Page 58 of Black Velvet

I feel like an idiot. How could I ever think I'd get enough by fucking her only once? Addiction has never been a problem for me, despite the bad example my parents set for me, but if I've ever been close to becoming addicted, this is it.

To her.

Nothing has ever been enough for me, no amount of wealth, no woman, no drug, no individual experience. And when it comes to women, I have always felt the need to move on to the next one once I’ve had her. They were too willing to surrender themselves to me, but only in ways that I'd long grown tired of.

Elene ran the risk of meeting the same fate as every single woman before her. She followed her professional routine, offering the same boring dish I've been served hundreds of times before. But she didn't disappoint when I asked her to let her guard down. She readily showed me a side of her that not a single one of her previous clients were allowed to see.

Her previous clients.

Is that what I am to her? Another client? My mind certainly seems to like that word, as it keeps popping up every time I think about her. And I think about her a lot. Way too much.

It's been a week since she finally swayed me to bury my cock between her legs — and I have seen her every single day since. Every single evening, she continued waiting for me, kneeling naked, her face obediently lowered until I asked her to look up. I never made her wait long, not because I wanted to be nice, but because I couldn't wait to see her. My work life has been on an unscheduled pause ever since Scott disappeared. We still haven't heard from him, and I'm beginning to think that my investment in this guy's start-up may have been a big mistake.

But the thing is, I don't really care. So what if the money is gone? I invested a lot in his company, but only as much as I could afford to lose. It would be a vexing setback, but it wouldn't destroy me in the least.

Still, not knowing what the hell is going on with him and this whole business endeavor of his — the first I invested in after years of doing nothing — drives me up the wall.

Maybe that's why I seek her out every night, craving her body as much as her company, to distract me from life outside the sinful black velvet room.

She has presented herself to me in her rawest form tonight, following my demand to not wear anything, no lingerie and not even a hint of powder on her cheeks. I could tell that she didn't feel comfortable about that at first. She has been naked in front of me countless times, enduring my inquiring gaze and probing touch, but not being allowed to shield her pretty face behind a mask seems to be her greatest sacrifice yet.

All that insecurity vanished once I ravished her delicate body, lashing into her with such greedy lust that it could be mistaken as our first time together.

She's lying in my arms now, still breathless, and a small river of sweat is running down the valley between her perky breasts. We're lying on the floor, as we always do. This room has become more than a simple place to meet up. It has become our sanctuary.Ours.Once I step through that curtain, I forget about the outside world. Faced with her, that is an easy task.

I can't get enough of her, and I would be lying if I didn't confess how much I love this feeling. I've never been hooked on a woman before, but damn, it feels oddly liberating.

"I need a drink," she whispers, nestling against my chest. I watch as she lazily lifts her left hand to trail along the sculpted lines of muscles she adores so much. I'll admit, having her look at me as if I were a fucking god feels pretty damned good.

"A drink, huh," I reply, my eyes following her unhurried journey down my ripped body.

"Yes, please, sir," she responds, making my heart ache with an uncomfortable sting.

"You know I don't like to be called that," I remind her.

She flinches, realizing her mistake. But instead of apologizing like I expect her to, she unfolds out of my embrace, turning to lie on her tummy. She rises up, supporting herself on her elbows, and looks down at me.

"Why do you not like to be called sir?" she asks curiously. "Almost all of my other clients wanted to be called that. It may just be occupational habit, but with you I feel..."

She pauses then, her eyes diverting for a moment, and then regaining her composure, she clears her throat. She inhales a much needed breath before she concludes, "You deserve it. You really are a... my sir."

She blushes, trying to cover up that she lumped me together with her clients. It's an endearing sight that almost makes me forget she used the words "all of my other clients."

There we are. I'm just another client. Her phrasing is a healthy reminder of that.

"I am not your sir," I say, my tone coming out more bitter than I intended. "I don't like to be addressed like that."

"But why?" she asks again.

I sigh. "Because it's what people used to call my father.SirGraves. Especially his subordinates.Sirthis,sirthat — I would hear it all day long as a child. For me, that damned title is too closely connected to that man."

Awkward silence stretches between us, and I begin to regret my honesty. Why did I have to mention him? She doesn't need to hear sob stories about my dysfunctional parents.

"And... you don't want to be reminded of your father?" she asks, her voice cautious.

"Correct."

My brusque reply was a feeble attempt at finishing this conversation, but she's not ready to let go just yet.

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