfect place to strip her naked. To take her bare and raw, with nothing between us.

  Her eyes follow me when I distance myself from her, turning around to the bartender.

  "Another one for me," I say, glancing over to the waif-like beauty next to me. "You?"

  She looks guilty when she shakes her head. "Just a water."

  "Right, you're working."

  She nods. "The night is still young."

  The drinks are placed in front of us with swift, nearly soundless motions, the bartender disappearing from our vicinity in an instant. Her long fingers close around the glass as if it were a lifeline, saving her from drowning in a conversation that's going nowhere. She's not the only one who's new to this. I have never spent time with a woman under these circumstances. A woman dressed in sinful innocence, surrounded by kink and pleasure, the promise of sex so close—but I'm not even allowed to touch her.

  As my eyes scan the room around us, I realize that the area has pretty much emptied. We're the only ones at the bar, and only a handful of patrons is still scattered across the lounges. The angels and remaining devils are competing shamelessly for their attention, something the guests visibly enjoy.

  The stage has remained empty ever since madam introduced the girls, but I know there is a performance scheduled for later tonight. From the looks of it, most of the clients couldn't wait to get a taste of the rooms upstairs—and the girls that come with it—before the public performance downstairs.

  Should I follow suit? Isn't that what all of this is about? Am I wasting an opportunity by spending the evening with Elene, someone I can’t even touch?

  The imposing questions bother me only for a moment.

  No. I'm doing exactly what I want to do. Even if she were to excuse herself and rebuff me right now, I wouldn't be interested in pursuing any of the remaining devils. I'm not here for a lay, not like that.

  It would be different if she were one of them. If she could lead me upstairs. If she could show me the black room instead of just talking about it.

  It would be different, but I'm not entirely sure it would be better. The whole thing would certainly lose part of its allure.

  "Can I ask you something?"

  I was so lost in thought that I didn't even notice that I was staring at her. Her hands, to be precise. My eyes rested on her slim fingers as they trailed back and forth along the rim of her iced water glass.

  "Of course," I reply, fully returning my attention to her. “What would you like to know?”

  Chapter 11

  Elene

  "I've been wondering... and you don't have to answer this, but I'm curious," I say, still debating with myself. I shouldn't ask this, I know I shouldn't. It's too private and not the kind of question that Miss Barry would deem appropriate.

  But Miss Barry isn't here. She's around, though, and may be watching me from afar, but she doesn't hear the words escaping my lips. He, on the other hand, asked me to be real, to stop acting as if I were working. And we were told to always do what pleases the customer, as long as no one gets hurt in any way.

  "Curious about what?" he says, tilting his head to the side and smiling at me, a sense of calm expectation gracing his expression.

  "You're so young," I blurt out. "Much younger than most of my clients... our clients I mean."

  I bite my lip. Speaking about other clients is not permitted. I should be more careful.

  "I mean, it's unusual to see such a young man enjoying such..."

  "Wealth?" he finishes my sentence, saving me from saying any more stupid things.

  I nod, throwing him a grateful smile.

  "No reason to be so shy," he says assuredly. "I have nothing to hide—"

  "Oh, that's not what I meant," I hurry to say. "I wasn't implying anything!"

  He laughs, and it's the first time I see him laughing like that. A hearty full-body laugh, coming from deep in his chest.

  "You're adorable," he says, and I pout, playing along.

  "But to answer your question," he adds. "There's no big secret behind it, really. In short, you could say I was just incredibly lucky in many ways."

  "And the long story?"

  He clears his throat and lifts the whiskey to his lips, giving me enough time to doubt my nosy probing again. But before I have a chance to retract my question, he sets the glass down and takes a deep breath, preparing to tell his story.

  "The long story is that I was lucky enough to be born to well-off parents," he begins. "I was their only son and grew up pretty spoiled. Nannies, private schools, and—most importantly—a pretty generous trust fund."

  I nod along, not sure what to make of the disappointment that's spreading through my core as he speaks. He's an heir. For some reason, that's the least exciting answer one could hope for. Just someone who was born to the right people. There's little glamour in that, little to admire.

  And he seems to read all these thoughts as if they’re written on my face.

  "Not what you had hoped to hear," he says.

  It's a statement and not a question, but I still shake my head in response.

  "I wasn't hoping for anything," I admit. "I was just curious."

  "Either way, that's not the end of my story."

