Dominik Falcieri || The Velvet Sins

The argument hadn’t started tonight.

It had been building slowly, quietly, like something neither of you had fully acknowledged yet, but both of you kept circling anyway.

At first, you had just been another dancer in his club, someone who knew how to hold attention without trying, someone who didn’t look at him like he was untouchable, like everyone else did.

That alone had been enough to make Dominik notice.

What he hadn’t expected was how quickly that attention turned into something else.

Private conversations after closing hours, lingering glances that lasted a second too long, the way you stopped feeling like part of the club and started feeling like something separate from it, something closer, something he couldn’t quite define but didn’t want to push away either.

And then one night, almost too casually, he had told you that you didn’t need to dance there anymore, that he would take care of it, of you, and at the time it hadn’t felt like control.

It had felt like something softer.

Something easier.

Staying over had turned into living there, and living there had turned into something undefined, too close to be casual, too complicated to be anything simple.

And Dominik, who built his entire life on control, on knowing exactly where every line was drawn, had lost track of this one.

The fight itself had been small.

At least in the beginning.

A shift in tone, a comment that landed slightly wrong, something that should have passed like everything else usually did.

But it didn’t.

And for once, his charm didn’t smooth it over.

Instead, it slipped.

And he said it.

Cold. Precise. Meant to hurt.

“If you miss it so much, go back to the stage, I’m sure they’d take you right back.”

⸻

After that, he left.

Not because it didn’t matter, but because staying would have meant admitting that it did.

So he went where control still belonged to him.

The club.

Hours passed in a blur of music, lights, and people who wanted things from him, people he could read, handle, dismiss, all of it easy, all of it familiar. He moved through it like he always did, composed, untouchable, every glance measured, every word placed exactly where it needed to be.

But none of it stayed.

Because no matter how loud the room got, no matter how many distractions he surrounded himself with, it kept coming back.

To you.

To what he said.

To the way it had landed.

By the time he returned to the penthouse, the silence felt heavier than the noise ever had.

He stepped inside without turning on the lights, loosening his tie slowly, his movements deliberate like he was trying to give himself time to settle back into control before facing what was waiting for him.

But the control didn’t sit right.

Not this time.

“You’re still here,” he said after a moment, his voice lower than usual, quieter, but not distant in the way it normally was.

When he finally looked at you, he didn’t look away.

Not immediately.

Like he usually would when something felt too close.

There was a pause before he spoke again, longer than he would have allowed in any other situation.

“You know that wasn’t true.”

The words came slower this time, like he actually had to think about them before letting them out, like they didn’t belong to the version of him that spoke without hesitation.

His jaw tightened slightly before he continued, his gaze dropping for a brief moment before returning to yours.

“I don’t want you anywhere near that stage.”

Another pause followed, but this one carried more weight, more meaning, like he wasn’t finished, like something else was pressing just beneath the surface.

“It was never about that,” he added more quietly, his voice losing some of its sharpness, something more honest slipping through instead.

“I didn’t tell you to stop because I thought you couldn’t do it, or because I wanted to take something from you.”

A breath.

Slower now.

Measured.

“I told you to stop because I didn’t like the way people looked at you.”

That was closer.

Closer to the truth than he usually allowed.

His eyes stayed on you, steady, searching, like he was trying to see how much of that landed, how much of it mattered.

“And I didn’t like that I cared,” he admitted, softer now, almost like it wasn’t meant to be said out loud.

The room felt smaller after that.

Quieter.

And then he moved.

Closing the distance between you in a few steady steps until there was barely any space left, until the tension between you had nowhere else to go.

His gaze dropped briefly, then lifted again, heavier now, more deliberate.

And then, without breaking eye contact, without saying another word to prepare it, he lowered himself down.

Slowly.

Intentionally.

Until he was on his knees in front of you.

The movement was controlled, just like everything else about him, but this wasn’t the same kind of control he held everywhere else.

This was something given.

His hands rested loosely at his sides, his shoulders still straight, his presence still unmistakable even like this, but there was no distance left in his expression now, nothing to hide behind.

“Go on,” he said quietly, his voice lower, rougher, no longer carrying that effortless authority it usually did.

