Chapter 21CANDI

Chapter 21

CANDI

Does it bother me that the man who is about to become my lover clearly has at least a touch of OCD?

"No," I reply honestly. "Everything at home has a designated place when it's not in use."

We don't fold our dirty clothes, but the one-bedroom apartment is pretty small for three people. Mom's bedroom used to be the dining nook connected to the kitchen. It's only cordoned off with a curtain, which makes things easier when she needs more help getting in and out of bed.

So, the need to keep a path clear for her wheelchair isn't the only reason we keep stuff put away. If we didn't, none of us would have the room to move around.

Angelo's hands fist and unfist at his sides, fascinating me.

It's only the second time I've seen them without the black gloves, and the first was a matter of hours ago.

With his propensity for covering them, I would expect Angelo's hands to be pale. But they aren't. He has the swarthy complexion a lot of people identify with Sicilians. Only, just like the rest of Italy and Europe, Sicilians run the gamut from pale as marble to looking like they have a perpetual tan.

Like Angelo.

My skin prickles with the need to be touched by those hands.

"The way you're looking at me is not helping my self-control," he grits out and shoves his black knit boxers down his legs.

My breath catches as his large, veiny cock springs upward to curve toward his stomach.

I may not have had sex before, but I've seen enough blowjobs given in the public areas of the club to know he's bigger than average and the level of rigidness is not normal.

"Are you always that turned on when I dance?" I can't help asking.

"Sometimes."

"Why not all the time?" pops out before I have a chance to stop it.

"Some nights you look tired, and I want you to be able to go home and rest, but I know you won't."

Even though I'm almost naked and undulating on a pole, seeing me work when I'm tired does not turn him on. That should not hit me as hard in the feels as it does.

He squeezes the base of his hardon in what looks like a painful grip. "If you keep looking at me like that, we are never going to make it into the shower."

"You keep saying that like it's a threat. You're the one who wants a shower so bad." But not without reason, I have to admit.

I'm crusted in dried sweat from all of the running and stress adrenaline.

The fact a guy like him is struggling so hard to keep his hands off me in this condition does more for my libido than a hundred punters chanting, "Take it off!"

He takes a step toward me, but stops, an inner war reflected in his stormy gray eyes. "I want to wash your hair."

I only have to glance at myself in the mirror that covers the entire wall behind the vanity to know why.

With a wry grimace, I put my hands up self-consciously to touch the matted tangles of my hair. "I'm nobody's fantasy right now."

I really should wash it and at least try to get the tangles out. If I don't, mom will insist on using her homemade recipe for detangler and I'll end up smelling like apple cider vinegar.

Besides, there was blood on my face when I got here. Angelo cleaned it off, but I'll feel better after washing my face, brushing my teeth and gargling with antiseptic mouthwash. Something I'm sure he keeps on hand.

"You are always my fantasy." He runs his hand up and down his erection. "Isn't that obvious?"

Swallowing to bring moisture to my suddenly dry throat, I nod.

Precum forms pearlescent beads on the tip of his erection and he spreads it over the hard column. "I want to wash every inch of your beautiful skin so I can lick it after."

A shudder works its way from the bottom of my feet up to the top of my head. "Sounds like fun."

"I think so too." He prowls another step nearer bringing the earthy scent of his body and arousal with him. "First my hands will get the privilege of touching you and then my tongue will get to taste you."

I'm 100% behind that plan. "I can't decide if I should make sure I'm freshly showered the next time we do this, or not, because both the touching and the tasting sound amazing."

Because no way is this a one off. I may not be able to wrap my head around what he thinks this is, but the feelings I have for him are too big to be satisfied with a single night, or day as the case may be, in his bed.

If only it were just the sex, that would be easier to figure out, but I like being around him and he's the only man I've ever known to make me feel safe.

Angelo reaches past me, his arm brushing against my breasts and I suck in a startled breath but I don't pull away.

"I'm only turning on the water, amate ." He does something behind me and it sounds like raindrops start falling from the ceiling to patter against the tile floor at the bottom of the shower.

Turning to see, my butt slides along his thigh. Electricity arcs between us and for a second the air is suspended in my chest.

Then two showerheads about four feet up the wall and on opposite sides of the enclosure begin to spit out a cascade of water, startling me into breathing again.

Steam fills the glass enclosure too quickly to be the result of the water alone and sure enough there are vents on the floor emitting gentle puffs of steam, filling the air with the scent of mint and eucalyptus.

