Velvet Dark

The invitation had arrived on cream-colored cardstock, the kind of paper that felt expensive between your fingers. Marcus had pressed it into my hand at the office on Wednesday, his broad smile revealing teeth so white they caught the fluorescent light overhead. "Halloween party. Saturday. My place," he'd said, his deep voice carrying that particular warmth he reserved for conversations with me. "Dress classy. Stockings or tights. Nothing cheap. I want this to feel like a proper evening."

I'd turned the card over in my hands. No address printed, just a phone number and the words Black Tie & Lace.

"You're actually considering this?" Emma had asked that evening over wine, the two of us sprawled on my sofa with our shoes kicked off and Chinese takeout containers cooling on the coffee table. She'd pulled a face, the kind that said she was already calculating something. "Marcus from work? The tall one with the shoulders?"

"That's him."

"He's always been a bit much, hasn't he? Very... intense." She'd taken a long sip of her pinot grigio, watching me over the rim of her glass. "What do you think he means by classy?"

I'd shrugged, but I'd already been thinking about it. Marcus had been circling me for months, his attention a steady pressure I couldn't quite ignore. He wasn't subtle. He'd linger by my desk when he thought no one was watching, find reasons to touch my shoulder in meetings, walk me to my car on late nights with his hand hovering at the small of my back. I'd never given him anything concrete, but I'd never told him to stop either. Maybe that was the problem.

"I suppose we find something elegant," I'd said. "He specifically mentioned stockings or tights. Not bare legs."

Emma's eyebrows had lifted. "Specific. I'll give him that." She'd set down her wine and reached for her phone, already scrolling through her contacts. "I know a place on Fifth that does vintage-inspired hosiery. We should go tomorrow after work."

That was Emma. She never asked whether she was invited. She just assumed, and she was usually right.

Now it was Saturday evening, and I stood before my bedroom mirror adjusting the seam of my stockings. I'd chosen a black dress that fell to mid-thigh, the fabric heavy enough to drape properly but thin enough to catch the shape of my body underneath. Beneath it, sheer black stockings with a subtle back seam, clipped to a lace garter belt I'd bought years ago for a New Year's party and never worn since. The tags had still been attached when I'd pulled it from the back of my drawer.

I'd spent twenty minutes getting the seam straight, turning and twisting in front of the mirror, my lips pressed together in concentration. The garter clips were fiddly, and my hands weren't quite steady. I told myself it was just the anticipation of a party, the usual nerves that came with any social obligation. I didn't examine why I cared so much about getting it right.

Emma arrived at half past seven, letting herself in with the spare key I kept under a ceramic frog by the front door. I heard her heels click across the hardwood, then stop in the bedroom doorway.

"Let me see," she said, setting down a bottle of prosecco on my dresser and crossing to where I stood. She was wearing a deep burgundy dress that made her pale skin glow, the kind of color that demanded attention. Her legs were clad in sheer tights the color of dark honey, and she'd paired them with pointed black heels that added three inches to her height. She looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine.

She reached for the hem of my dress, lifting it an inch to inspect the stocking top and the delicate clip attaching it to the belt. Her fingers brushed my thigh, cool against my skin. "Very nice. Very proper."

"He said classy," I replied, smoothing the dress back down. "I didn't want to disappoint."

Emma studied herself in the mirror, tugging at her neckline, adjusting the fall of her dark hair. "Do you think there'll be many people there?"

I shook my head. "He didn't say. I got the impression it was a smaller gathering. Some friends of his, maybe."

"Friends from where?"

"I don't know. He keeps his personal life pretty separate." I picked up my clutch, checking that my phone and lipstick were inside. "Ready?"

She turned from the mirror and grinned at me, that wide, reckless grin that had gotten us into trouble more times than I could count. "Born ready."

The drive to Marcus's house took twenty minutes through the city's outer ring, past strip malls and gas stations until the streets grew quieter and the houses spread further apart. Emma scrolled through her phone in the passenger seat, occasionally reading out headlines or commenting on people we'd gone to school with. I kept my eyes on the road, watching the streetlights flicker past, feeling the familiar weight of the evening settling over me.

