Page 5 of Blue Velvet

The thing that makes me recognizable tohim.

I inhale with shock when I realize that I’m standing outside on the street without my mask. I’m not supposed to do that! Under no circumstances am I allowed to let him see my face! It was risky enough to remove the mask every time I entered the bar. Even that could be considered breaking his rules.

Instinctively, I cover my face with my hands before turning to run back inside the bar to fetch my mask.

But just as I’m about to reach for the door handle, a large hand closes around my upper arm. It’s a strong, masculine hand, and it’s squeezing me so hard that it hurts.

It’shim. It must be.

That’s the first thought running through my head as I flinch under the crushing pain of his forceful grip. Ithasto be him. He’s taking me right now!

I turn around to see the owner of the masculine hand that’s holding me hostage - and freeze.

“It’syou,” I breathe out helplessly, biting my tongue when I remember that I’m not supposed to respond like that.

He frowns at my reaction. I let out a little sigh when he pulls me closer.

I had no idea before now what he looks like. I hadn’t been shown a picture, only told his age and the first letter of his first name. Clients usually prefer to remain anonymous.

I knew he was rather young, younger than a lot of my former clients. It was rare for me to be bought by someone only a few years older than me. Most clients are wealthy businessmen in their late forties to mid-fifties, well-dressed, well-groomed, and respected gentlemen seeking a woman with whom they can live out their dirtiest fantasies. They can leave their gentleman facade outside the hotel room door—the version that everyone else but me gets to see—before turning into who they really are.

It’s rare for them to be this young—he’s not even thirty years old.

And it’s even more rare for them to look likethis. The man who’s holding me in a tight grip is probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever come across in my entire life. He’s towers over me as he leans in closer, his face too close to mine. The agency told me that he’s twenty-nine years old, but he looks even younger than that. Even in the dim evening light, I can tell that his eyes are black and a lot darker than his brown hair, which is cut short, tight to the scalp, in a military style. His rectangular-cut jaw is spotted with dark five o’clock stubble, and when he narrows his eyes to study me, I notice a jagged scar right next to his left eye.

I’m too dumbfounded to speak, and anything resembling flight instinct is failing me at the moment. But why would I try to fight him off, anyway? I knew this was going to happen. I waited for him to come for me, and here he is.

He stares me down, the intensity of his gaze sending shivers coursing like cold blasts through my entire body. Why is he not saying anything? Why is he not dragging me off?

Why is he not acting like a kidnapper?

“It’sme?” he mimics my careless words.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I-”

“I saw where she ran off to,” he interrupts me.

I look up at him, startled. “Huh?”

What is he talking about?

“The girl who has your coat,” he elaborates. “I saw where she ran off to.”

“Oh,” I say. “Right. My coat. I’m sorry, I-”

“Stopsayingthat,” he cuts me off again. “Come. I’ll help you.”

Help me? Okay, if this is the game he wants to play. Maybe he staged all of this? Did he pay off the girl to steal my coat so he could appear to be some kind of knight in shining armor, who then turns bad? No details of the kidnapping were ever confided to me. All I was told was to act and dress in a certain way for a few days and wait for him to come and take me.

I notice that he gives me a once-over before turning around to pull me along behind him. I feel pretty exposed in my racy get-up, especially without my coat to cover up most of it, but I can tell that he likes what I’m wearing. After all, this is what he ordered, a perfect slut.

I can barely keep up with him as he drags me across the street toward an expensive looking black car, the lights flashing as he unlocks it. He pulls up on the handle of the door for the front seat passenger side and beckons me to get in. This must be the most polite kidnapper in the history of mankind.

I cast him a puzzled look before slipping into the car.

My heart is racing when he takes his seat and starts up the engine. He locks the doors before we pull out from the curb.

“She ran that way,” he says, pointing ahead of us. “I think we have a better chance of catching her if we drive.”

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