Page 20 of Mister St. James

Her hair is down tonight, long and wild, and her lipstick is a dark, feral rose that makes her mouth the only color in the room. She holds a small clutch and larger-than-life confidence.

My penthouse is the inverse of the office, matte instead of gloss, open space instead of strategic bottlenecks. The lights are low, the air scrubbed of anything that could be mistaken for domesticity. There are no family photos, no art that isn’t monochrome, the absolute absence of clutter, nothing to suggest a human lives here. The only focal point is the view, floor-to-ceiling glass running the length of the living room, city lights smeared across the night like code on a monitor.

Cat takes it all in, cataloguing every corner. I want to ask her what she sees, if she’s judging the lack of color, the absence of comfort, but I keep it in. I’ve already exposed more of myself to her than to anyone alive.

“Nice place,” she says, voice neutral. “Minimalist, but it suits you.”

“I hate distractions,” I say. “Would you like a drink?”

She considers, then nods. “Please.”

I gesture her toward the sunken lounge, then make for the bar at the far end of the room. I pour for both of us, set hers on the smoked-glass table before I take my own seat. We sit facing each other, a low slab of black stone between us. The only illumination comes from the city outside and a handful of LEDs recessed in the ceiling.

She takes a sip, eyebrows arching in approval. “So. Is this a date, or are we negotiating terms?”

“Can’t it be both?”

She laughs. “You know the club rules, right?” she asks after a minute.

“Of course. No recognition outside the premises. No entanglement that might jeopardize the Velvet Stag, or its…patrons.”

“And yet, here we are,” she says, “in a situation that seems custom-designed to violate it all.”

I tap my glass, listening to the vibration. “I don’t take what we did or are going to do in the club or otherwise lightly. In fact, I’ve never done it before. I don’t usually form…connections.”

She leans forward, chin in her palm, gaze cutting through the whiskey between us. “What is this, an NDA pitch?”

“If that’s what it takes to continue.”

She studies me, and I know she’s not just thinking about the club.

I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees and say plainly “Look, we’re not in violation if we’re in agreement. I want exclusivity,” I say, voice lower now. “I want you unmasked, uncensored. No lies. No games unless they’re the ones we choose to play.”

She relaxes into the sofa, a devious smile curling the corners of those full lips that I can’t wait to have wrapped around my cock. “Why, Mr. St. James, are you asking me to be your secret girlfriend?”

“Accurate,” I say. “And I want the club arrangement formalized. If we do this, it’s only with me. You are only with me. At the club or anywhere else.”

She studies me over the rim of her glass. “You’re serious.”

“Always.”

She considers, then nods. “I want to keep my job.”

“You’ll have it,” I reply, and I mean it.

“And I want to keep our current office dynamic.” She takes a sip from her glass and smiles, adding, “Discreetly, of course.”

A slow grin. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Catalina teases me until I am about to break or burn and I suspect that the secret part of it, that dangerous part, is why she is so willing to agree to my terms and conditions.

She traces the rim of her glass, thinking. The whiskey hitting her system just enough to soften the edges. “Why rope?” she asks. “Why that, of all things?”

For a second, I don’t answer. Then, “It was the first variable I ever learned to control.”

She blinks, not expecting honesty. I surprise even myself with it.

The whiskey is loosening my tongue, and I want to stop, but I don’t. “My mother was a trainwreck, moved every year, new boyfriend every six months. No rules, just chaos. The world was never safe, but knots were. They are strong. Consistent. You tie something right, it won’t fail you. Rope was the first thing that made sense. Every knot has a reason. Every wrap, every tension point, it’s all control. Even when you’re improvising, the logic holds. It’s the only math that works on people.”

She listens. Really listens before asking, “Did she…?” She trails off, careful. “Did she ever get better?”