Pointe Noire (The Noire House Book 1)

by Lacie Thorne

  “Come on, I’ll get you one of those treats you like so much.”

  With Blue on my heels, I flicked on the kitchen light and grabbed the container of dog treats. While he chomped away on the small morsel, I palmed my phone, calling Ian as I found a tumbler and added bourbon. I knew he had questions about Emily, but I wasn’t sure how I’d be able to answer them.

  Emily.

  Fuck, she’d bewitched me.

  “So, you’re not dead after all.”

  I grunted at the jab, taking the glass of bourbon with me as Blue and I headed for the living room. At least the first floor was close to complete and furniture had started to arrive, though still covered in thick layers of plastic. A rustling creak echoed through the room as I sat on the sofa, Blue taking a spot on the floor and resting his head on my thigh.

  “I needed to get back before Blue could dig his way out of the yard.”

  Ian snorted in disbelief, recognizing the lie. “You talk with your little fawn?”

  “I told you to stop calling her that,” I growled through the phone, and Blue pricked his ears at my tone. With my free hand, I reached out and stroked his head. “And she’s not mine. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  A tired sigh echoed through the phone, followed by a pause. “Sam—look, just keep an eye on her at the mixer. Promise me you’ll guide her through the process. Even if that means she picks you.”

  I frowned, wondering why my brother had changed his mind. I suspected Rebecca had something to do with it, but another thought tugged at my brain. “Did you monitor the feed?”

  The Noire House had security cameras installed in all—well, most—of the rooms. No audio, but the visual feeds were monitored during the blind dates, the cameras set up in night mode to capture the images. Privacy may have been high on Ian’s priorities, but safety was the utmost concern when people were meeting in a darkened room.

  The silence from my brother told me the truth even before he confessed. “Yes. Rebecca watched and told me what happened. I wanted to know how the fawn reacted to you, her true response.”

  “Stop with the fawn thing.”

  “Well, what else do you want me to call her?”

  “Emily.” I somehow managed to hold back the groan that threatened to bubble up from my throat, my brain replaying her voice as she told me. “Her name is Emily, which of course you already know.”

  Another beat of silence followed. “Okay. Emily it is.”

  When Ian didn’t say anything else, I had to ask the question that was burning my throat. “I assume Becks told you I kissed her.”

  “Of course she did.” Ian’s next sigh sounded tired, and I glanced at the clock hanging on the freshly painted wall, noting it was nearing two in the morning. “However, she also told me how Emily responded and that was enough for me not to berate you about it. My wife insists Emily is rather taken with you, so you have her to thank for my change of heart.”

  I made a mental note to speak to Becks the next time I was at The Noire House, suddenly eager to find out what she’d seen. Ian’s wife had a knack for reading people, an innate gift that came in handy when dealing with members and guests alike. The couple worked well as a team. A true partnership.

  “I, on the other hand, still have my doubts,” Ian said, drawing my attention back to the conversation at hand. “My advice is to try not to push her, okay? At least until you’ve given her a chance to test the waters with other Doms.”

  “Excuse me, but aren’t I the older brother? I should be giving you the advice.” It was more like a command, but at least he realized I wouldn’t take kindly to an instruction.

  Ian snorted in amusement. “I may be four years younger, but right now, I suggest you follow my advice, Sam.”

  Chapter Five

  Emily

  I spent the rest of the week in somewhat of a daze, dancing the long hours of the day and then dreaming of SR—no, Sam. The memory of his lips on mine still made me lightheaded even now, days later. I hadn’t told Garret all the details of my meeting with Sam, instead giving him a brief explanation and leaving out the stolen kiss.

  He’d fumed at me for leaving such a vital piece of information out of my initial form. Of course, he wasn’t surprised about my virgin status even though I’d never said the words out loud to him. Somehow he’d known, and I was thankful he didn’t make a big fuss about it, only raging over the fact I hadn’t told The Noire House.

  “How do you expect them to find the right Dom for you if they don’t have the correct information?” he’d grunted at me.

