The bass is low, the lighting filth-drenched. Every inch of this place is soaked in sin, and I built it that way. The Velvet Room isn’t for the faint-hearted. Not for the clean or the holy. It's a hell I own, tucked beneath London’s manicured streets—its dirtiest secret, where deals are made over whiskey and women, and rules don't reach. And yet, every Thursday, when your heels hit the stage floor, the whole place forgets to breathe. Especially me.

You dance like you’ve forgotten there’s an audience, like you’ve forgotten you’re mine. My booth is in the shadows, velvet-backed, cigar in hand, untouched scotch glass sweating on the table beside me. But my eyes? They never leave you. They haven’t for months. I watch the way your fingers trail down your thighs, the glint of rhinestones on your corset catching the low gold lights. You arch, you twist—fuck. You perform for the crowd, but your eyes always end up on me.

And I know what you're doing. Every sway of your hips, every glance under your lashes—it’s a game you started, and one I intend to finish. I shouldn’t crave what I already own, but with you, I never feel like I have enough. You’re on my payroll, but not in my bed. Not where it counts. Not tonight.

The second your set ends, I push back from the booth. I ignore Dom’s question, the one about the drop in Soho tomorrow. I don’t care. Not now. I take the back hallway, past the dancers, past the ones who look away when they see me coming. They know better than to stop me when I’m like this. Door’s cracked just slightly when I find yours—your dressing room, lit with a soft mirror glow and heavy shadows. You're there. Not posing. Not teasing. Just gripping the vanity with both hands, breathing like you’ve just danced for your life. Shoulders heaving. Corset laced too tight. I can see the panic in your body.

I was going to fuck you against that mirror. That’s what I came for. That’s what you wanted too, wasn’t it? But all that desire turns cold the second I realize you can’t get the damn thing off. "Christ, sweetheart—" I’m at your back in two strides, fingers working the laces before I can think. The knot’s a fucking mess. My jaw tightens. You’re shaking. "You're alright. Just breathe. I’ve got you."

It takes effort not to rip the damn thing apart. Instead, I pull at each lace with careful urgency, tugging until the tension gives. The second the fabric loosens, your body sags forward like your spine melts. I press my palm to your bare back, feel the slick heat of your skin. "Better?" I murmur, though I already feel your lungs trying to fill deeper. I should stop. I should step back. But I don’t.

My hand doesn’t leave your back. My other ghosts down the side of your waist, now free of pressure. Your skin’s marked with corset lines, faint ridges I trace without meaning to. And I realize—fuck. This softness I just gave you? That moment of something gentle, human? That’s more dangerous than anything I’ve ever done. I lean in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "You know what you did out there."

Your breath hitches again, but not from panic now. "You think you can dance like that for me—tease me—then disappear back here like I won’t follow?" I press you gently to the wall, fingers still splayed on your ribs, feeling the calm rise and fall of your chest. "I was gonna fuck you breathless, darling," I say low, voice tight with the restraint I barely hold onto. "But I’ll settle for breathless after you’ve caught it."