His home was a modern build at the end of a cul-de-sac, all clean lines and dark windows, with warm light spilling from the front room and a jack-o'-lantern on the porch step that seemed almost comical against the sleek architecture. The pumpkin's carved grin was crooked, one eye smaller than the other, like a child had done it.

"Nice place," Emma said, and I could hear the assessment in her voice. She was cataloging the neighborhood, the car in the driveway, the landscaping. Emma noticed things. She always had.

Marcus opened the door before we could knock. He wore a fitted charcoal suit, no tie, the collar of his shirt open at the throat. His skin caught the light from inside, and his smile widened as he took us in, his gaze traveling down my legs to the seam of my stockings and then across to Emma in her burgundy.

"You both look incredible," he said, stepping back to let us enter. "Exactly what I hoped for."

The hallway smelled of cedar and something spiced. Cinnamon, maybe, or clove. Music drifted from the back of the house, something slow and jazzy with a heavy bass line that seemed to pulse through the walls. Marcus took our coats and hung them in a closet by the door, his hand resting for a moment on Emma's shoulder as he guided us toward the main room.

"Everyone's in here," he said. "Drinks are on the bar. Help yourselves."

The living room was larger than I'd expected, arranged with two deep sofas facing each other across a low glass table. Four men stood or sat around the space, each holding a glass, each turning to look as we entered.

They were all Black, all tall, all dressed in suits or sharp casual wear. The nearest one, broad-chested with close-cropped hair and a watch that caught the lamplight, set down his glass and stepped forward.

"Marcus said two," he said, his voice a low rumble. "He didn't say how stunning." He extended a hand to me. "I'm Darnell."

I took it, feeling the size of his palm, the firm grip. His skin was warm, and he held my hand a beat longer than necessary before releasing it. "Jill. This is Emma."

Darnell moved to Emma and took her hand next. "Pleasure."

The introductions continued. There was Terrence, lean and elegant with wire-rimmed glasses and a silver earring that glinted when he turned his head. Then Corey, the youngest of the group, with a wide easy grin and a navy blazer that looked like it had been tailored to his frame. Finally, Andre, who barely spoke but nodded once from his place on the sofa, his legs spread wide, one arm draped along the backrest. He was the largest of them, his shoulders straining the fabric of his shirt, and his eyes moved between Emma and me with a stillness that made my fingers tighten on my clutch.

Marcus pressed glasses of champagne into our hands. The glass was cold, the liquid pale gold. "Relax," he said. "We're all friends here."

The conversation started easily enough. Darnell worked in finance, something complicated involving derivatives and risk assessment that he explained with a self-deprecating laugh. Terrence taught at the university, literature, and he spoke about his students with a mixture of affection and exasperation that made me like him immediately. Corey had just finished a graduate program in architecture and was looking for work, his enthusiasm undimmed by the rejections he mentioned in passing. Andre said nothing about himself, but his eyes moved between the two of us with a stillness that made my fingers tighten on my glass.

Emma settled onto the sofa across from Andre, crossing her legs, the honey-colored tights catching the light. She laughed at something Corey said, tilting her head, and I watched the way all four men tracked the movement. The exposed line of her throat. The shift of her collarbone beneath the burgundy fabric. She was performing, I realized. Not consciously, maybe, but Emma had always known how to hold a room.

I found a place on the other sofa, between Darnell and the armrest. The leather was warm. The champagne was cold. Marcus put on another album, something with a slower beat, and the room seemed to contract, the lighting dimmer than it had been a moment ago, or maybe that was my imagination.

Darnell leaned closer, his knee brushing mine. The contact was slight, barely a touch, but the warmth of his leg through the fabric of his trousers was immediate against my bare skin above the stocking line. I didn't pull away.

"So," he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear, "Marcus tells us you're the most interesting woman in his office."