  I understood what he was saying, but writing virgin on a form intended to be used to find my sexual partner seemed—well, weird. This excuse did not sit well with Garret, but it was the only one I had.

  “You are attending the masquerade mixer tonight, right?” I asked seated across from him as we ate lunch.

  Garret shook his head and chewed the mouthful of meat and bread from his po-boy. “I’m sitting this one out.”

  My eyes widened. “But I—I thought you’d be there. You know, to guide me.”

  He sighed and wiped his mouth on a paper napkin. “You’ll be fine on your own. In fact, I think it would be better. If I was there, it might keep you from mingling.” He finally glanced up and gave me a wicked smirk, his eyes blazing like blue fire. “Besides, I might scare away your prospective partners.”

  I laughed, but the disappointment lingered. “Well, the guy I told you about said he’d help me find someone, so I suppose you’re not really needed.”

  “The pussy?” Garret asked.

  I glared in response. “I told you not to call him that, but yes.”

  “I thought you liked him?”

  I breathed out a slow breath, toying with the dregs of my salad. “I do—I mean, I did.”

  “But?”

  “I can’t seem to find a guy I like who shares the same kinks.”

  A tension-filled silence weighed between us. I hadn’t meant for it to sound that way, but it was done, said, and couldn’t be taken back. Garret and I both had a habit of skirting around the topic, taking turns to cross the line once in a while. Lately, it had been more often than was appropriate and part of the reason I’d agreed to visit The Noire House.

  Perhaps our relationship wasn’t as healthy as I liked to think.

  And maybe he’d realized it already and that was why he’d suggested The Noire House in the first place.

  “Are you sure this is still what you want, Emmy?” Garret asked, his voice soft and gentle, the half-eaten sandwich forgotten. “Say the word, and I’ll pull you from the guest list.”

  His eyes pierced me, so serious I could do nothing but stare at him. “Say the word, and I’ll take you home. My home, Em. My bed. We joke about it, but we could give it a real try. Maybe we’re not as different as we thought. We could make it work. Life’s all about compromise.”

  Moisture gathered in my eyes. I was turning into my mother, always in tears over every little thing. I was tempted to say yes, take Garret up on the offer. We’d been friends for so long I knew him like I knew myself. Better even. And I loved him more than I ever thought I could love another person. But—

  “We don’t fit, Garret.” The words ghosted from my lips, softer than a whisper, yet carrying far more weight.

  He stared at me for a long minute, a million unspoken words travelling between us. As much as I wanted to say yes, we both knew we’d only end up making each other miserable. We might be able to compromise for a time, but it wouldn’t last. I valued his friendship too much to risk it ending badly and losing him all together.

  Finally, he sighed and nodded. “Call me when you get home tonight. I know those things tend to run late, but I don’t care what time it is, I want to know you’re okay. Promise me.”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “Promise.”

  He smiled, but the creases around his eyes gave away his lingering concerns. “And, Em? Try to have fun.”

  ***

 
I’d left Garret several hours ago, but I still felt uneasy about how lunch had ended. Or maybe it was nerves about the coming night and knowing I’d see SR—Sam, again. Likely it was a combination of the two. Plus, it had been a long week of rehearsals and shows. The gala was coming up soon, and I felt unusually ill-prepared for the opening night.

  I tried to push all these thoughts aside and focus on getting ready. As a dancer, I suspected I spent more time than the average woman getting in and out of clothes and make-up. Tonight, I’d chosen my outfit as though it was a costume, a complimentary piece to go with the mask.

  The dress was unbelievably gorgeous—another gift from my dear Garret. I touched the deep burgundy appliqué lace, carefully woven into soft black fabric. It draped the bodice before curling up to form a sort of high collar. The symbolism hadn’t been lost on me when Garret presented me with the gift, nor would it go unnoticed tonight.

  I kept my hair simple, braiding the dark brown strands into a style that left it up off my neck. It was a fancier version of my everyday-ballet-bun, but it felt natural, and tonight I needed the familiar tension on my scalp. My make-up was a far cry from the way I plastered it each night for the stage, instead applying just enough to create a smoky eye behind the mask.