His gaze flicked to your hands, just for a second, before returning to your eyes, slower this time, more aware.

“You want to make a point,” he continued, his tone softer, but heavier, like each word was placed with more intention now.

“Then don’t hold back.”

A breath left him, steady but deeper than before, his attention never leaving you, not even for a second.

“Slap me.”

The words weren’t sharp.

They weren’t commanding.

They were something else entirely.

“Take it out on something that actually matters, scratch the paint on my car again if that’s what you need, ruin something expensive, make it even.”

Another pause followed, longer this time, stretching just enough to let everything settle, to let the weight of it build.

And when he spoke again, his voice dropped even lower, quieter, but heavier with meaning.

“Or...”

His gaze shifted again, slower now, more deliberate, lingering on your hands before lifting back to your eyes.

“Wrap your hands around my throat.”

He didn’t rush the words.

Didn’t push them.

He let them sit there, between you, heavy and intentional.

His breathing shifted slightly, not unsteady, but deeper, more aware of the space between you, of the way the moment had changed.

“Show me,” he added softly, almost under his breath.

“...how upset you are.”

Earlier in this office, you had gone beyond a kiss. The quiet, stolen minutes had been intense, tangled, private—hands exploring, breaths uneven, touches lingering longer than either of you expected. He had pulled back at the last moment, murmuring about a deal he had to handle downstairs. He had assumed you would leave afterward. He had not expected you to stay.

The club had finally quieted down. Not completely—there was still a faint echo of music, the distant hum of staff, the soft clinking of glasses somewhere far below—but compared to the chaos earlier, it felt almost peaceful.

The office door was slightly open when he returned. His suit jacket was off, sleeves rolled, the strict authority he carried all night softened into something warmer, more human. A faint crease in his shirt hinted at the earlier heat between you, and the subtle scent of him—alcohol, expensive cologne, and something uniquely him—still lingered in the air, wrapping around you like a private memory.

He looked at you, and for the first time tonight, he didn’t have to hide the way he felt.

“You’re still here,” he said quietly, voice lower than usual, teasing but softer, more intimate than any public charm he ever wore.

He loosened the top buttons of his shirt as he stepped closer, moving with unhurried precision, like he had nowhere else to be, like he already knew you weren’t going anywhere. His gaze flicked briefly to your hair, the faint smudge of makeup disturbed from earlier, and something softer tugged at his expression.

“You made this habit,” he murmured, glancing at you before reaching for a glass on the table, pouring himself a drink without asking if you wanted one. Not because he assumed. Because he knew.

He took a slow sip, shoulders relaxing just slightly, the tension of the club and deals slipping away. Then he looked at you again, longer this time, gaze softer, warmer, lingering over the subtle signs of your earlier intimacy—the way your hair fell, the faint flush of your skin, the quiet vulnerability you didn’t usually show.

“You know,” he said, voice dropping to a low murmur, “people would kill for half the attention you don’t even try to get from me.”

He stepped closer, stopping just in front of you. His gaze dropped briefly before lifting back to yours, calm and intimate, not commanding.

“You don’t ask for anything,” he said, almost to himself, “and somehow... you still end up right here.”

He paused, then reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. His touch lingered, gentle, uncharacteristically soft, honest.

“Careful,” he murmured, faint smile tugging at his lips, softer than the usual edge. “You’re going to make me think you actually like being around me.”

His hand didn’t fall immediately. Fingers rested lightly against your cheek, sliding down slowly, deliberately. And for once, he didn’t pull away first.

He leaned back slightly against the desk, close enough that the space between you was almost nothing. His gaze lingered, tracing the subtle remnants of what had just happened—clothes slightly rumpled from the earlier heat, the faint scent of your skin mixed with his own cologne still in the air, the faint sheen of sweat on your collarbone, the way your hair had fallen in soft disarray, and the quiet tension in your posture that hadn’t fully eased. Each detail marked the private intimacy you had shared, and it made the moment feel heavier, more charged, more yours and his alone.

“Stay a little longer,” he whispered, voice low and soft. Not a request, not a command. Just something honest.

“For once, the noises in my head... they stop”