I have never once in my life been in such a luxurious shower. "Washing at home is going to feel like taking a spit bath after this."

"Then I guess it's a good thing this is now your home."

I shove my arm up and smack his chest with the back of my hand. "What did we say?"

His chuckle is the only acknowledgement I get to my words. Then he nudges me forward.

Out of habit, I put my hand out to check the temperature of the water. It's deliciously warm, but not too hot.

Angelo's hands settle on my shoulders, his thumbs kneading the base of my neck. "It won't change temperature no matter how long we take."

Trying hard not to melt into a puddle of goo from the neck massage, I ask, "Why's that, magic?"

I wouldn't find that impossible to believe with this man. There's definitely some kind of magic in the way my muscles are relaxing under his touch.

"It's hooked up to its own instant hot water heater. Just as the showers in your…" He stops talking and kisses the top of my head. "But I won't mention that right now."

Reluctantly, because the massage will end, I turn to face him. Pleased with himself, he's smiling like he expects a gold star for remembering my moratorium on talking about my mom and sister moving into the mansion.

If I had one, I might give it to him, but all I can do is return his smile with one of my own.

That seems to be all he needs because gray eyes that can give a glacier a run for its money for coldness light up. "You are so beautiful when you smile, amate ."

I don't know how to reply to that. Men don't tell me my smile is beautiful. That's not what they're looking at when they see me.

Angelo traces around my mouth before swiping his thumb across my bottom lip. "The first thing I noticed about you were these perfectly luscious lips curved so prettily in a smile."

"Now I know you're lying," I tease with an underlying sense of truth. "No way did you notice my face before my body when I was practically naked."

I'm billed as voluptuous. Which means I've got banging curves the customers show a lot of appreciation for. Men drool over my big boobs and butt and according to Piper, they fantasize all sorts of things they want to do with them that I never want to know about.

"I do not lie to you," Angelo says with conviction. "First, it was your lips and then it was your eyes."

"Were you daydreaming about blowjobs?" I tease as I step backward into the warm rain he calls a shower. "But I don't get how my eyes caught your attention."

He follows me, not allowing any distance to form between us. "I didn't fantasize about you wrapping those luscious lips around my cock until the third night I watched you dance, but your eyes mesmerized me."

At least he admits to thinking about it, which makes me more likely to believe him about being mesmerized by my eyes.

Warm water patters onto my head in droplets, not the steady stream coming from the wall mounted showerheads. I didn't even know water could be made to do that with no clouds involved.

Hot water from the showerhead in the wall washes over my sweat encrusted body. And I close my eyes turning my face up to the rainwater from the ceiling.

For long moments, I simply stand there, letting the water wash away the stress of the night and the wee hours of this morning.

The stress of what I perceived as rejection from Angelo after crushing on him so hard and offering myself on a platter.

The stress of nearly dying at the hands of my sperm donor's men.

The stress of being kidnapped by Mario and Derian.

Not to mention my near heart attack from worrying about my mom and my sister being upset enough to call the cops when I didn't come home after work.

All of it washes down the drain with the deliciously hot water.

"Isn't this a waste of water?" I ask without opening my eyes, not exactly wracked with guilt about it.

"All bathing and drinkable water waste gets recycled through an underground filtration system."

"Mom will approve."

"Good. I want her to like me."

That right there. Could he have said anything more perfect. My psychopath stalker wants my mom to like him.

Tipping my head forward again, I open my eyes and find Angelo intently watching me. Like my standing here under the water is just the most fascinating thing ever.

I step further into the shower but when I reach the center of the six-by-six foot enclosure, the water from above stops falling on me.

Curious about why, I look up and gasp. There's a silhouette of a dancer set in a circular piece of iridescent stone in the ceiling. She's wearing stripper heels and angel's wings.

Both the shape of the wings and her curves are very familiar. "That's me."

"It is."

"How? Why?" I shake my head. "Never mind."

Both answers are obvious. How? Angelo is seriously rich and money talks. Why? The man is also seriously obsessed with me.

"I like looking at you."

Even when it's an artistic representation of me. I get it.

"It's not a picture of my eyes," I tease.

"That's above the bed."

"What? No. Seriously?"

He nods, his gaze locked on me like I might disappear any second and he can't take the chance of that happening. Naked and locked in his safe-room bedroom, there's no chance of that.