I turned my head. His face was close. I could see the texture of his skin, the faint shadow beneath his jaw where he'd shaved that morning, the small scar near his eyebrow that I hadn't noticed before. "He's generous," I said.

"He's honest." Darnell's gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower, to the hollow of my throat where my pulse was doing something I hadn't given it permission to do. "We've been looking forward to tonight."

"All of you?"

The question came out before I could stop it, and I felt heat rise to my cheeks. But Darnell just smiled, slow and easy, like I'd said something clever.

"All of us," he confirmed. "Marcus has been talking about you for weeks. Emma too, once he found out you'd bring her."

Across the room, Emma was laughing again, louder this time, her hand resting on Corey's forearm. Andre hadn't moved, but his gaze had shifted. It rested now on Emma's crossed legs, on the curve where her knee pressed against the tights, on the way her heel dangled from her foot.

I took a long drink of my champagne. The bubbles burned the back of my throat.

The room was warm. The music played on. And somewhere beneath the chatter and the clink of glasses, I felt the evening shifting, settling into a shape I couldn't quite see yet. Like a door opening in a dark room, letting in light I wasn't ready for.

Terrence refilled my glass without asking. The champagne was good, better than anything I usually drank, crisp and dry with a finish that lingered. I hadn't realized I'd finished the first glass until he was pouring more.

"You're nervous," he said. It wasn't a question.

"A little."

"Don't be." He settled onto the arm of the sofa near me, close enough that I could smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean. "Marcus has good taste. He wouldn't have invited you if he didn't think you'd fit."

"Fit?"

He smiled, and there was something knowing in it. "With us. With the evening." He gestured vaguely at the room, at the men, at the low lighting and the slow music. "Some people come to a party like this and spend the whole night wondering why they're there. You don't seem like that type."

I wasn't sure what type I seemed like. I wasn't sure what I was doing there, except that Marcus had asked and Emma had said yes and I'd wanted to know what it would feel like to be wanted by someone like him.

Darnell's hand found my knee. Just resting there, his palm warm through the thin fabric of my dress. I could feel the weight of it, the heat, the implicit question.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," he said quietly. "Nobody here is going to push."

"I know."

"Do you?"

I looked at him. At the steady patience in his eyes, the way he was watching me like I was something worth waiting for. "I think so."

He nodded and left his hand where it was.

Emma had shifted on the other sofa. She was sitting closer to Corey now, their thighs touching, her head tilted toward his as he spoke into her ear. Whatever he said made her laugh, a low, throaty sound I'd heard before in bars and clubs, the sound she made when she was enjoying herself and wanted everyone to know it.

Andre watched them. He hadn't moved from his position, hadn't spoken more than a handful of words all evening, but his presence filled the room. Every time I glanced his way, I found his eyes on one of us. On Emma's hands, on her throat, on the curve of her hip where the dress pulled tight. On me, once, when I wasn't expecting it. His gaze was heavy, assessing, and I looked away first.

Marcus appeared at my elbow with a fresh bottle. "How's everyone doing?"

"Good," I said. "Your friends are..."

"Intense?" He grinned. "They are. That's why I like them."

He topped off my glass and moved on, circling the room, touching shoulders and backs as he passed. Terrence's shoulder. Corey's back. Emma's hair, a brief brush of his fingers against the dark strands. He was like a conductor, I thought, keeping the rhythm, ensuring everyone was playing their part.

The music shifted again, something slower, more insistent. A woman's voice, low and smoky, singing about wanting and waiting. The bass line worked its way into my chest.

Emma stood. She crossed the room to where Andre sat, her heels clicking on the hardwood, and stopped in front of him. "You haven't said two words all night," she said, hands on her hips.

Andre looked up at her. "I've been listening."

"To what?"

"To you."

Emma's smile flickered, just for a moment, before she recovered. "And what have you heard?"

"That you like to be the center of attention." He said it without judgment, just a statement of fact. "That you're used to men falling over themselves for you. That you're waiting for someone to not do that."

