Title: Velvet Protocol
Subtitle: Secrets that Bind
Forward
This novel is a seductive descent into a world where truth is wrapped in silk, and power is measured by how deeply one can surrender. It follows a woman so hypnotic that both enemies and lovers fall at her feet--but in this world, love can be weaponized, and submission can rewrite the fate of nations.
Reader discretion is advised. This story contains graphic themes of bondage, psychological manipulation, and erotic suspense. All characters are fictional and over 18.
Character Sheet
Name: Alina Kael
Age: 28
Height: 5'9"
Measurements: 32C-28-34
Build: Tall, slim, graceful thigh gap, soft round buttocks
Breasts: Medium-firm, with proud, sensitive nipples
Hair: Deep auburn, long, often tied in a sleek knot or loose waves
Eyes: Large, grey-green, framed in thick lashes
Mouth: Naturally pouty, full, with a teasing curve
Style: Always sensually dressed--tailored high-waist pants, silk blouses that drape over her form, lace bralettes visible beneath sheer fabrics
Personality: Calculated but soft-spoken, her stillness masks a storm. She draws people in with the innocence of her face--and holds them with the precision of her gaze.
Ex-Girlfriend: Sierra Lorne -- Cyber-intelligence officer, dominant, cold, but still carries a flame
Current Lover: James Velin -- Defense policy advisor, charming, submissive tendencies
Antagonist (Ex-Boss): Major Lena Croix -- Ruthless director of covert AI ops; once kissed Alina after a drunken briefing... and never forgot
Chapter One -- The Body Remembers
The hem of her blouse fluttered like a secret over her hips as Alina Kael stepped out of the elevator--floor 39, restricted access--her heels striking the marbled corridor like a metronome made of silk and steel. She moved like a ghost wrapped in temptation, the kind of presence that turned heads without trying.
Not because she flaunted it.
But because she didn't have to.
The white silk blouse she wore clung to her body with deliberate elegance, the top three buttons left undone--an invitation with no RSVP. Her collarbone caught the light. Beneath the silk, the faintest glimpse of lace peeked through--charcoal gray, embroidered in patterns sharp as petals. It framed the soft inner curve of her breasts like architecture, like a trap crafted to seduce the air itself.
The fabric shifted slightly as she walked, brushing over her nipples--already firm, already rising beneath the lace. Alina didn't flinch. She never adjusted. The awareness of her body was a weapon she had long since mastered.
Her trousers were high-waisted, midnight black, tailored to perfection. Cigarette-slim, they followed the length of her legs like breath. Every step revealed the elegant tension between her thighs--the subtle, suggestive gap that always drew eyes, no matter how disciplined the audience.
The air-conditioning raised goosebumps along her arms, and between her breasts a single drop of sweat slid down, caught by lace before disappearing. She passed two armed guards without a glance. One of them shifted slightly, his posture faltering for just a moment, as if trying to remember how to breathe.
She didn't smile.
She knew the effect.
She cultivated it carefully.
The Department of Military Technologies
The Department of Military Technologies was a monolith of power--glass, steel, and surveillance. It had no curves, no warmth. Which was exactly why Alina had learned to move like living contrast.
Her ID badge dangled from her belt, not her neck. Her lips bore a hint of coral gloss--enough to notice, not enough to question. Her long auburn hair was twisted into a controlled bun at the base of her neck, a few strands loose by design.
She reached the executive command wing.
The glass doors whispered open.
And then a voice she hadn't heard in two years slid down her spine.
"Well, well. The body arrives before the file."
Alina stilled mid-step.
That voice--low, clean, dry as sin--sliced through the sterile air like silk drawn over a blade.
She didn't need to turn. Her skin already knew.
Sierra Lorne.
The name curled through her memory like smoke.
When she finally pivoted, it was with the slow grace of a woman who already knew she'd won, even if the prize was poisonous.
Sierra stood leaning against the wall, dressed in matte black--tailored suit hugging her lean frame, crisp shirt unbuttoned just enough to draw the eye. Her hair was shorter than Alina remembered, now a sleek asymmetrical crop that sharpened every angle of her face.
But it was the scar that made her breath catch.
A thin, elegant slash from the corner of her jaw to just beneath her ear. Not disfiguring. Not loud. Just... sexy. A mark that said I survived something you wouldn't understand.
"I didn't know you were reassigned," Alina said, voice a satin whisper.
"I wasn't," Sierra replied. "I was summoned." She pushed off the wall and walked forward--heels silent, energy unmistakable. "Audit on your AI integrity report."
A pause.
"Didn't think I'd be reviewing you again."
Her tone was neutral. Her eyes weren't.
Their gazes collided, and for a breathless second the corridor ceased to exist. Alina didn't blink. Wouldn't give Sierra the satisfaction. But her body--traitorous, trained, aware--tightened low in her abdomen.
Not fear.
Not shame.
Something much more dangerous.
Memory.
Because the last time they had seen each other, Sierra had been the one stripped of command--literally.
Naked. Kneeling.
A collar between Alina's fingers.
Teeth sunk gently, reverently, into the flesh of Alina's thigh.
She remembered the heat of Sierra's breath. The press of lips where protocol said there should only be silence.
And now?
Now Sierra stood tall, dangerous, and summoned.
And Alina?
Alina was the one under review.
She let her lips curve into something between a smirk and a sneer. "Let me guess. You're not here to talk about source code."
Sierra's gaze flicked to the hollow of her throat, then down--lingering on the part in her blouse, the sheer lace peeking beneath.
"No," she said. "Just here to see if you still break the rules as beautifully as you used to."
Then, with a blink, the moment was over.
Sierra turned, walking toward the briefing chamber without another word.
But Alina's breath stayed caught in her throat.
Because the power hadn't shifted.
It had evolved.
And maybe--just maybe--it still belonged to both of them.
Setting: Dim overhead lighting, a long black-glass table surrounded by touchscreen consoles, temperature set a few degrees too cool. Perfect for showing goosebumps. Perfect for discomfort. Perfect for control.
The door hissed closed behind them, silencing the outside world.
Alina moved first, deliberately slow, walking the line between poise and provocation. Her stilettos clicked across the floor, the subtle sway of her hips unmissable in the narrow cut of her trousers. The cool air made the lace of her bralette press taut against her skin--her nipples stood out sharply beneath the thin silk of her blouse.
She didn't adjust.
Didn't hide.
She was the show, and the room had always been her theatre.
Sierra followed, her steps soundless, her gaze like a brand on Alina's back. She didn't sit. Instead, she leaned one hip against the table, arms folded--watching.
"Still wear lace," she murmured. Not a question.
