“It is.”
Her hand slides over and rests on my thigh. “Okay,” she says quietly. “I’m in.”
Velvet sits at the edge of the warehouse district, painted black, a subtle sign, one red light above the door.
“You still good?” I ask.
She studies the entrance, then nods. “I want this. I want to feel something that isn’t anxiety or dread.”
“Perfect,” I say. “That I can handle.”
Inside, the club is dim and warm. Colored lights wash over bodies mingling on the main floor. Leather and lace and a few things you won’t find in any mall. The air smells of sweat, perfume and bliss.
The bouncer at the door recognizes us and tips his head. “Silas, Pen.”
“Evening,” I answer. “We’ve got a room?”
“Red two,” he says. He looks at Penelope for half a second, clocking her nightgown, the way she stands close to my side, then nods with professional neutrality. “Enjoy.”
Penelope’s fingers curl around my forearm as we move through the main room. Her pupils are already blown wide, catching neon and shadow. A few people glance our way. Most don’t. Everyone here is too busy chasing their own vices.
Her mouth curves. “You really thought this through.”
“I have needs,” I say. “So do you.”
Red two is down a short hallway. I key in the code and push the door open. There’s a low couch, a small table, and a control panel for the lights. A red bulb glows softly in the corner.
I close the door behind us and flip the lock.
The moment it clicks, some of the performance drops from her shoulders. She exhales like she’s been holding her breath since we left the house.
“What do you need?” I ask.
She looks at me, really looks, like she’s searching for the answer in my face. “I need to not think,” she says. “I need to get out of my own head. I need…” Her throat works. “I need someone to push me until I stop replaying everything in there.”
I step closer. “Someone?”
“You,” she corrects. “I need you.”
Heat ripples through my chest.
“Come here,” I say.
She does without hesitation.
I take her face in both hands and kiss her hard. She melts against me, fingers fisting in my shirt, body arching like she’s trying to get under my skin. It goes straight to every place that has been thrumming since she walked out of her room in that nightgown.
I back her up until the backs of her knees hit the couch. She drops onto it with a soft gasp, knees spread just enough to make my vision tunnel. I brace one hand on the cushion beside her, the other on her thigh.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her. “You know that.”
“Say it again,” she whispers.
“You’re beautiful,” I repeat. “And you’re mine tonight.”
Her eyes flutter shut for a second like that hits somewhere tender. “Show me,” she says.
I do.
