Velvet Passions: 3. Aftertaste and Claims

Days began to spread themselves across her like a deck of cards, and her life reassembled with new edges. She paid rent. She called her brother and promised, with a careful omission, that things were improving. She bought groceries that didn’t come from the dollar aisle. All these practicalities were less astounding than the hollow-throated memory of his hands on her skin, the way he’d watched her, and the way he had given choices and then watched her choose.

The collar sat in her jewelry box now—more artifact than adornment. Sometimes she opened the box and only stared at it, fingers tracing the lines of the tiny latch. Other times she would touch the inside of her throat absentmindedly and the sound of his voice—the command softened into counsel—would come back to her.

He didn’t contact her with needy messages. He was not the type of man to pepper a woman with texts. Instead he sent commands, clear and efficient. An email with time and place. A calendar invite. The absence of