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… if you 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 name and number, 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 let anything deter 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 me prickles 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.
Only a fool would give up an opportunity like this.
Shockingly, he releases my wrists before locking his eyes with mine in the mirror. “Dance… with your hands on me.”
My pulse skyrockets when I dip my chin, agreeing with his request. I bob around him, in front of him, and behind him, before the sultry tension I’m trying to suffocate by remembering my responsibilities becomes too much.
Then I dance on top of him.
The landing of the cartwheel I’ve seen Mia do a hundred times confirms what I’ve known for the last ten minutes. He’s as hard as steel against the zipper of his trousers, and I struggle not to unnecessarily grind down.
As the music fades, I try to shift my weight from his groin to his thigh. Like earlier, he clamps my hips and holds me against him.
An unforeseen moan ripples through my O-formed lips when he rocks his hips upward, teasingly rubbing the head of his cock through the folds of my pussy.
Two more grinds and I’ll be done.
That’s how close to the edge I am. He smells so good and looks divine. He’s every stripper’s desired client. But this isn’t me. I left everything I knew because I refused to be a commodity, so why am I allowing someone I hardly know to pull me backward?
“Your time is up.” Disappointment feels heavy in my stomach. “If you want extras, it’s going to cost you.”
This time, I don’t receive crisp hundred-dollar bills.
I get a black American Express card and a four-digit PIN.
Goose bumps rise on my neck when his minty breath fans my lips. “Charge whatever you like. That card has no limit.”
When I glance at the two-way mirror where the manager convenes during private shows, I remember that this is about more than money or a climax I’m sure will be my strongest yet. It’s the means to live without guilt for a month, and a reason to keep going.
But more than anything, it’s about doing something for myself for a change.
It’s been so long since I’ve orgasmed that I’m overwhelmed by the buildup.
Imagine how intense the tingles would be if I surrendered to them?
There’s no conviction in my voice when I say, “We can’t do… that here. We’re being watched.”
“There’s no one behind the two-way mirror.” He smirks, faking that my stunned expression is adorable, then adds, “It’s amazing the privileges money can buy.”
I huff. I know firsthand how easily the rules bend for the right price.
“Still, if someone finds out, I’ll get fired. Liaising with patrons is against the rules.”
“Hence the reason flames aren’t licking the walls of this property yet.” His fingers tap my hip in time with the thudding of my pulse in my ears. He’s either counting my pulse or syncing it with the needy throbs of his cock. “You also won’t get fired.”
I scoff. “You don’t know my boss. He fired a girl last week because her nip was closer to a nip and a half. The week before, it was because one dancer shaved instead of waxing.”
His expression announces he wants to tear Salvator apart with his bare hands, but the involuntary roll of my hips stops him.
My body ignores my head’s screaming commands.
It wants this man—desperately—and it’s willing to throw all protocols out the window to get him. Even if it’s only for one night.
“You don’t need to worry about Salvator or getting fired… though I might need to change your role so I don’t have to gouge the eyes of my patrons every night the instant you leave the stage. It wouldn’t be good for business to reset my clientele logbook to zero each night.”
My eyes dance between his, wide with shock.
That can’t mean what I think it does, can it?
He doesn’t own this club.
Surely not.
When his smirk reveals the details, my mouth drops open. “You’re a father. You can’t own a strip club. Camille—”
“Already thinks the building we’ve been watching for the past week is a ballet studio.”
It’s the wrong time to laugh, but I can’t help it. I thought the same thing when I was a kid. The kicking neon legs outside the first gentleman’s club I visited proved my innocence hadn’t been fully spoiled by the underworld I was raised to infiltrate.
He flexes his cock when my laughter reaches his ears, and it pushes my hesitations aside. I’m too focused on the finish line of a race I haven’t run in a long time to remember my objections.
I want this man, and for some crazy reason, he wants me too.
There’s nothing wrong with two adults enjoying each other’s company, especially when they’re both consenting.
There’s one last hurdle I need to get past first, though. “Why did it take you a week to come in?”
He considers my question before saying matter-of-factly, “Because my decisions don’t just affect me anymore. I need to make sure anything I do is good for Camille, too. She must come first.”
Stick a fork in me. I’m done.
He responded exactly as I hoped.
While grinding down, uncaring that he will feel the wetness of my bikini bottoms, I whisper, “Promise me there’s no one behind there”—I nudge my head to the two-way mirror—“watching us.”
“I promise,” he pledges immediately.