by Linnea May
I look at him, a coy smile playing at my lips. "Yes. Yes, I did."
The expression on his face is hard to read as it shifts back and forth, never settling on either pride or astonishment, and sometimes looking downright confused.
"And that's why you're crying?" he asks. "Because I made you come?"
I shrug. "It may be as simple as that, yes."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Oh, and emotions always make sense to you?" I counter, regretting it a moment later when he jerks up, putting an inch of distance between us that wasn't there before.
Why did I have to say that? Emotions. I know it's a word that makes most men want to run.
"I cried because I was overwhelmed," I explain. "It was a surprise, a beautiful surprise that almost shattered me to pieces because it was so intense. I... had a hard time dealing with it, believing it, for a moment there. Is that better?"
He smiles at me, finally giving me a facial response I can work with.
"I'm glad I could make that happen for you," he says. "Now I just need to know one thing...."
He leans down closer to me and lifts my chin up to face him, moving his face so close that our lips almost meet for a kiss.
"Do you want this to happen again?"
Chapter 23
Damon
Three days. I haven't seen her for three days. It’s been three days since I made her adhere to my rules. Three days since something was manifested between us. A set of rules and regulations that will guide both of us.
I need it to be like this. I don't want to lose her too soon. I don't want the same thing to happen to her that has happened to all my other conquests. I want things to remain as foreign and exciting as they are now, even if it changes who I am in everyday life.
It has become hard for me to focus lately. I haven't been this preoccupied, this addicted, in a while. And it has been even longer since my obsession has lasted longer than just a few days. Elene has been on my mind for more than a week now. I've had a first taste, but there's still so much promise attached to her, so much that has yet to be discovered.
Taking it slowly with her was the best idea I ever had. The appeal might already be lost if I had taken her the first moment I could.
Maybe. Maybe not.
There's something about her that I can't quite grasp yet. Something odd and misplaced, pieces that don't quite fit together. Her surreal allure has me mesmerized.
An escort girl who has never had an orgasm with a man? How can that be? You'd think she'd be an expert, not only in seducing men, but also in realizing the realms of pleasure—giving and receiving.
How has she been able to do this job for so long if she doesn't even get the reward of a climax, ever? It's still hard to believe that she has worked as a professional for so long while still maintaining innocence and a lack of experience that almost equals the purity of a young virgin.
She's a walking contradiction. It's no surprise I feel so drawn to her. I've always been mesmerized by the peculiar, by everything that is more than new, more than unique but wonderfully distinct—just like her.
The afternoon sun is bathing my living area in a warm light. I'm sitting on the couch, holding the phone up to my ear. The late-day sunlight bathes the otherwise cool and monochromatic room in colors it usually lacks. I hear Dean's voice talking into my right ear, but I barely listen. The poor guy will have to repeat almost everything he just told me when I see him next.
Just as I decide to tune in and actually listen to what he’s saying, he decides to address a topic that I would love to ban from my life.
"Mr. Cook asked me to remind you of your appointment with him the day after tomorrow at...."
"Five o’clock," I finish the sentence. "Yes. I haven't forgotten about that."
"Ah, yes, five o’clock," Dean confirms. "He said there's a chance for parole?"
I sigh. "The eligibility date is drawing closer, yes."
"Well, that's good news," Dean says, sounding as if he's trying to tutor me.
"Is it?" I wonder out loud. "I'm not so sure."
He clears his throat on the other end of the line, unsure what to tell me. What kind of son wouldn't want to see his parents get out of prison?
"Was that all for now?" I ask, trying not to sound too much like an asshole. I'm on edge, but don't want to take it out on him. Dean is not to blame for the burden my wayward parents left with me.
"Yes, that's all for now," he says. "We'll see you next week, then."
"Good."
My head is hammering when I hang up the phone. I've suffered from a splitting headache all day, and can't seem to pinpoint the cause of it. Do I really lack resilience? Has my life become too smooth of a ride for me to be able to deal with it when stress hits me?
The idea of my parents gaining their freedom does not sit well with me. It may sound harsh and ungrateful, but my life has become a lot easier since they were locked away. It was just a matter of time until it happened, but if they hadn't been stupid enough to get caught another time, I most likely would have ratted them out at some point. I'm glad it never came to that, though.
Watching my parents destroy themselves and their fortune over the years has been frustrating to say the least. Even as a ten-year-old, I already felt like I was the one parenting them and not the other way around.
My early upbringing had nothing to it. It was just the same old story, one of a neglected yet spoiled little kid who grew up with wealth, having everything he could wish for at the tip of his fingers—except for his parents’ love and care. My mother tried. I remember the times she did, and I can count them on one hand. Unlike my father, who felt that his work was done once a male heir was born, she felt a spark of maternal responsibility. She tried to be there for me, and sometimes she succeeded. But the burden of motherhood weighed heavily on her, so much so that she was the one whose usage got so out of control that it sent both of them spiraling down a path that eventually caused them to end up in prison.
