Not like a man enjoying a scent.
“You’re not what I asked for,” he says calmly. “I can smell your…lack of experience.”
The words land like a slap.
My pulse spikes. Heat crawls up my spine, chased by fear. He knew. From the moment he walked in.
“I didn’t realize that had a scent,” I say, keeping my voice even. Light. Deliberate.
His eyes sharpen. That got his attention.Good.
“I asked The Velvet Ledger for a trained submissive,” he continues, ignoring the question. “Someone conditioned. Experienced. You are neither.”
This is my out. I should retreat.
I should pretend this was a misunderstanding.
I don’t.
Because Clara's surgery is weeks away. Because this gig is exactly what I need.
Because, right now, being forgettable is worse than being exposed.
Walking away empty-handed feels more dangerous than staying tied to this chair.
“And yet,” I say carefully, “you’re still speaking to me.”
His gaze drags over my body. Sharp. Hungry.
My pulse kicks. My thighs clench.
I hate the way he makes me feel.
“Curiosity,” he says. His accent thickens slightly. Just enough that I notice. “And because you haven’t denied it.”
“No,” I admit. “I’m not trained.”
He studies me further. Almost taken aback by my honesty.
For a second, something like approval flickers—quick, reluctant, as if the truth is rarer in his world than obedience.
“Why are you here?”
“For the Christmas party,” I say. “That’s the position I was given.”
His mouth curves faintly. Not a smile. Something colder.
“And what do you think that party entails?”
The question shifts the ground beneath me.
I replay the rumors about his kinks.
Different parties.
Private parties.
Sex parties.