The room had gone quiet. Terrence and Corey had stopped talking. Marcus was watching from his place by the bar, his glass frozen halfway to his lips.

Emma's chin lifted. "Is that what you're doing? Not falling over yourself?"

"I'm sitting here," Andre said. "That's all."

She stared at him. He stared back.

Then she laughed, a real laugh this time, surprised and a little delighted. "Okay," she said. "Okay." And she sat down next to him, not touching, but close. Close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.

Darnell's hand tightened on my knee, just slightly. "That's Andre," he murmured. "He doesn't play games."

"Then what does he do?"

"He waits." Darnell's thumb moved in a small circle against my skin. "Until he knows what he wants. And then he takes it."

I should have been alarmed. I should have felt the warning in those words, the implicit threat, the assumption that Emma or I or both of us might be something to be taken. But instead I felt a low, warm flutter in my stomach, a stirring I didn't want to examine.

The champagne was making everything soft at the edges. The light was warm, the music was slow, and Darnell's hand was still on my knee, patient and heavy and full of promise.

Emma was talking to Andre now, her voice lower than usual, her body angled toward his. He responded in monosyllables, but each one seemed to land, seemed to matter. She was leaning closer, her hand resting on the sofa cushion between them, her fingers brushing the fabric of his trousers.

Corey had moved to the bar, pouring himself something amber from a bottle I hadn't noticed before. Terrence was watching Emma and Andre with an expression I couldn't read.

I finished my second glass of champagne. Darnell took it from my hand and set it on the table.

"Steady," he said. "We have all night."

"All night?"

"Unless you want to leave." He looked at me, his eyes dark and serious. "You can. Any time. Emma too. Nobody would stop you."

I believed him. That was the strange thing. I believed him completely.

"I don't want to leave," I said.

His smile was slow and warm. "Good."

The evening stretched on. The champagne kept flowing. The music kept playing, slow and low, and the room seemed to grow smaller, the shadows deeper, the spaces between us all shrinking.

Emma was sitting very close to Andre now, her hand on his thigh. He hadn't touched her yet, not really, but he was looking at her with an intensity that made my breath catch. She was talking, telling him something, her voice too low to hear, and he was listening with that same patient stillness.

Corey had joined them on the sofa, sitting on Emma's other side. She was between them now, two men, one dark and one darker, their bodies angled toward her like flowers toward the sun.

Terrence was beside me on the other sofa, his knee pressing against mine. Darnell was on my other side, his arm along the backrest behind me, not quite touching but close enough that I could feel the heat of him.

Marcus stood by the window, watching us all, his glass in his hand.

"How are you feeling?" Terrence asked.

I considered the question. The champagne had loosened something in me, made everything feel possible and soft. I was aware of my body in a way I usually wasn't, the weight of my breasts against the lace of my bra, the seam of my stockings against my legs, the cool air on my thighs where the dress had ridden up.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Just fine?"

"Better than fine." I shifted, and my hip brushed Darnell's thigh. He didn't move away. "I'm... curious."

Terrence's smile was gentle. "That's a good place to start."

Emma laughed again, that low, throaty sound, and I looked over to see Corey's hand on her shoulder, his fingers tracing the line of her collarbone. Andre was watching, his expression unreadable. She was leaning into Corey's touch, her eyes half-closed, her lips parted.

I should have felt something. Jealousy, maybe. Or concern. But all I felt was a strange, warm satisfaction, like watching a scene from a movie I'd always wanted to be in.

Darnell's hand found my knee again, higher this time, his fingers brushing the bare skin above my stocking. "You're watching them," he said.

"I am."

"What are you thinking?"

I turned to look at him. His face was close, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "I'm thinking I don't know what's going to happen tonight."

"Does that scare you?"

"No." The word came out before I could think about it. "It should, maybe. But it doesn't."

He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing my ear. "Good."

Across the room, Emma had turned to Andre. She was saying something, her hand on his chest, and he was finally moving, his arm coming around her waist, pulling her against him. She went willingly, her body molding to his, her head falling back against his shoulder.