Cocaine can turn into a beast disguised as an uplifting friend. My parents were into snow even before I was born, and I'm amazed that my mother stopped long enough to bear a healthy son. I will never forget that. But it also makes forgiving her so much harder. If she was already clean for so long, why did she end up using again? How come they both did?
And why did they have to go too far with it? Why did they lose themselves in it, losing not only most of their wealth but also their sanity and freedom in the end?
And their son.
They got caught with large amounts of cocaine multiple times, but they were always able to bail their way out because of their wealth. Money granted them power others didn't have. But then there was one time too many. Multiple offenses and such large amounts of the drug that they ended up being charged for trafficking, too.
The most ridiculous thing was that they didn't even see it coming. They didn't understand how much trouble they were in until it was too late.
"I'm a productive user," my father used to say when I first accused him as a teenager. "I can still work. I'm just better and faster."
And my mother agreed with him. Where's the harm when you can still do your job? When all it does is make you more awake, more productive, more alert, and able to do more on less sleep?
They both referred to themselves as overachievers. And I admit, it's not completely untrue. Unlike me, they were not born wealthy but had to work for it. My father's company is no longer in our family, but he was the one who built it up with my mother's help. They started using when they were still in the process of establishing the company, working late nights and every single day of the week. We didn't go on family vacations until I was twelve years old, because they were always working, always high, always striving for more.
It was never enough.
I was glad when they were locked up, because it also served as a reminder for me to not let the traits I inherited from them take o
ver. I share the same insatiable desire that drove them into a profligate hunt for more. The next high, the next accomplishment that would cement their belief that everything was okay—that the drugs were merely a means to an end and not something about to destroy their life.
It was painful to watch. And it was even more painful to see myself turning into them. Of course, I tried their stuff. Of course, I stole it from them. They had so much of it lying around the house that they didn't even notice when some of it went missing.
Having sex while high on cocaine is the best. Or so I thought. The high was unbelievable, every sensation so much more intense, every orgasm so overwhelming that I needed several minutes to recover from it. I almost envy Elene for being able to enjoy such a high without having any drugs in her system.
I slammed on the brakes when I saw my early investments exploding. Presented with an opportunity to become more than my parents were ever worth in regard to wealth, I swore not to let my voracious traits take over. I wanted to be different. Stable, in control of my hunger—even if it meant having to let go of a kind of high that is hard to reproduce without using illegal means.
I did pay for it with a sense of boredom that I doubt my parents ever had to suffer from. Everything I tasted, everything and everyone I conquered were all bland and unfulfilling, only lasting for what seemed like a few short moments.
Until her.
Elene may be the one to show me a different path. A path that is plastered with a different kind of excitement that is not defined by short-lived explosions, but by a lasting throbbing that keeps me on my toes. A mellow high, one might say, if mellow wasn't such a lazy word.
Chapter 24
Elene
"Sandi won't join us?"
My sister cocks her head questioningly when I return to my living room, handing her the glass of wine she asked for.
"She's already at work," I tell her.
"Too bad," Lila says. "She's fun."
I raise my eyebrows as I plop down on the couch next to her. "And I'm not?"
She laughs, raising her glass so we can toast and start drinking.
"Oh, you know what I mean, sis. Don't be so whiny," she says, still chuckling when she brings the glass up to her lips.
Sandi lives right next door to me in her own one-bedroom condo that is similar in size but very different in style to mine. Unlike me, she's really into interior decor and has put a lot of money and thought into her home. Mine is more practical than it is beautiful. I just never cared enough to do anything about it, and when I moved in here about three years ago, I didn't think I'd stay long. It was supposed to be temporary, the first place I could afford to live in on my own. Somehow I never really settled in.
"So, she's at the club then?" she asks, casting me a mischievous smile.
"Yep," I reply, nodding.
"The Velvet Rooms," Lila says, dreamily rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. "It sounds kind of magical, don't you think?"
I snort. "Magical? I don't know if that's the right word."
It definitely is the right word for what transpired between Damon and me the last time I saw him there. Four days have passed since then, four evenings during which I waited for him on the floor of the black room, naked and kneeling as he told me to. When I told Miss Barry what he asked of me, she expressed surprise at his demands, but told me that I should go ahead with it—if I wanted to.
"But only for the first month," she insisted. "After that, we're expanding our list of clients who are allowed to visit the club, and we can't have a room blocked for someone who doesn't even show up."
I'm fine with that. I knew it shouldn't cause any trouble, because the rooms are rarely used this early in the evening. Most clients don't even show up before eight or nine o’clock, and then they spend the first hour or two drinking at the bar before going upstairs to play. With how few of them are even allowed to make use of the club so far, blocking one of the black rooms for an hour doesn't pose a problem for business.
