Page 29 of Black Velvet

My impulse to obey takes over, causing me to follow his demand without further ado.

"I'm wearing black tonight because I want to go up the rooms."

He nods. "You want to play tonight?"

"Yes."

"You want to get touched and fucked, treated like the naughty little girl you are."

My heart is hammering so hard that I'm worried he could see it pounding through the sheer fabric of my bra. I know that's ridiculous. I know there's another way he could see the impact his words have on me, a telltale sign like no other and a way he forbade me from shielding from him. He can see it in my eyes, bright and clear, the yearning for him flickering like spotlights, calling him in, begging for him to do things to me.

"Answer me," he urges, pinching my chin between his index finger and thumb.

"Yes, sir."

"Don't call me that," he commands. "I know you're used to being with men who like that title, but I'm not one of them. Understand?"

I nod quietly, biting my lip to prevent myself from disobeying his order. "What should I call you instead?"

"My name is Damon," he says. "So that's what you'll call me. Just like I will call you by your name. I don't need titles standing between us."

"Okay," I breathe. "I like that, Damon."

A dark smile plays at the corner of his mouth. I would call it loving if I didn't know any better.

"So, you want to play tonight?" he clarifies.

"Yes I do, very much so."

He clears his throat, his fingers still holding my chin in place while our eyes remain locked onto each other.

"When I came in here, I saw you with another customer," he says, sending a hot bolt of regret racing through my chest. "Flirting, talking, letting him touch you. You were just about to go upstairs with him, weren't you?"

I jerk up in defense, but he keeps me in place, beckoning me to stay still just by pinching my chin again. He has me paralyzed with just the tips of his fingers, a small gesture holding control over my entire body.

"I... I... it's my job, I would have—"

"You would have fucked just anyone tonight, wouldn't you?" he interrupts me. "Because it's your job, because you don't care, because you're a wh—"

"No!" I cut him off. "No, Iwouldhave cared! I didn't want to go upstairs with him!"

His eyes narrows as he fixates on me. "But you still would have done it," he hisses, a cruel undertone in his voice.

I close my eyes, feeling lost and angry, angry at him, angry at myself. I wish I could be happy about his jealousy and possessiveness, but the wonderful feeling of being desired by a man like him is tainted by my mistake. Was it even a mistake? Did I really do something wrong? After all, who did I betray by changing my role at the club? Him, or myself?

"I don't know if I would have done it," I say truthfully. "I didn't dress in black forhim."

My cheeks are burning with a heat so strong that I'm sure he feels it, too.

He's smiling at me, but it's not a friendly smile. There's a darkness in the way he's studying me, a secretive promise for something I thought I'd lost.

"I want to go upstairs," I whisper. "Withyou."

"To the black room?"

"Wherever you want to take me," I say, retracting to my role as the pleasure girl. Serving, pleasing, whatever he wants, I want to give it to him—but this time, I feel like there's something in it for me as well.

He shakes his head.

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