Chapter 4
Lucia
Idon’t know how I didn’t figure out the puzzle sooner. Camille’s dad is impossible to miss, even in the gloom. His suit is immaculate and tailored to show he’s used to being noticed, and his presence exudes superiority.
I should have realized it was him. Butterflies took flight in my stomach the moment I stepped onstage. I don’t get nervous before going onstage. I strip to live, and there’s no shame in admitting that. But tonight, I was genuinely anxious.
After slumping back in his chair and folding his hands in his lap, he fixes his eyes on me. The way he watches—his gaze soul-searing and unblinking—is like he’s waiting for me to reveal a big secret.
Since my secrets are too terrible to share, I keep this as professional as possible. “Requests cost extra.”
With a smirk that melts my insides, he pulls his wallet from his back pocket and places three hundred-dollar bills on the table to his left, his reach not as overextended as expected.
Given how much he paid, I expect his request to be more demoralizing than it is. I’ve seen strippers offer extra services for a hundred-dollar bill, so his demand is extremely tame. “You can keep your clothes…ifyou remove your wig.”
I hesitate. Here, my wigs keep my private and public lives separate. Furthermore, it’s been a week since we last interacted. For all I know, he might have already forgotten what I look like, so if I can stay anonymous, I want to hoard the chance.
He strips my invisibility cloak with three quick sentences. “Come on,Cici.” He spits out my stripper name, announcing he knows it’s an alias. “You gave me a fake nameandnumber, and I still tracked you down. That’s gotta be worth something, doesn’t it?”
When I remain quiet, soundlessly praying for the timer in the manager’s office to go off five minutes early, he tries a different approach. “Unless you’d rather discuss this over dinner?”
I don’t have time for attachments, but even if I did, canceling this routine mid-show would entitle him to a full refund. I can’t let that happen. The club has been dead all week, and I’ve already decided how to spend the money from this routine.
With shaky hands, I remove the pins from the wavy wig. I usually pick wigs to match the club I’m dancing at. Chocolate brown felt right for Sicilian turf.
Once my blonde hair hangs freely down my shoulders, I force myself to follow the routine I’ve done a hundred times. I know this performance better than the back of my hand, and I won’t letanythingdeter me from performing it.
Not even him.
The music feels too personal for the two of us, but I sway in time with it while tracing arcs in the air with my arms. My show is the same seductive routine I always perform, but tonight it feels different. The crowd’s energy isn’t there, and there’s no noise to drown out my unexpected nerves.
It’s just me, the music, and him.
Even though I focus on my steps and how the sequin fringe of my metallic bikini top shimmers with every twirl, his needy gaze on meprickles my skin with desire. I’m used to being admired, but not like this. It feels like more than a wish for a one-night stand. It’s blazing hot.
In minutes, a fine mist of sweat coats my skin, and my bikini bottoms become damp. Needing to hide their wetness, I prance off the stage and move intimately close to the man still only known as Camille’s father.
After standing behind him so the tufts of his dark hair tickle my breasts, I drag my nails over his chest and stomach. I seldom touch patrons, but the charged atmosphere tonight compels me to act recklessly.
The change-up hides my soaked panties from his view. It doesn’t help relieve the pressure building low in my core. His pecs are firm under my hand, and his abs are stacked.
The more I drag my hands over them, the hotter I become. I’m burning up all over and confident only a little bit of friction will send me free-falling into ecstasy.
Needing to save this wreck before it crashes, I try to yank my hands away. Camille’s dad snatches up my wrists before I can. He doesn’t move my hands toward the bulge in his pants. Instead, he keeps them close to the dress shirt now clinging to his skin and then flares his nostrils.
His growl expresses approval of the scent wafting from me, but denial is the game I’ve been playing for over twenty years.
“Touching is extra.”
His smile.Kill. Me. Now.It’s reflected in the mirrored walls and intoxicates my senses.
Then, teasingly slow, he digs another handful of notes out of his wallet and places them on the bonus three hundred I’ve already earned. There’s easily a thousand on the table now.
“Enough?”
Shock—or is it displeasure?—flashes in his eyes when I lift my chin. I won’t give him the full works for a mere thousand, but I’m okay with the occasional touch and maybe a stroke or two.
Who wouldn’t be? He is outrageously gorgeous, and his body is divine.