  A surprised expression blossoms on my face.

  "My parents did well, but they weren't super rich," he adds. "Not like I am now. It's not their money that provides
for my current lifestyle, it's what I made of it."

  He pauses to clear his throat before continuing, and I’m surprised to find that I'm literally on the edge of my seat, eager to hear more.

  "Around the time I turned eighteen and gained access to my trust fund, Bitcoin became a thing," he resumes, and then pauses before he asks me, "I assume you know what that is?"

  I nod. "I have heard of it."

  "I don't think anyone completely understands how it works," he says. "But some understand enough to play around with it, as risky as it is. Well, that's exactly what I did. I took most of the money from my trust fund and invested it in Bitcoin. Nothing happened for the longest time. The money was just gone, no longer in my hands."

  A dark smile forms from the corners of his mouth and travels across his face, and then he lowers his gaze.

  "I mostly did it to piss off my parents, to be honest," he adds. "They were furious, and thought I'd thrown away all of my money. I loved it. I fucking loved seeing them like that."

  He considers me then, with that eerie smirk still on his face. He's smiling, but there's hurt written across his face, its shadows the evidence of painful memories.

  "My motivation may have been wrong, cruel even," he says. "But the payoff was huge. Even I didn't expect for things to blow up the way they did. Crypto coins became a thing, and Bitcoin just grew and grew. I was supposed to focus on the college classes my parents had paid for me to take, but almost all of my attention went into that market, studying it, observing it, trying to understand it as well as possible—and transferring my investments accordingly. You see, these things are mostly about psychology. Next to external impacts on the market, you have to be able to anticipate people's behavior. You need to know when to buy, when to sell, when to cash out."

  I nod along as he speaks. "Sounds just like the stock market."

  "It is," he agrees. "In a way, it's no different, just less transparent for most people."

  "And you knew how to play."

  The words come out before I can censor myself. Fortunately, he doesn't seem fazed by them. He nods in agreement.

  "Exactly. I cashed out at the right time, just before things started becoming more difficult."

  He fixates on me with his eyes, leaning on the counter top of the bar when he turns to me.

  "Was that the answer you wanted to hear?"

  I take in a breath, shaking my head. "What makes you think I wanted to hear anything in particular?"

  "Women always do," he states. "I could read it on your face. You didn't like the first part of my story, the part where it sounded like all I did was inherit my wealth."

  I want to protest, but he stops me by lifting his hand.

  "It doesn't matter," he says. "I know who I am, and I know that a lot of it does boil down to me being a trust fund child. I've been given an opportunity that others don't have. But trust me, none of it came without a price."

  He clears his throat. "To be honest, it bugged me too, for a while."

  "But not anymore?"

  He shakes his head. "Not anymore. I used to content myself with living off the money I made. Long-term investments in safe stocks and some real estate. The interest I'm earning off this is more than enough to live like a king. But I grew tired of it. That's why I decided to return to playing. You know, since I'm apparently so good at it. I invested in The Velvet Rooms, among other things."

  He winks at me, and I retort with a demure chuckle.

  "You must have great trust in this," I presume.

  "Yes," he replies. "I wanted to be a part of this and not just a visitor. Besides..."

  I flinch in surprise when he leans forward and rests his hand on my knee, his eyes never leaving mine as he tries to read my reaction.

  "You told me a little secret," he adds in a low voice. "Care to hear one of mine?"

  I nod, my eyes widening with suspense as I try to ignore the electric heat that his touch is sending coursing through my body.

  "I needed to see you again," he says, his eyes dark and intense. "I saw you that day at the agency. You came out of Miss Barry's office and walked right by me, looking like a fucking princess. I couldn't get you out of my head."

  What?

  I’m overwhelmed by a sudden and unfamiliar crushing feeling nesting inside my chest, clinging to my heart and pressing down on my lungs, forcing my breathing to become erratic.

  What is he talking about? What day? When did we ever meet at the agency? Why don’t I remember?

  "I... I... can't remember," I stutter. "When? Did we talk?"

  He shakes his head. "No, angel, we didn't exchange a single word. But the image of you has been burned inside my head ever since. I can’t stop thinking about you."

  I'm blushing. I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks, and it's so strong that I'm sure he must see it, dim lights or not.

  He must be lying. I don’t remember any of this, and there's no chance in hell that a man like him would walk by me without me noticing. There's no chance that he would remember, and I don’t. No chance in hell.