Corey watched, his hand still on her shoulder, his expression hungry.

The music shifted again. Something with a beat like a heartbeat, slow and steady. The lights seemed to dim further, the room contracting around us.

Terrence's hand found my other knee. I was bracketed now, two men on either side, both touching me, both waiting. Darnell's fingers traced the edge of my stocking. Terrence's palm was warm and still.

I closed my eyes. The champagne hummed in my blood. The music pulsed. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice that sounded like my own asked what I was doing, what I was allowing, what I would become by the end of this night.

I didn't have an answer. But I didn't open my eyes either.

Emma was kissing Andre. I heard the soft sound of it, the wet slide of lips, the low moan she made. I opened my eyes to see her straddling his lap, her dress rucked up around her hips, her tights catching the light. His hands were on her ass, holding her in place, and Corey was behind her, his mouth on her neck, his hands on her waist.

It was happening. It was really happening.

Darnell's hand slid higher, under the hem of my dress, his fingers finding the clip of my garter belt. "Is this okay?" he asked.

I nodded. I couldn't speak.

He unhooked the clip, slowly, deliberately, and the stocking loosened against my leg. His fingers traced the line of the seam, down to my ankle, then back up. "Beautiful," he murmured. "Marcus said you'd be beautiful."

"Marcus talks too much."

"Marcus knows what he wants." His fingers found the other clip, releasing it. The stocking slid down my leg, pooling at my ankle. "And he usually gets it."

Terrence's hand was on my other thigh, pushing my dress higher. I wasn't stopping them. I wasn't doing anything at all, just sitting there, letting them touch me, letting the evening carry me where it wanted.

Emma moaned again, louder this time. I looked over to see Andre's hand between her legs, his fingers moving against the honey-colored tights. She was grinding against him, her head thrown back, Corey's mouth on her throat.

"Watch," Darnell said. "That's what you're supposed to do. Watch and learn."

I watched. I couldn't look away.

Andre's fingers found the seam of Emma's tights and tore them, the sound sharp in the quiet room. She gasped, then laughed, then moaned as his fingers found her bare skin. Corey was pulling her dress down, exposing her breasts, her nipples dark and hard in the dim light.

Marcus was still by the window, watching us all. His glass was empty now, but he hadn't moved to refill it.

Darnell pulled my other stocking off, then his hand was between my legs, his fingers finding me wet and ready through the thin fabric of my underwear. I gasped, my hips jerking against his hand.

"Easy," he said. "We have time."

But I didn't want time. I wanted this, whatever this was, the heat and the touch and the watching. I wanted to feel what Emma was feeling, wanted to be touched the way Andre was touching her.

Terrence's hand moved higher, pushing my dress up around my waist. Darnell's fingers slipped under my underwear, finding my clit, circling it slowly. I moaned, a sound I barely recognized as my own.

"Good," Darnell murmured. "That's good. Let go."

I let go.

The room blurred around me, the music and the light and the sounds of Emma's pleasure all blending together. Darnell's fingers moved inside me, curling, finding a rhythm that made my toes curl. Terrence was kissing my neck, his lips soft and warm, his teeth grazing my pulse.

I came, fast and hard, my body arching off the sofa, a cry tearing from my throat.

When I opened my eyes, Emma was watching me. She was still on Andre's lap, his fingers inside her, Corey's mouth on her breast. But her eyes were on me, dark and knowing, and she smiled.

I smiled back.

The night was just beginning.

---

The room had changed. Or maybe I had changed. The champagne glass was gone from my hand, I didn't remember setting it down. My dress was bunched around my waist, my stockings gone, my underwear somewhere on the floor. Darnell's hand was still between my legs, his fingers wet and still. Terrence was behind me now, his chest against my back, his hands on my shoulders, his breath warm on my neck.

Emma had moved. She was on the floor now, on her knees, Corey behind her, Andre in front of her. I couldn't see everything, but I could see enough. Her mouth. Her hands. The way Andre's head fell back, the way his fingers tangled in her hair.

