Chapter 2
Chapter Two
TALON
Velvet House doesn’t look like a club. It looks like the kind of place one of my mom’s former husbands would host charity events at—quiet, expensive, and pretending not to have secrets.
Gray walls, gold trim, one door. I only make it a few feet inside before a man steps in front of me, stopping me.
He’s tall, dressed in black-on-black—tailored suit, gloved hands, no name tag.
“Name and approval number.”
“Talon Grant.” I pull up the email and show him my screen.
My voice stays steady even though my heart’s racing.
I’ve read every review about this place.
My friends said it’s the best night of your life if you want to have a play night.
Discreet. No phones. NDAs. What happens inside stays inside. That’s what I need tonight.
He scans the code, nods once, and pulls out a collar with a white token attached. I stare at it. He explains what the colors mean, but I’m barely listening. Because that’s when she walks past me. A cloud of vanilla and toasted marshmallow fills my lungs.
She’s the kind of beautiful that makes your mouth go dry. Blonde hair piled up in a soft bun, a black mask covering half her face, red lips that rival Snow White’s. Her body’s slim but curved in all the right ways, and her heels click across the marble floor like she owns the place.
The guard pauses mid-sentence. “P, you don’t usually come this way. Everything okay?”
She glances over, lips curling. “Forgot my card in the room last night. I called ahead. There should be a note.”
He checks his tablet and nods. “Go ahead, P. Selma has your card and your lavender token for the night. She’ll get you squared away.”
She blows him a kiss before sashaying deeper into the building. “Thanks, Kitten.”
“What’s lavender mean?” I ask, eyes still on her ass.
“Dominant already paired for the night,” he says.
Shit. Figures. She’d be perfect.
I take the collar, clip it around my neck, and push through the doors when he waves me in.
The inside’s all dark wood and velvet. Music hums low, like it’s part of your heartbeat. The bar glows gold, and the air smells like whiskey and something floral.
I slide onto a stool, order a gin and tonic I probably won’t finish, and look around. It feels unreal being here. For years I’ve been trying to be the version of myself my mom could brag about—the one who didn’t screw up, didn’t get expelled, didn’t embarrass her.
She sent me off to boarding school halfway through freshman year, saying it was for structure, for opportunity, but really it was so I wouldn’t mess up her gold-digging life.
I graduated high school last year and thought she’d finally let me come home, but she didn’t. Said I needed to “find myself success.”
If it weren’t for my little sister, Minxy, I wouldn’t even bother.
She’s all I’ve got left of our dad, and Mom’s too busy dressing her up like a show poodle and shipping her off to Jr. Boarding School to actually mother her.
Minxy will be fourteen this year; the same age I was when she sent me across the country.
But I’m back now after saving enough money to pay my first year of tuition on my own.
And I’m going to make sure Minxy gets to have something that looks like a normal life.
A hostess finds me a few minutes later. She’s smiling like she knows everything. “Talon?”
“That’s me,” I grin.
“Ready?”
“So soon?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
She tilts her head. “You were very specific in your request. We have the perfect match. She’s waiting. Do you need a moment?”
I shake my head and finish the last of my drink. “No. I’m ready.”
She leads me across the room and into an elevator. My palms are sweating, but I shove them in my pockets like I don’t care. We stop on the next floor.
The hallway is quiet and dim, the kind of place that feels more like a hotel than a club.
Soft golden light spills from wall sconces, bouncing off the dark wood trim.
The carpet is thick enough to swallow every sound, even the click of the hostess’s heels as she walks ahead of me.
The air smells faintly like vanilla and money; clean, expensive, and a little intimidating.
Every door looks the same, numbered in gold, probably hiding something I’m not supposed to see.
I follow her, trying not to look like the new guy even though I definitely am. My pulse is steady, but my hands won’t stop flexing at my sides. There’s a pull in my chest I can’t shake; half nerves, half excitement. Like I’m walking toward something I’ve been needing for a long time.
The hostess walks to the third door on the left, knocks, and pushes it open. “Madam Grace,” she says quietly. “Your appointment.”
Then she steps aside, letting me walk in.
The door clicks shut behind me, and for a second I forget how to breathe.
She’s here. The blonde from the entrance.
Same black mask, same red lips, same quiet confidence that makes the air feel heavy.