  Is he toying with me? Has someone put him up to this?

  I manage to defer my eyes away from his intense gaze, only in time to see the madam walking by. She's striding past us with prudent steps, her eyes catching the movement of his hand on my knee. Her eyebrows crease in a warning.

  No touching. No playing. I'm clearly taking things too far if I have let him get this close to me.

  "Elene."

  The way he says my name is hauntingly beautiful, and it scares me. I turn back to him, catching his odd-colored eyes.

  "You may not remember that day, but I do," he says. "That day is what brought me here tonight."

  I bite my lower lip, unsure what to make of his words. Why is he saying all of this now? Why didn't he start out our conversation with this? Why didn't he use that "have-we-met-before" line that so many others do? If what he's saying is true, it would have been the perfect opener.

  His words unsettle me. He unsettles me.

  And he doesn't stop.

  "And you know what the biggest disappointment of tonight is?"

  I shake my head.

  "Seeing you on that stage dressed in white," he reveals. "Realizing that I can't touch you, I can't fuck you, I can't have you."

  He tenses up and his fingers crawl into the flesh of my upper thigh when he pulls me closer. I hold on to the countertop in an attempt to keep my balance, so I won't fall off the high chair and land in his lap.

  "Please, st—"

  Our faces are so close that I can feel his hot breath on my skin when our eyes meet. He looks angry, wild, filled with carnal need.

  "I no longer do this," I whisper. "I no longer fuck for money, Sir Graves."

  "I know the rules," he growls. "But that doesn't mean I like them."

  His grip loosens and I let out a sigh in relief before sliding down from the chair, my heels touching the floor as I try to stand on shaky legs.

  "And call me Damon, for God's sake," he adds, casting me one last angry look before he turns his back to me, signaling that our time together is done.

  For now.

  My heart is still pounding in a blend of confusion and anger, arousal playing havoc with me as I stalk away from him.

  Chapter 12

  Damon

  I didn't know what she would do after I shared my little secret with her. Finding out her reaction was part of the thrill.

  And she was perfect.

  I could see the lust in her eyes. Her face was glowing with heat, and I bet that's not the only part of her body that reacted this way to my words. She was drawn to me, but scared at the same time. She didn't know what to make of my words, because they came as a surprise to her.

  I don't blame her.

  I don't blame her for sighing with relief when I let go of her. I don't blame her for retreating. And I don't blame her for walking away from me.

 
Because I saw it, too. I saw the madam walking by and giving us looks. I touched her. I leaned in to her, and for more than a moment, it looked as if we were about to kiss. That cannot happen with an angel. Conversations have to be treated like a normal date, but in the end, the limitations are even stricter than that.

  I get why she had to walk away from me. I get that, and I respect it. For me, it only increases the excitement. It prolongs the hunt and makes the reward taste that much sweeter.

  What I don't get is what she is doing now.

  She's sitting across the room, talking to another client, laughing and smiling, more than she did when she was with me. Her entire attention is absorbed by a man who could easily be her father. He's sitting on one of the button-tufted love seats in the lounge area, and she's sitting on the cushions right next to him, so close that their legs are touching, so close that she's practically leaning against him. It looks almost intimate, comfortable.

  But I know it's all an act.

  I know it, because I'm doing the same thing.

  A devil came my way as soon as she had disappeared. Another blonde, not as tall, not as porcelain-complexioned, but with curves that she lacks. The girl is dressed in a dark lingerie set that left little to the imagination. Her dark eyes and red lips clash with the blonde locks framing her oval face, but she’s a beautiful girl, for sure.

  I engaged in a superficial conversation with her, giving into a kind of small talk that I despise but have mastered.

  Again and again, my eyes wander over to Elene, watching her perform her job, playing to the desires of a loaded man who's visibly mesmerized by her company. He doesn't touch her, but you can tell what's going through his head. He wants to fuck her, just like I do. And she knows that.

  An ugly sting of jealousy pierces through me every time I look over there, even though I know there should be no reason for it. She's only doing her job. She's acting.

  I know, because she keeps glancing over at me, too. Our eyes connect across the room more than once, and every time they do, a somber darkness creates a shadow across her face. It's just a split second every time before she collects herself, defiantly raising her chin and turning back to the man at her side. She's doing her job, but I made it so much harder for her.