Novella 2: Silken Commands. Chapter 1: The Assignment

The elevator climbed so fast my stomach lagged three floors behind. No music, no numbers—just a private brass panel humming with quiet menace and the faint scent of ozone from the motor. My portfolio case banged against my hip, the leather strap worn soft from years of subway rides, late-night shoots, and too many unpaid invoices. At thirty-two, Lena Moreau—freelance photographer, perpetual hustler—had learned to chase light in any corner of this city, but nothing prepared me for the hush that greeted me when the doors slid open on the 58th floor.

A corridor stretched ahead, black marble veined with gold, a single white orchid in a crystal vase that probably cost more than my rent. The air smelled like money being laundered through sandalwood and old secrets. Damian Carter waited beneath a recessed spotlight, the kind that costs more than my annual take and makes one man look like a statue carved from midnight. Forty-five, lean, silver threading his temples, suit the color of wet asphalt after rain. He didn’t speak; he simply tilted his head, the gesture saying follow more clearly than any word.

We moved past walls of smoked glass and walnut, past a library whose shelves climbed two stories high, leather bindings exhaling the scent of quiet threats and forgotten fortunes. My boots—scuffed, honest—sounded too loud on the marble. Seraphina materialized at the end of the hall like smoke given form: bare feet silent, merlot silk robe knotted loose, hair still damp from a shower that probably cost more than my camera. Thirty-eight, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, storm-gray eyes that locked on mine and refused to blink.

“Darling,” she said to Damian, voice velvet over steel, never looking away from me, “you brought home a stray with teeth.”

Damian’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, more a promise. “Teeth can be useful.” He set two cameras on a side table—mine, plus a Hasselblad and a Leica I couldn’t afford in three lifetimes, their lenses gleaming like predators. “Test shots. Master suite. Now.”

The suite swallowed sound. A bed the size of my old Queens apartment, charcoal linen already rumpled like someone had fucked on it five minutes ago and left the evidence. A fireplace hissed low, flames licking the air. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city’s glittering sprawl—Central Park’s skeletal trees, the Hudson a dark ribbon, lights pulsing like a heartbeat. Damian poured three glasses of something thick and gold from a decanter older than me. I tasted it—1996 Château d’Yquem, I’d learn later—honey, smoke, sin sliding straight between my legs and pooling there.

“Top off,” Seraphina said, voice lazy, dangerous, circling me slow. “We need to see how the fire kisses your skin.”

I laughed—short, sharp, a reflex—then peeled my sweater over my head. Bra followed, the clasp cool between my fingers. Cool air hit my shoulders, my breasts, nipples tightening like they’d been summoned. Damian lifted the Hasselblad, shutter snapping slow, deliberate, each click a heartbeat. Seraphina’s robe parted with every step, revealing the curve of a hip, the shadow between her thighs, until her fingers hooked my waistband.

“Jeans too,” she murmured, breath warm against my ear. “We’re not paying for modesty.”

Fabric pooled at my ankles. I stepped out, naked except for the camera strap across my chest, heart hammering loud enough to drown the fire. Damian set the Hasselblad down, crossed the room in three strides, and kissed me like he was signing a contract with his tongue—hard, claiming, tasting of wine and control. Seraphina’s hand slipped between my thighs, two fingers sliding home without asking, finding me slick, ready. I gasped into Damian’s mouth; he swallowed the sound, bit my lip, tasted my surrender.

“Bed,” he growled, lifting me as if I weighed nothing, the linen cool against my heated skin, the city strobing across my body like a private show. Seraphina shed her robe, her body a sculpture of shadows and curves, climbing over me, breasts heavy, mouth on my clit before I could breathe. Damian watched, stroking himself, cock thick and heavy, already leaking. No words now—just the language of skin, of teeth, of the shutter I’d abandoned on the floor.

Seraphina’s tongue was slow, deliberate, a torment that tore a moan from my throat. Damian leaned down to capture my mouth again, swallowing every sound, his hand tangling in my hair. When he pushed inside me—slow, thick, relentless—Seraphina’s fingers stayed, stretching, filling, until pleasure cracked me open like a safe. I came hard, clenching around them both, my cry muffled against Damian’s shoulder, the fire’s heat nothing compared to the burn inside.

He followed, pulsing deep, growling Seraphina’s name like a prayer and a curse. She wasn’t finished—tongue on me again, licking me clean, shuddering through her own release as Damian’s fingers worked her from behind, her moans vibrating against my skin. We collapsed in a tangle of sweat and smoke, the fire dying to embers, the city silent beyond the glass.

Seraphina traced a lazy circle on my stomach, her nail grazing just enough to spark. “The real shoot starts tomorrow, Lena,” she purred, lips brushing my collarbone. “Tonight was just the audition.”

Damian’s hand settled on my thigh, heavy, final, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh like a brand. “Don’t fall too hard,” he said, voice rough from release. “The drop is longer from the Hamptons.”

I laughed, breathless, tasting them on my tongue—wine, salt, power. The job had barely started—and I was already theirs.