However, I'm beginning to feel like an idiot. I'd been waiting there every evening, my heart racing, flinching at every sound I heard outside in the hallway. My core was trembling and drenched with excitement—but nothing ever happened. He hasn't shown up once since he made me agree to his rules. Is this just a game he's playing to mess with my head? Does he plan to show up again?
Why am I doing this?
You could say it's the easiest money I ever made. I'm being paid to sit naked on the floor for one hour a day. When he doesn't show up by ten, I get up, throw on my black silk kimono, and walk down the stairs, calling it a night. Easy peasy. But there's always a shadow of disappointment casting its ugly darkness over my expression when I leave.
Because the truth is I'm not doing it for the easy money, but because I want to see him again. More than I care to admit. I barely know this man, but I feel so close to him, so intimately connected, that it's hard to ignore the longing I feel for him. When I climaxed in his presence, it was not only because of his skilled fingers, but because of the way he hijacked my head. He's so subtle, so exotic and sexy. I want more of him, and it bothers me that I don't know when I will see him again.
Lila shifts on the cushions, turning to me and placing one arm on the backrest as she fixates on me inquiringly.
"Tell me about it," she demands, naive excitement lacing her voice.
Lila has always known about my job. Telling her was easier than telling any of my friends. You'd think that she—as the older sister—would erupt in a protective freak-out upon hearing that her baby sister decided to work as a high-class escort. And she did, at first. It took a little convincing to assure her that I wasn't selling my soul, that I didn't feel pressured to do anything I didn't want to do, but that I merely found a well-paying job I was good at. A job that suited my natural inclination for being a night owl.
Luckily, she never asked to hear any of the intimate details about it. Often, she acted as if all I was doing was accompanying rich guys to events or going out on an innocent dinner date with them. And sometimes I did. But most of the time, the reality of my job was entirely different.
"Tell you what about it?" I reply to her question with a question. "Please don't tell me you're thinking of—"
"Oh, please, El, no way," she interrupts me. "Like seriously, how awkward would that be with my little sister there?"
I arch my eyebrows. "That's what's stopping you? Maybe we're more alike than I thought."
She shakes her head defiantly. "Don't try to divert the subject, sis. I know you too well to fall for that. Tell me about The Velvet Rooms."
"I already told you about them," I insist. "It's a kink club—though Miss Barry would not like to hear me call it that. She says that it's way more than that. All marketing, if you ask me."
"Have you been to other... kink clubs?" Lila asks, a skeptical expression spreading across her face.
I avert my eyes, unable to hide my discomfort. Even with her I fail to be entirely comfortable with the choices I made, despite my adamant attempts at confidence.
"Yes," I reply. "A few clients have taken me to other clubs."
"So?" Lila probes. "Are the velvet rooms just like them? Or does your madam have a point?"
I ponder for a moment, sipping on my drink as I wonder how to reply to her. Are The Velvet Rooms really different than other kink clubs, or is it my own experience that makes them feel special?
"Well, I guess you could say they are different in that they have themed rooms," I say. "Different colors, and each color holds a different meaning."
"Like what?" she asks, her eyes wide with curious excitement.
"Like... red for pain," I say. "And—"
"Pain?" she asks. "Like BDSM and stuff?"
"Yes. You know, whipping, spanking. That sort of thing."
"That's kinda... cool," she says, and now she's the one blushing.
Our eyes lock onto each other, and for a few moments, neither o
f us knows what to say. It's hard for me to tell whether she's following an agenda here. Is she genuinely interested in this because it's my job or because she wants to try it herself?
"It can be, yeah," I say. "If you're doing it with someone you trust."
She creases her eyebrows. "Do you trust your clients?"
"I wouldn't call it trust, but I feel safe because I know that they go through a strict screening process before they're allowed to book me. And if they hurt me, there are harsh repercussions."
"I see."
"I imagine it's different with a partner though, a boyfriend," I add, sounding more gloomy than intended.
"Definitely," Lila whispers, averting her eyes. She's blushing, making me wonder if this is more than just a simple conversation. Maybe she really is struggling with something, but doesn't know how to tell me?
Lila has a boyfriend. She always has a boyfriend. I don't think she has ever been single for longer than two months since the age of sixteen. But her relationships never last long, much like any that our mother has had.
My father left us when I was two years old, a classic story of a coward walking out the door and never returning to his family. My mother remarried twice since then and had many boyfriends in between, always declaring that each and every one of them was the true love of her life. Every single time. In a way, I envy her for thinking there is such a thing as true love. I myself don't believe in it for one second. One true love, the love of your life, only one perfect person for you? Wouldn't it be scary if that were true?
My mother's belief is so strong that she keeps projecting it onto every man she dates. Every new man is the one, and she truly believes it every single time, no matter how many times she's been let down.
I guess what I'm doing right now isn't that much different. I have to believe that every night could be the one when Damon shows up to see me, because if I didn't believe that there'd be no point in waiting for him, obeying his orders down to the last detail.