Darnell turned my face toward him. "You're distracted."

"I'm watching."

"You can do both." He kissed me. His lips were soft, his tongue insistent, and I melted into him, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders. He tasted like champagne and something darker, something male. I kissed him back, harder than I meant to, and he laughed against my mouth.

"That's more like it."

Terrence's hands moved to my breasts, cupping them through the fabric of my dress. My nipples were hard, aching, and when he pinched them through the lace of my bra, I gasped into Darnell's mouth.

"Let's get this off," Darnell said, tugging at my dress.

I lifted my arms and let him pull it over my head. The air was cool on my skin, but I didn't feel cold. I felt alive, electric, every nerve ending singing.

Terrence unhooked my bra, and my breasts spilled free. He cupped them in his palms, his thumbs brushing my nipples, and I moaned.

"You're beautiful," he said. "Marcus was right."

"Marcus is always right," Darnell said, and there was something in his voice, something I couldn't read. "That's the problem."

Emma cried out, a sharp, high sound, and I looked over to see her coming, her body shaking, Andre's hand between her legs. Corey was still behind her, still hard, still waiting. She collapsed forward onto Andre's chest, panting, and he held her there, his hand stroking her back.

"Good girl," he said, and Emma laughed, breathless.

Darnell pulled me onto his lap, my back to his chest, my legs spread over his thighs. I could feel him hard beneath me, pressing against my ass. His hands cupped my breasts, his fingers teasing my nipples. Terrence knelt in front of me, his eyes dark, his mouth wet.

"Watch," Darnell said again.

Terrence leaned in and took my nipple in his mouth. I arched into him, my hands fisting in his hair. He sucked hard, his tongue flicking, and I felt it all the way down to my cunt, a sharp pull of pleasure that made me grind against Darnell's lap.

"That's it," Darnell murmured. "Ride it."

I did. I rode the feeling, the heat, the wetness spreading between my legs. Terrence moved to my other breast, giving it the same treatment, and I was lost, floating, nothing but sensation and need.

Darnell's hand slid between my legs again, his fingers finding my clit, circling it in time with Terrence's mouth. I was close, so close, the pressure building, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Not yet," Darnell said, and stopped.

I groaned, frustrated, desperate. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Please let me come."

"Not yet." His fingers moved again, slower this time, teasing. "We have all night. I want to take my time with you."

I wanted to argue, but I couldn't. I could barely think. I was nothing but want, nothing but need, and he was in control, and I was letting him.

Emma was on her back now, on the floor, Corey between her legs, his face buried between her thighs. She was moaning, her hands in his hair, her hips bucking against his mouth. Andre knelt beside her, stroking her hair, watching her face.

Marcus had moved from the window. He was standing near the sofa now, watching me. His eyes were dark, his expression unreadable.

"You're doing well," he said. "Both of you."

I didn't know what that meant. I didn't care.

Darnell's fingers moved faster, and I was climbing again, the pressure building, my body tightening. Terrence was sucking my nipples, one then the other, and Darnell was whispering in my ear, telling me to let go, to come for him, to be good.

I came. It crashed over me, wave after wave, my body convulsing, my voice breaking on a cry. Darnell held me through it, his fingers gentle now, drawing it out until I couldn't take any more.

When I opened my eyes, Emma was watching me again. She was still on her back, Corey still between her legs, but her eyes were on me, and she was smiling.

"Good?" she asked.

"So good."

She laughed, and then Corey did something that made her gasp, and her eyes closed, and she was gone again.

The night stretched on. The champagne kept flowing. The music kept playing. And we kept going, all of us, together, the lines blurring, the boundaries falling away.

At some point, Darnell carried me to a bedroom. I don't remember which one. I remember the sheets were soft, and the light was dim, and there were hands on me, more than two, more than four. I remember mouths and fingers and the weight of bodies. I remember saying yes, over and over, yes, and please, and more.

I remember Emma beside me, her hand in mine, her eyes on mine, as we were taken apart and put back together.

