Dirty Secrets (Get Dirty 4)

I think I’m dating Dominick Angeline, head of the Angeline crime family. Mob boss of all of East Robinsville.

How in the fuck did that happen?

How is this my life? I remember falling asleep last night . . . in his lap.

How embarrassing is that?

The hardest part was waking up in bed alone. I’d been oddly disappointed that he wasn’t curled up around me in my small bed, fighting for space with my overabundance of pillows.

I’d even fantasized about what he might look like relaxed and vulnerable, all harshness softened from his features by a peaceful sleep. But over my morning coffee, I consider that he might’ve recognized that I’d need some space this morning to process everything and had left to be nice. Polite. Sweet, even.

I smile. These are not words I think most people would use to describe Dominick Angeline.

Maybe cold, indifferent, ruthless? And while I’m sure they’re true in some sense, they’re definitely a part of his work. You don’t get to be The Boss by being polite and sweet. You get them by being a motherfucker.

But Dom’s not that with me.

Not at all. And after our impromptu dinner and last night, whatever that was, I think we’re . . . something?

Maybe dating isn’t the word, but it’s something more than this distant dance we’ve been doing, where all my attention is drawn to him the instant he enters a room. Where I search the shadows around me, hoping for a glimpse of him in some weird form of ‘gotcha’ like it’s a game he doesn’t know we’re playing. Where he owns me without even truly acknowledging that he wants me.

I pause at that last thought, thinking it through.

That’s not really true.

He may not acknowledge whatever we’ve had with grand gestures, but he’s always had this way of looking at me like I’m his everything.

Until last night, I didn’t realize the depth of emotion behind his protective measures. I didn’t realize just how much of his everything I’ve been. He crossed the line, but still, that level of commitment makes me feel ten feet tall and bulletproof.

I’ve had men caught up in my stage persona beg to worship the ground I walk on, and others in my real life who started out normal but ultimately treated me like shit mentally. They didn’t want the woman inside. They just wanted the package– my face, my tits, my ass. I can definitely put those to good advantage, as evidenced by my job, but it’s left me more than a bit doubtful that any man would care what was underneath the pretty packaging.

But Dom is something else entirely. Dominick took control, unafraid to send lightning through my body, but in every motion, every word, every look, he truly does worship me, but it’s balanced with the way he respects me. The real me, not some image he’s created. He’s actually taken the time to learn about me, albeit in an odd way.

But he sees me in a way no one else ever has. And that is the most powerful aphrodisiac, one that puts me under his spell, hungry for every morsel of his attention. His words. His touch.

He makes me feel beautiful on the inside. And outside of family, that’s not something I’ve had.

With a smile, I scribble on a sticky note, You are beautiful . . . on the inside. I slap it on the floor-to-ceiling mirror in front of me, adding it to the mix of choreo notes and self-affirmations already in place there.

I continue practicing the routine I’ve created for this week’s Diva Dance class. That’s what I’ve decided to call my non-pole studio class, figuring that every woman wants to tap into her inner Sasha Fierce-slash-Beyoncé for a seductive performance now and again.

With a swish of my hips, I trace my curves, following the movements in the reflection, but the disarray of pillows on the couch behind me catches my eye, and I turn in place, my chest rising and falling as my heart continues to hammer in my chest.

Usually, having a dance space in my apartment is a good thing, even if it is my teeny-tiny dining room that’s been converted with a full wall of mirrors and a ballet barre. The carpet’s been covered with plywood and laminate until it’s as smooth as a stage.

Yeah, I’m never getting the security deposit back, but it’d been a small price to pay for the comfort and release a 24/7 dance space allows.

Usually, I can tune everything else out when I practice, not seeing the dishes in the sink or the floor that needs to be vacuumed. But the disarrayed pillows draw me in like a moth to a flame, a visible reminder of what happened last night.

And specifically, what didn’t happen.

After that spanking, I guess I’d expected him to press for more. Fuck, I wanted him to press me. I wanted him to tug my panties the rest of the way to the side, to mark me inside as well as out.