Chapter 18
Elene
I blush at his question, seeking comfort in my glass, as I always do when I don't know what to say. My heart is still in turmoil, still shaken by the idea of having to play with someone I didn't want near me. Sure, I could have told him no and risked getting in trouble with the madam—but a part of me knows that that's not what I would have done.
I would have gone through with it, because the desire to please runs rampant through my veins, and it's impossible to shake that pressing urge to be good, to make everyone and anyone but myself happy. It was so much easier when I thought there was nothing—and no one—out there that could make me happy.
He’s changed all of that. For the first time in my life, I yearn for something, for someone.
And now he's here. Tonight. He's here, and he saved me from a situation that was more than just a little uncomfortable. I still don't understand what he was saying to the man. What did he mean by playing in the snow? And why did it scare the guy enough to leave immediately? And who is Alvin?
These things will remain a mystery for the present, as I allow my focus to shift to the situation at hand.
It really happened. He really came for me. Or so I hope. My doubts grew so strong when I couldn't find him, it's hard to make myself believe that the night might actually go the way I'd hoped it would.
"Have I been waiting for you?" I repeat his question, smiling, more to myself than to him. "Would it make you happy if I said I had been?"
He cocks his head to the side.
"I wouldn't believe you," he says. "But I would take it as a compliment, and those are always appreciated."
"Well, then there's no need for me to answer your question," I say. "If you won't believe the truth anyway."
He sips at his scotch, his gaze resting on me. He's wearing a different suit tonight. Even in the dim light, I can tell that it's navy blue and not black like the one he wore on opening night. I wish I could see him in the daylight, just to see how well the blue of the suit matches the silky dark brown strands framing his face. I bet he looks just as fantastic in the light as he does in the shadows.
"You still need to tell me why you're wearing black tonight," he says in a low voice, interrupting my thoughts. "Is that just how it works? Do you change the color you wear every other night? Are they assigned to you?"
I shake my head. "No. We each individually chose which color we would wear before the club opened."
"But you were an angel on opening night."
I nod, biting nervously at my lower lip.
"And you're a devil now," he observes. "So, you must have changed your mind since opening night, then?"
I nod again, suddenly feeling shy and unable to meet his probing gaze.
"What caused you to change your mind?" he presses. "And did you dress as a devil last night, too?"
My shoulders grow tense at his ongoing questions.
"I didn’t work last night," I say. I bring my eyes up to meet his, an uncomfortable thought haunting me. "Were you here last night?"
I almost sigh with relief when he shakes his head. "No, I don't have time to come here every single night, Elene."
The fact that he remembers my name wraps me in warm comfort. This must mean something, right? He cares enough to remember such a mundane detail that no one before him has ever troubled themselves with.
"You still haven't answered my question."
His gray eyes are piercing through me, and when I try to lower my face to evade his intense scrutiny, he stops me by placing the tip of his finger below my chin. It's the first time he's touched me tonight. Such a delicate and innocent gesture, but it churns my insides in a very different way than the other man's hand had before.
"Tell me," he insists. "And don't look away when you do."
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, I would have 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 for him."
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. "With you."
"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.
"You're very eager to please," he observes. "I don't know how I feel about that."
My eyes fill with worry. What does he even mean by that? Why wouldn't he want me to please him?
"Please..." I stammer.
He arches his eyebrows. "Oh, so now you're begging?"
I pout at him, feeling ashamed and frustrated. What kind of game is he playing with me? And why?
"Is that part of your routine?" he asks snidely. "Begging?"
"I don't have a routine." I'm lying, but he doesn't need to know that. Of course I have a routine, plenty of them even. There are certain ways that satisfy certain men, and once I figured out what kind of man I'm with, I knew pretty well how to entertain him. There are routines that include begging, pleading for a man to take me, even if it was a lie.
But I'm far from lying right now.
"I don't believe you," he says, and my heart sinks. "Of course you have a routine; you girls always do."
"You don't believe anything I say," I counter. "Maybe you should let go of that persistent distrust."
I pause, our eyes connecting. I pout my lips slightly and bat my eyelashes at him. "Have some faith for once. I might be worth trusting."
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"I don't trust devils," he says. "But I do want to be alone with you."
He pauses and lets go of my chin. His eyes travel across the room, resting on the spiral staircase.
"Show me," he says, turning back to me. "Show me the black velvet room."