  A pair of strappy, black high heels completed the look, while also bumping up my petite frame. They didn’t quite make me as tall as I could be when en pointe, but it was close—as close as I dared without risking a broken ankle.

  The drive to The Noire House took forever, my mind churning over everything that had happened in the few short days since my first visit.

  I parked in the driveway, my gaze scanning all the very expensive cars, and took a fortifying breath. To distract my own stupid jitters, I checked my make-up and hair before slipping the Venetian mask in place. As instructed, it covered the majority of my face, concealing my identity, apart from my eyes.

  It was stunning, a piece of art that matched my dress in swashes of black and deep red hand-painted over a white base. The gold filigree detailing was so fine, I marveled at how someone could paint it to such perfection. My favorite parts were the dangly chains which hung from the edge of the mask like thin, delicate earrings.

  I sighed, feeling as though I was about to walk on stage for the first time in my life. But this was a very different type of dance, and I didn’t know all the steps. At least not yet. I hoped Sam would teach me. The thought of him pulled me from my car and had me climbing the stairs to The Noire House.

  Mitchell greeted me at the door. “Initials please,” he said.

  I smiled behind my mask. “EC.” I leaned in closer to him. “But I may have mentioned something about LA during my first night.”

  He grinned and nodded. “Don’t worry, Miss Charles,” he whispered. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

  Mitchell led me to a table in the entrance hall where I noticed a variety of fancy looking name tags. He wrote my fake initials in beautiful, almost calligraphy-like script, before turning back to me. “Your wrist, please, Miss LA.”

  I smirked as I held out my left wrist. “Multi-talented, I see.”

  Mitchell laughed as he tied the fancy little tag around my wrist using a black satin ribbon. “One tries.”

  My laughter joined his just as another woman stepped up behind me. Mitchell shifted his focus to her, gesturing for me to move further into the house. My heels echoed against the hardwood as I followed the sound of music and talking. Part of me had half expected the rowdy New Orleans masquerades that littered the streets during festivals.

  I was wrong.

  The Noire House had been decorated with pure luxury and elegance, the ballroom glowing an amber hue from the various candles. A crystal chandelier graced the center, the dim light glinting and sparkling off the cut glass. A string quartet sat to one side, their haunting melody a backdrop to the conversing guests.

  I stood motionless at the entrance, my nerves taking a tight grip of my muscles. What the hell was I doing here? Meeting someone in the dark had been far easier than this, standing before a room full of strangers. I should leave, go home and get back into my yoga pants and forget any of this ever happened.

  Someone stepped up behind me, radiating heat that had me shrinking into myself with a cringe. As I glanced over my shoulder to see who it was, the stranger reached for the name tag dangling from my wrist.

  “Miss LA,” he said, the Texan accent hinting at who it was even before I noticed the white cowboy hat on his head. “Just the submissive I was hopin’ to see.”

  CT smiled, the simple, beige-colored mask shifting on his cheekbones, only a shade lighter than his skin. What I could see of him confirmed he would be a handsome man, with a defined jaw covered in golden stubble. He dwarfed me with his impossible height and wide shoulders that stretched his brown suede jacket. I couldn’t help the feeling of unease that swept through me as he leaned in to stroke the lace collar at my neck.

  “Mm, even better than I imagined, Miss LA.” His fingers trailed down my bare arm, while a knot formed in my stomach. “Would you like a drink? The bar is through this way, if you’d follow me.”

  I shook my head when he gestured behind us, pointing towards a set of open doors that led into another room. “No. Thank you. I—I’m afraid I’m a bit of a lightweight.”

  I stumbled over my words, anxiety making my voice soft and hesitant, but he seemed to read something else, his hazel eyes lighting up at my discomfort.

  “Well, I’m sure that’s true. You are a tiny bit of a thing.”

