Page 22 of Red Velvet

I blush, feeling like a creep.

There are obviously people having sex behind that curtain.

Why would I listen? Why would I stalk behind the curtain like a pervert?

Would other people listen to us?

Would they watch?

Would he invite others to watch?

"Lila."

He says my name as if we've known each other forever, confidence and intimacy seeping through every syllable. I didn't even notice that we'd reached the red light at the far end of the corridor. We’re standing in front of a thick velvet curtain in a deep bloodred color emphasized by the crimson light above.

"After you," he whispers, his hand still resting on the small of my back.

I take a deep breath and reach forward, unsure what to expect when I push the curtain aside. I need both hands to move the heavy fabric out of my way, but I'm glad to find out that it takes so much labor to reveal the secrets behind it.

Because there is no door, the velvet curtain the only thing that will grant us a hint of privacy.

I step inside and he follows closely, towering behind me like an oversized shadow while I take in the room.

Words fail me as I assess the view in front of me.

I wouldn't say I'm shocked, not even surprised. The room looks exactly as I imagined.

But it's bigger than I expected, and it has to be spacious like this to make room for all the furniture inside. Red button tufted upholstery lines the walls, giving the room an eerie atmosphere despite the cozy illumination. The light is still dim, red of course, but just bright enough to get a good idea of the promises this space holds. A queen-size bed sets against the wall to my right, covered with black silk linen. Everything in here is either black or red, it seems. The glass vitrine in front of me offers a variety of noble-looking sex toys, most of them made of silver steel that reflects even the tiniest arrays of light. I step closer, scanning the plugs of different shape and size, my eyes resting with worry on other items, sharp-looking objects that appear as if they are meant to cut into flesh.

"I don't want to bleed," I hear myself say before I can control the stream of thought evoked by those images.

He steps closer, resting his hand on my shoulder when he replies in a soft whisper, "I can't promise that."

A hot clamp closes around my heart.

Did he really just say that?

"But I can promise you to never use any of those on you," he adds, pointing at the knifelike instruments before us. "I'll never cut you. I won't use steel on your skin for the purpose of making you bleed."

"Good," I say without looking at him.

He retreats when I turn around to take in the rest of the room. Right behind us, next to the entrance, is an X nailed to the wall, with shackles at each end.

"A St. Andrews Cross," I breathe.

"Correct," he responds. "Looks like you did your research."

I did. Long before I ever met him. I may have never done anything even remotely kinky, but I have a sister who worked in this business for years, and her tales sparked my curiosity long ago.

That's why I also recognize the leather upholstered piece of furniture in the other corner of the room. It's a bondage bench. Hanging along the wall next to it is a display of several items meant for whipping. He doesn't stop me when I approach the wall to take a closer look at the leathery whips and floggers, carefully caressing one of them as I try to imagine what it might feel like to be whipped with it.

Slow and deliberate steps behind me announce his impending touch. I lean back into the warmth of his body when he places a hand on my shoulder once again, squeezing ever so slightly.

"Pull up your dress."

Four simple words. A command so clear and so unyielding that it stuns me for a second.

"W—"

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