It’s like being locked in a tower. There are no windows in my room, no mirrors. Only a stack of leftover books that I’ve read a hundred times. Nothing dirty, of course. Ivan would never have allowed that when I was sixteen and living under his roof. He never cleared out this room. I suppose he didn’t need the space. Or maybe he always knew I’d end up back here.
At least I have my clothes and things from my apartment. I pick up a lacy thong and eye it critically. So much ribbons and wrappings. I love them. I can’t deny that. I love being a present; I loved being unwrapped. By my own hands, though. The men at the club were not allowed to touch. And Ivan… I never co
nvinced him to unwrap me. Not really.
He didn’t want to.
It settles over me, half decision, half trance. I take off my tank top and jeans and put on the thong.
Immediately I start to feel like myself again—like Candy.
I add layer after layer, swirling myself in silks. A pink bustier striped with black. A frill of short lace instead of a skirt. I put on makeup next, thick strokes of glitter and gloss. I brush my hair until it shines, pinning it away from my face. Long pink gloves that cover my arms, leaving my pale chest and shoulders bare. Thigh-high stockings that flash a bit of skin.
The final step is a pair of black stilettos.
The tiny mirror in my makeup bag barely lets me see my face, much less my body. I make my way downstairs to the main floor, and then to the basement. The gym is down here—weights and treadmills. There’s also a wide-open space with mats for Ivan to practice grappling and fighting with Luca.
And a wall of mirrors on one side. The first glimpse of myself in those mirrors makes my heart skip a beat. I look like a stranger, like someone pretty and confident and sharp. I want to be this woman. Dressing like her doesn’t make it true, but it’s the closest I can come.
And dressing like her does something. Even walking in these shoes changes my gait, my height, the sway of my hips. I feel sexy and powerful, the way I sometimes do onstage. In this basement there is no one to see me, but I still feel sexy and powerful.
Walking is like dancing, when I move slow and sensual. When I cross the floor in long strides, made longer by the four-inch heels. And then I am dancing, swaying my body to music that I can only hear in my head.
I swing myself down low and rise back up, letting my chest lead and my ass flex. I sway and kick and rock my body, with no one to impress. It’s about being sexy, but not about a man. It’s about feeling sexy, alone in the room.
Minutes pass. Hours. I’m covered in a sheen of sweat, breathless, exhilarated.
Dancing like this is almost like being free. Almost like being able to leave this house. Almost.
A throat clears, and I wobble on my shoes, barely catching myself from falling. I whirl, half expecting to see Luca. He’d make fun of me or pull my hair, but it’s not Luca standing behind me. Ivan leans against the brick interior wall.
My mouth goes dry. He isn’t wearing a shirt. The way his arms cross over his chest makes his muscles bulge. And God, those forearms. Blunt strength combined with precision. My gaze takes in the line of pale hair down his taut stomach. Black sweatpants hang low on his hips.
Jesus.
“Were you watching me?” I ask, even though he was. He’s not turning away or looking abashed like another man might. He’s just looking right at me, a bemused expression on his face.
“What was that?” He doesn’t sound accusatory. Just curious.
It takes me a second to realize what he means. “The dancing?”
“It’s different.”
Different than stripping. Different even than Honor’s ballet. A bastardization of both of them—both sexy and elegant, flashy and demure. “It’s burlesque. I’ve been practicing. Do you like it?”
I’ve been thinking we could start doing it at the Grand. It’s more suited to the space anyway. Still sexy. Just a little more…fun.
He is silent a moment. “I need this room.”
He doesn’t like it. My heart drops, but I try not to let it show. Blowing out a breath, I walk over to him, putting every ounce of sexy into my step. It’s strange being with him like this, sweaty and sultry while he is half-naked. Usually he is the one covered up by a suit.
“Maybe I’ll watch you,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “Get some rest.”
My gaze drops to his chest. It’s magnificent…and heartbreaking. Up close I can see the scars again. Old cuts of unknown origin. The burns hurt me the worst. There’s a kind of careless malevolence in them, someone who wanted to make him hurt, who knew no one would ever see or ever care.
My finger touches a scar on his abs, and he tenses. My father left often, for long periods, drinking binges and gambling, shacking up with someone. It was always a relief when he was gone.