Page 25 of Black Velvet

I know he won't mind. He'd buy anything for me if it'd get him closer to his goal. They all wear the same smile on their faces when they are on the hunt, when they're still in that stage of pursuit where they’re trying their best to impress, even though they don't really have to.

He arches his eyebrows and nods.

"A Manhattan for the lady," he orders. "And your finest bourbon, neat."

I have to keep myself from rolling my eyes. Only an ignorant fool would order "the finest of" anything. It makes him look pretentious and like a lowbrow who wants to appear sophisticated when he's clearly not.

I welcome the drink with a bright smile, however, quickly reaching for the glass and toasting him before I take a large sip.

"You look so pure," he says, his hand already sliding up my thigh. "What brings such a young and innocent-looking girl like you to a place like this?"

I try not to shudder at his touch and bring the glass to my lips again.

"You say that as if this is a bad place," I retort. "Who says I don't feel comfortable in a classy environment, surrounded by good drinks and the company of true gentlemen like yourself?"

I pause, casting him a look that can be read either way—as a warning or as a seductive invite.

"Or are you not a gentleman?"

He removes his hand from my leg and leans back on his chair, clearing his throat.

"I certainly can be," he says. "But sometimes the ladies ask for something entirely different."

"Do they now?"

My stomach is turning, while I feel like there is a cold clamp tightening around my throat. Every fiber of my being wants to get away from here, from him. What the hell was I thinking? How could I play such a risky game just because I had this silly fantasy in mind?

And why is this so fucking hard? I've never had a problem shutting up the voices in my head from preventing me from doing my job before. Heck, they weren't even there a few years ago. I could just let go, get a little tipsy, flirt with men—even if they weren't my type—do thething, please them, ignore the fact that my pleasure was mostly neglected in the process… it all worked perfectly fine.

Why did I have to change?

Why did he show up and accelerate that change?

My eyes wander as the man in front of me keeps talking. I nod at the right times, smile and laugh when I feel he expects it, catch his eyes when he raises his voice, and encourage him with a nod to continue speaking. I'm trained at listening while not really hearing what the other person is saying. Years of experience playing the date of wealthy men at high-class functions have taught me well. I don't know why so many of them insisted on taking me out to these places when they actually paid for me to have kinky sex with them. There was such an obvious age gap between me and most of my clients that it must have been apparent to everyone around us that I was a paid escort and not their actual girlfriend. Maybe they didn't care if people knew. Some of these men have no shame.

Just like the one who's vying for my attention right now. My mind is drawn back to him when I feel his hand trailing along my thigh again.

"Tell me about it," he says. He's leaning forward with his face close to mine, so close that I can smell the finest bourbon on his breath.

"Tell you about what?"

"The Velvet Rooms," he says, sounding slightly indignant. "The playrooms upstairs. I was told you girls could enlighten us—and you, little devil, have definitely been up there to play, haven't you?"

I have not. And I never thought I would want to.

I know one thing for sure, and that is that I don't want to go with him.

But it doesn't matter. I have no say in this, unless I want to anger the madam and cause an uncomfortable ruckus by denying a client for no apparent reason.

I will have to just grit my teeth and get to it.

"So?" the man urges me to answer, squeezing my thigh to get my attention.

I shake off the gnawing thoughts of doubt and reluctance.

"Well, there are different kinds of rooms," I say, a seductive undertone lacing my voice. "They are themed, specific to the guest's needs."

"Needs? Like what?" he presses, a lewd expression on his face, and I try not to shudder as his hand wanders higher up my thigh.

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