Her hair’s still twisted up, a few loose strands brushing her neck, and she’s standing in front of a wall of soft light that makes her look untouchable.
The lavender token glints against her collar; that small detail hits me square in the chest.
She’s standing in the center of the room like she owns the ground beneath her heels.
Black leather shorts, a lace corset that hugs her curves.
Every movement she makes is slow, like she knows I’m watching and wants me to.
When her eyes lock on mine, my stomach drops.
There’s something sharp in her gaze, something that tells me she’s not here to play nice.
She doesn’t need to raise her voice to have control. She already has it.
“Hello, Talon.” My name sounds different coming from her mouth; lower, smoother, a little dangerous. “Did you read and sign the consent agreement?”
The question’s simple, but her tone isn’t. It’s calm, but there’s weight behind it, a quiet warning that this isn’t small talk. It’s the start of whatever she’s about to do to me.
“Yes,” I manage, though my voice comes out lower than I mean for it to. My throat feels tight, and I’m not sure if it’s nerves or the way she’s looking at me.
“You understand the color system?”
I nod once, forcing myself to focus. “Yes.” I read the damn forms twice, but hearing her say it makes the whole thing feel different.
“Color?”
“Green.” The word catches in my throat. It’s supposed to mean go, but it feels more like I’m yours.
She holds my stare for a second, then turns slightly toward the door. “Thank you, Selma.”
The hostess dips her head and slips out, closing the door quietly behind her.
And just like that, it’s only us.
The silence stretches, and I’m standing there trying not to fidget, trying not to show how much I want to drop my gaze when she steps closer.
“Do you know what you want tonight?” she asks finally, her voice steady.
I swallow hard. “To stop holding everything together.”
She smiles as if that’s the answer she expected. “Then give me your control, and I’ll decide what you get to keep.”
My pulse jumps. “Yes.”
“Good boy.”
The words shouldn’t hit as hard as they do, but they sink right under my skin.
She walks up to me, close enough that I can smell her perfume again. “Take off your shirt. Pants too. Undies only.”
I obey. The air feels cooler against my skin, and she studies me like she’s deciding where to start. Her eyes flick to the cross mounted on the far wall. “There. Go stand.”
“Take a breath.” She circles behind me, her tone quiet but commanding. “Good. Now another.”
I do it without thinking, and the obedience alone makes my pulse skip.
“Hands behind your back.”
I obey, fingers lacing automatically. She drags a nail up the inside of my wrist, and I flinch. Not from pain. From surprise. The corner of her mouth lifts.
“Eager,” she murmurs. “That’s good.”
Her fingertips trail across my shoulders, down my chest, stopping just above my waistband. Each touch is careful and deliberate, teasing enough to make my thoughts scatter. When I lean toward her, she clicks her tongue once, a quiet scold that sends heat rushing straight to my face.
“Did I tell you to move?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then don’t.”
I freeze. Every nerve feels like it’s waiting for her next move. She walks around me again, her hand brushing my back, my hip, my jaw—soft touches that still manage to feel like orders.
“Good,” she says finally. “You learn fast.”
Her palm lands with a firm smack against my chest. Not hard, just enough to remind me who’s setting the pace. She does it again, a little harder, and the sound of it echoes louder than it should in the quiet room.
“That’s for thinking too much.”
I breathe out. “Yes, ma’am.”
She studies me for a second, then nods toward the bed. “Then we’ll keep going.”
My pulse jumps. I move where she tells me, sitting first, then lowering down when she gestures again. The sheets are soft against my skin, cool and expensive. I can feel her watching me, waiting for me to settle.
“Hands flat,” she demands. “Face down. You stay still unless I tell you otherwise.”
I obey. The position makes me feel exposed, vulnerable in a way I didn’t expect, but I don’t fight it. That’s the point.
She walks around the bed, her footsteps slow and even. I can feel the shift in the air as she comes to stand behind me. A pause. Then a light touch across my back, fingers tracing over tense muscles, making sure I’m paying attention.
“Color?”
“Green,” I breathe.
What follows is a hard smack on my left ass cheek. It’s controlled, deliberate. She gives me another on the right, then left, then right again. Every time I tense, she waits until I exhale before continuing. It’s not punishment. It’s rhythm. It’s release.
Between each one, her hand smooths down my back, grounding me, keeping me present.