  My brows furrowed as he called me a thing. I didn’t like it. Yes, I was petite. Genetics had left me with a short stature and years of dancing had created a slim body and a flat chest. I didn’t mention any of this to CT, choosing to remain silent instead with the hope he would get the message and move on.

  He didn’t.

  “I could get you somethin’ non-alcoholic.”

  While he spoke, his gaze travelled down my meager curves, and I suddenly regretted the open back of my dress. The expanse of bare skin made me feel vulnerable and naked with CT standing so close, his eyes alight with interest. “I’m sorry, I think I made a mistake.”

  My voice was breathy and cracked on the last word. As I moved to exit the house, CT caught my arm, his hand a punishing grip that squeezed too hard.

  “You’re not leavin’ yet, Miss LA.” He bent so his face was an inch from mine, his hand tightening until his fingers dug into my flesh. “It would be rude to go now when you haven’t even stayed for one drink.”

  I was in the midst of thinking up an excuse when hard footsteps echoed behind us.

  “Mr. CT,” said a low voice. “I do believe you were told you and Miss LA are no longer compatible. I suggest you release her before I revoke your membership.”

  A smirk curled at CT’s lips as his hold on me loosened. He glanced over my shoulder and inclined his head. “I thought I’d introduce myself. You know, Southern hospitality.”

  The man behind me grunted. “There are others who would be more suitable.”

  CT gave a curt nod and caught my eyes before he left. I hadn’t been able to look away from him while he stood in front of me, but once he was gone I turned to my rescuer. “Thank—”

  I stopped short, taking in the man in a perfectly tailored black suit. It wasn’t the man so much as his mask that gave me pause. He wore an intricate piece designed to look like aged gold, the detailed patterns in the metal leaving no holes for his eyes. There was no way he could see even an inch in front of him, and I wondered why he’d choose to wear a mask like that.

  Beside him, a woman clutched his arm, her outfit mirroring his. Black fabric fell from a tall, willowy frame, her gold mask covering the top half of her face and adorned with black feathers that mingled with her honey-toned hair. She smiled at me and stepped forward.

  “Rebecca,” she said as she extended a hand. “We spoke on the phone the other day.”

  I smiled, but of course she couldn�
��t see that behind my full-face mask. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you in person.”

  Rebecca placed a hand on the man’s chest, gazing at him with a look of such love and adoration her next words didn’t surprise me. “This is my husband.”

  “Call me Ian, please,” he said, extending his hand in front of him, but not in my direction exactly.

  I glanced at Rebecca before shaking her husband’s hand. His grip was firm but nothing like CT’s painful grasp.

  “I expected you to have a chaperone this evening.” Ian’s voice held a warmth that was somehow familiar. “Instead, I find you being somewhat harassed by one of the oldest members of The Noire House.”

  I shrugged. “Garret said he—”

  “I wasn’t referring to Mr. Lacroix,” he interrupted. “SR assured me he would be here to guide you.”

  “Sam?” I asked with a frown neither of them would be able to see.

  Ian’s head tilted to the side. “He told you his name?”

  My mouth went dry, wondering if I’d just gotten him into trouble. I mumbled unintelligible words, trying to back track and find an excuse. It was useless, of course. The truth was already out in the open, and I couldn’t undo that no matter how hard I tried. “Just his first,” I finally ended.

  “Mm,” Ian hummed in mild frustration. “Well, he can be a bit of a maverick at times. Becks, would you mind asking Mitchell if Sam has arrived yet?”

  Rebecca kissed Ian’s cheek, their masks brushing against each other for a brief moment. “I’ll be right back.”

  With Rebecca gone, Ian held out his arm, a clear invitation for me to slip mine around his. I did so with only the smallest hint of nerves, still uneasy after my run-in with CT. Ian deftly turned and led us through the open doors and into the second room. The bartender smiled and greeted us, speaking so I got the impression he was guiding Ian’s path.

  While Ian ordered three drinks, it dawned on me, perhaps too late, that he was in fact blind. I didn’t ask, of course, but it was the obvious conclusion.