Page 23 of Ruthless Arrangement

Her eyes narrow, assessing my deflection. “My perspective?” she repeats, a note of skepticism entering her voice. “Interesting. I’m beginning to think the actual story happens up here, anyway, not down on the main floor.”

I smile, appreciating her refusal to be easily sidetracked. “Perceptive as always. Which is why I’ve arranged something special for this evening.” I move closer, invading her personal space. I relish the subtle signs of her control warring with her reaction to my proximity after the break: not backing away. Lea Song is too proud for retreat, but there’s a definite tightening in her shoulders, a quickening of her breath beneath the emerald silk, a defiant lift of her chin that doesn’t quite mask the awareness sparking in her eyes. She feels it too, this sudden intensity after the quiet. “Purgatorio caters to a wide range of appetites, Ms. Song. Some are more specialized than others.”

Her eyes narrow further, suspicion replacing the fleeting spark of awareness. “Meaning?”

“We’re considering adding a new act to our private entertainment roster.” I keep my tone level, the detached businessman seeking a consultation. “I’d value your perspective on its market appeal.”

She doesn’t believe my professional facade for a second; I see it in the skeptical arch of her eyebrow. But I also see the competing flicker in her eyes. The journalist’s hunger outweighing caution and curiosity beginning to win. “What kind of act?”

I’m saved from elaborating by one of Vivian’s assistants, a young woman in the club’s signature black uniform, appearing at the doorway. “Mr. Varela, the Velvet Room is ready.”

“Excellent.” I extend my hand toward the door, not quite touching Lea, but close enough that she can surely feel the heat radiating from my palm, heat that feels amplified just by having her near again. “Shall we, Ms. Song? I believe you’ll find this interesting for your article. A glimpse into the more exclusive side of nightlife entertainment.”

She hesitates for only a fraction of a second, her mind clearly racing, suspicion battling her journalistic instinct to leave no stone unturned. The desire for the story, for the truth behind the polished surface, wins out. “Lead the way,” she finally says, her voice betraying nothing of the conflict I know she’s experiencing.

The Velvet Room is tucked away in a secluded corner of Purgatorio’s upper level, accessible only through a discrete corridor monitored by my most trusted security personnel. As its name suggests, the walls are lined with deep red velvet, absorbing sound and creating an atmosphere of hushed intimacy. The lighting is subdued, just enough to see, not enough to feel exposed. The air is thick with the faint scent of expensive perfume and something else, something warmer, almost musky.

At the center of the room is a small stage, elevated only slightly above floor level. Surrounding it are plush armchairs and sofas, providing optimal viewing while maintaining privacy. Tonight, only one seating area is prepared, a sumptuous black couch positioned in front of the stage.

I guide Lea to the couch, gesturing for her to sit. She does so cautiously; her gaze taking in every detail of the room with that sharp journalist’s focus. I settle beside her, close enough that I can detect the subtle scent of her perfume, something with notes of jasmine and amber, sensual without being overpowering. It suits her.

“This room hosts our more specialized entertainments,” I explain, keeping my tone conversational. “By invitation only, naturally.”

“Naturally,” she repeats, her voice dry. “And what exactly are we about to see, Mr. Varela?”

I smile, leaning back against the soft leather. “A demonstration of the more refined aspects of dominance and submission. Professionally performed by experts, of course.”

Her posture stiffens almost imperceptibly. “BDSM? That’s the ‘specialized entertainment’ you’re considering adding to your club’s offerings?”

“In select contexts, for discerning clients.” I observe her reaction. “You seem surprised. I would have thought a journalist of your caliber would be acquainted with the prevalence of such interests among the powerful.”

A flash of irritation crosses her features before she masters it. “I’m familiar with the concept, Mr. Varela. I’m just surprised you’d include this in my ‘education’.”

“All aspects of power apply to understanding my world, Ms. Song. It’s what made me who I am. Power and domination.” I signal to the attendant hovering by the door. “Including the most intimate expressions of it.”

The room goes darker just as two performers slip onto the stage. They’re the Martinez pair, the latest hot shit in the Midwest BDSM scene. These two don’t just put on a show, they make rope and leather into pure art. Miguel rocks black pants like they’re painted on, his bare chest catching the low light. Elise is decked out in this wicked black harness that wraps around all her best parts, hooked to a collar. Her wrists are already tied up nice and cozy in front of her.

They hit their marks without a word; him standing tall, her on her knees, looking like the perfect sub. The quiet in here is electric.

I sneak a peek at Lea. She’s playing it cool, but her quick breaths and white knuckles gripping the couch tell a different story. She’s not freaked. It’s more like she can’t look away even though she thinks she should.

Miguel circles Elise with a predator’s grace, his fingers mapping her skin like territory to conquer. The way he touches her isn’t cruel; it’s pure power play, a dance where she gives up control and he runs the show. He whispers in her ear and she melts into it, offering herself up like a gift.

Next to me, Lea gulps. Hard.

The show kicks into high gear when Miguel guides Elise to this padded bench center stage. He bends her over it, stretches those arms high, and locks her down tight. Her wrists, ankles, the works. She’s exposed and defenseless, exactly how they both want it.

I split my focus between the kinky theater and Lea’s face. She’s inching forward, mouth open, hypnotized. The reporter in her is taking mental notes, but there’s something else there too. I can see it. A little spark she’s fighting like hell to hide.

Miguel grabs this suede flogger and teases Elise with it first. The way her back arches. Fuck, it’s obscene. Her ass tilted up like an offering as he drags that suede flogger across her skin. Each teasing stroke makes her tremble, her breath hitching in these little gasps that hit me straight to my cock. Then he snaps it, sharp, precise, and her moan cuts through the air, low and needy, her thighs quivering as red blooms across her pale flesh. My cock twitches hard against my trousers, already straining from the sight.

Beside me, Lea’s pretending she’s above it all, but I see through her. Her chest rises a little faster, her fingers digging into the couch like she’s anchoring herself. That flush creeping up her neck. It’s not disgust, no matter how much she wants to play the detached journalist. She’s hooked, eyes glued to Elise’s writhing body as Miguel swaps the flogger for a leather crop. He lands a quick, stinging slap across her ass, and Elise bucks, a cry spilling from her lips that’s pure, unadulterated want. Lea’s lips part just a fraction, but it’s enough. I know that look. She’s imagining it, feeling that sting, even if she’d rather die than admit it. That’s my in, right there, her dirty little secret she doesn’t even know she’s showing me.

I catch the floor manager’s eye with a tilt of my head, voice low. “Bring Loretta.” Lea might hear, might not. It doesn’t matter. I want her to see this next part, to feel the weight of my world while she’s stuck watching. The stage is heating up. Miguel’s got a vibrator in hand now, pressing it against Elise’s clit while she’s still bound, helpless. Her moans turn desperate, hips grinding against the bench as he works her, that buzz mixing with the wet sound of her arousal. My blood’s pounding, every nerve lit up, and I’m half a second from dragging Lea onto my lap and fucking her right here.

Then Loretta slips in, all sleek lines and quiet deference, her black dress outlining a figure built for sin. She doesn’t hesitate, just glides to my side, sinking onto the couch beside me. Her thigh rests a breath away from mine, a silent offering of proximity. She knows the drill. Her attention stays forward, fixed on the performance, but her awareness of me, of my mood, is absolute.

Onstage, Miguel’s barking a command: “Beg for it,” and Elise’s voice breaks, “Please, sir, please,” as he teases her with the vibrator, pulling it back just when she’s about to lose it. My jaw clenches, arousal clawing through me. I shift, making myself more comfortable, adjusting myself.

---