I remember Marcus watching from the doorway, his expression satisfied, like a man who had planned something and seen it come to fruition.

And I remember, at the end, lying in the dark with Emma's head on my shoulder, both of us wrecked and spent, the sheets tangled around us, the room smelling of sex and sweat and something sweet.

"What just happened?" I whispered.

Emma laughed, soft and sleepy. "I don't know. But I want it to happen again."

I did too. That was the terrifying thing. I wanted it to happen again.

The door opened, and Marcus came in. He was dressed again, his suit crisp, his hair smoothed. He looked like he'd just arrived at a party, not like he'd spent the night watching two women be fucked by his friends.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

I considered the question. My body ached. My mind was blank. I felt like I'd been taken apart and reassembled into something new, something I didn't quite recognize.

"I don't know," I said.

He smiled. "That's normal. It takes time to process."

"Process what?"

"This." He gestured at the room, at us, at the night. "What you are. What you want. What you're willing to do to get it."

"I don't understand."

"You will." He sat on the edge of the bed, close to me, his hand resting on my ankle. "You and Emma. You're special. I knew it the moment I met you. And I wanted to share that with my friends."

"Share us?"

"Share the experience." His thumb traced a circle on my ankle bone. "You enjoyed it. Don't pretend you didn't."

I didn't pretend. I had enjoyed it. I had loved it. And that was the problem.

"What happens now?" I asked.

"Now you go home. You think about tonight. You decide if you want to come back."

"And if I do?"

"Then we do this again. And again. Until you don't want to anymore."

"And if I don't want to come back?"

He shrugged. "Then you don't. No hard feelings."

I didn't believe him. There was something in his eyes, something possessive, something that said he wasn't used to being told no. But I was too tired to argue, too wrung out to fight.

Emma stirred beside me. "I want to come back," she said, her voice muffled against my shoulder.

Marcus smiled. "Good."

He stood and left the room, closing the door behind him. I lay there in the dark, Emma's breath warm against my skin, and tried to think.

I couldn't. My mind was a blank, a white space, a room with no furniture. All I could feel was my body, sore and satisfied, and the weight of Emma's head on my shoulder, and the slow, steady beat of my heart.

I didn't know what I was going to do. But I knew I wasn't going to forget this night. Not ever.

The drive home was quiet. Emma sat in the passenger seat, her head against the window, her eyes closed. The sky was just starting to lighten, gray and pink at the edges, the city still mostly asleep.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She opened her eyes and looked at me. "I'm great. Are you?"

"I don't know."

She reached over and took my hand. "It's okay to not know. It's okay to feel whatever you're feeling."

"What if I liked it?"

"Then you liked it." She squeezed my hand. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"There's everything wrong with that." I kept my eyes on the road. "We don't know those men. We don't know what they wanted. We just... let them."

"We wanted it too." Her voice was gentle. "We chose to be there. We chose to stay. Nobody made us do anything."

I wanted to argue, but I couldn't. She was right. I had chosen. Every step of the way, I had chosen.

"I don't know what happens now," I said.

"Neither do I." She let go of my hand and settled back in her seat. "But I guess we'll find out."

We pulled up in front of my apartment. The sun was rising now, the sky a wash of orange and gold. Emma got out of the car and stood on the sidewalk, looking up at my building.

"I'm going to go home and sleep for a hundred years," she said. "Call me when you wake up?"

"I will."

She smiled, that reckless smile I knew so well, and walked to her own car. I watched her drive away, then sat in my car for a long time, watching the sun come up.

I thought about the night. About Darnell's hands, Terrence's mouth, Marcus's eyes. About Emma's laughter, her moans, her hand in mine. About the way I'd felt, taken and held and wanted, in a way I'd never felt before.

I thought about what I wanted. What I was willing to do to get it.

And I thought about the invitation, still tucked in my purse, the cream-colored cardstock with the phone number and the words Black Tie & Lace.

I didn't know if I would call. But I knew I would think about it.

I knew I would think about it all the time.