Chambers of Desire: Opus 1 by Sophie Moreau Read Free Book Online Page B

thud, thud. My heartbeat matched my footsteps, loud and ominous. Calvin stopped suddenly in front of a large oak door. From his pocket, he pulled out a large key ring, like the one I had seen Mr. Du Cheval produce yesterday. Unlocking the door, he stepped aside, allowing me to enter first. What’s with the keys? I thought again, certain that the secrets behind the doors of his house were far more perilous than those in his office.
    To my surprise, we didn’t enter a bedroom, but a large office. The room was light and airy, big paned windows lining the far side of the room, displaying an expansive green garden outside. Bookshelves lined the remaining walls, and an antique desk sat in the right corner. An oversized leather armchair faced a matching sofa, both a warm coffee color.  
    I stood in the middle of the room surveying the space. Should I sit in the chair? On the couch? Was this where I’d finally experience the entrance into womanhood? It wasn’t very private, I decided. What if there were gardeners working in the yard? They’d be able to see right in!
    “Take a seat on the couch,” Calvin said, deciding for me. He closed the door behind him, and I heard the bolt click into place, locking us in.
    I obeyed, sitting carefully against the arm of the sofa, feeling the warm leather beneath me. My eyes remained in my lap, wondering if he’d join me, the heat of his body filling the space next to me.
    “Sabrina,” he said, demanding the same attention I’d given him in the lobby. I looked up and saw him already seated across from me in the armchair, right ankle resting on his left thigh, hands folded in front of him.
    “Mr. Chambers,” I answered, shifting in my seat.
    “Calvin,” he answered. “You’ll call me Calvin. Either that or Master.”
    “Master?”
    His serious expression had softened, and I saw the same beginning of a smile dance on his lips. It felt strangely like a psychiatrist’s office, me on the couch, Calvin watching me expectantly. I was no stranger to this setup, having been forced into therapy when my mom discovered some of my embarrassing issues with clothes. Dr. Shelton Bouvier, a middle-aged psychoanalyst specializing in teenage angst, would sit across from me, just like this, waiting for me to speak. “This is a safe place,” he’d say, but I knew that every Thursday, he called the house to discuss our sessions with my mother. She paid extra for that.
    “You met Du Cheval yesterday,” Calvin began in that low and throaty voice. He hadn’t asked a question, but I knew he expected an answer.
    “Yes,” I said, “He was… nice.” It was a lie, but it seemed the right thing to say.
    Calvin’s mouth twitched in amusement, “Nice? A polite thing to say, but far from true. I apologize if he was a little blunt with you. But he’s thorough, loyal, trustworthy, especially when it comes to secrets. I think your opinion of him might change as we spend time together.”
    Secrets? I wondered.
    “How long has he worked for you?” I asked. So far, the two men couldn’t be more different, and I wondered how they got along.
    “Six years,” he answered. “I’ve never been disappointed. He told me you’re a dancer,” Calvin continued huskily.
    I smiled, glad to speak about a topic that wouldn’t send blood rushing to my face. “Yes. I’ve danced since I was se ven. Modern dance. I’m studying it at SMU, but I also teach dance to little girls on the weekends at a private studio.”
    “It’s your passion,” he commented, dark eyes on mine. There was no trace of the mocking I’d seen in Du Cheval’s eyes the day before when we discussed the subject.
    ”Yes,” I said.  “It is.  Dance offers a challenge, physically, emotionally, mentally.  It’s demanding, but the rewards are enormous.”
    He smiled a genuine smile, not that half-smirk I’d seen in the photo, and my heart skipped another beat. “I actually am a b it of a dance fan myself. I have season tickets to the