But being the center of this man's attention is still a heady feeling.

"What's so interesting about my peepers anyway?" They're ordinary brown, like millions of other people have.

"Sometimes, when you dance, you're somewhere else in your mind." He traces my brow line with his forefinger, like he just can't not touch me. "That first night, your expression was that of an ethereal being transported to earth for mere mortals like myself to gaze upon."

"You're pretty poetic for a mafia hitman."

Something flashes in his fixated gaze. "Only when it comes to you." He searches my face, looking for something. "That doesn't bother you?"

"What?" I try to remember what we're talking about. I'm standing naked in the shower for the first time with a man; I can be forgiven for being a little distracted. "That you're a hitman?"

"I'm more than an assassin, but yes, that."

"It should, right? A good person wouldn't have a personal relationship with a criminal." I guess I'm not a good person because the only person I want to get involved with is him.

"Does that mean you don't want to be in a relationship with me?" His expression says that ship has sailed though. "Because you are the best person I know."

Why does he have to say stuff like that? "Most people wouldn't call a stripper a good person."

"Why not?"

Does he really not know? "Sex workers are considered morally corrupt."

And I make my living in the sex industry.

"So are made men." He shrugs. "Makes sense. We kill to get made."

"Innocent people?" I ask, knowing I hope the answer is no.

"No. We're not street thugs. It's not about proving ourselves with a random act of violence. It's about proving our loyalty to la famiglia by protecting it. The Army required the same from me, but they didn't call it getting made."

"What did they call it?" Unable to help myself, I put my hand over a tattoo of the grim reaper on his chest.

This is how he sees himself.

His big hand settles over mine, pressing my fingers into his skin. "My job."

"Harsh."

He shrugs. "I learned what I needed to serve the Genovese and protected my country while I did it."

I get that. "I love to dance and doing it at the Pitiful Princess allows me to support my mom and sister while I do it. Even if other people think I should be happy to let them do without and get a so-called respectable job."

"Does that bother you?" He moves us so we're standing under the shower rain again.

"I grew a thick skin about being judged before I ever went into foster care." My mom was a stripper, and I wore trash bags as rain gear. Other kids and their parents judged me and mom plenty. "My experiences in the system only put callouses on that skin."

"Close your eyes. This shampoo isn't supposed to burn, but let's not take any chances." He pulls a bottle out of an alcove in the wall and squirts some liquid into his hand. "I have a list of people who hurt you. I want you to look at it and add names that are missing."

"Why?" I love the coconut and vanilla smell of the shampoo and wallow in it a little.

It smells like the stuff I buy from the discount grocery store, only the scents are pleasantly natural, not chemical.

"So I can kill them." The gentleness of his touch as he works the shampoo into my hair is at odds with the ruthless dismissal of human life in his words.

Yeah, that's not going to happen.

"Seeing you skewer that man's hand last Spring didn't upset me," I admit to my personal avenging angel. "It made me feel protected."

"Good."

"But I'm not going to make a list of people for you to hurt on my behalf and I'd prefer if you got rid of the one you've made."

He doesn't answer and I get the feeling that his list isn't going anywhere.

"Sometimes, when I dance, I pretend I'm at a theater, performing in a big stage production," I admit, to get his mind off killing people from my past.

The only one I would voluntarily put on that list is the foster father from my last placement before coming to live with mom. But he's already dead.

Some random mugger made the world safer for vulnerable girls by stabbing him to death a week after I was pulled from his home.

"What else do you fantasize about?" Strong fingers massage my scalp.

I groan my appreciation for how good that feels. "Some nights I like to remember how happy my birth mom was to come to the recital at the community center when I was five and I danced for her."

Running his fingers through my hair, Angelo helps the suds wash away. They're tear-free as advertised, but I keep my eyes closed. It's easier to share my private thoughts in the dark cocoon that creates around me.

My fantasies probably aren't what other people expect an exotic dancer to think about. I learned early that most people buy into the fantasy of the sexually charged woman who gets off on turning men on.

The customers are convinced every dancer on the stage and pole is picturing them in her mind as her body moves so sensually.

Dance can be a very sensual art and the act of moving my body like that can create a low buzz of arousal which adds to the sensuality. Some dancers do get turned on by all the lust-filled gazes locked on them. But for me, the punters only exist in my periphery.

Only one man has ever been different. "When I feel your eyes on me, I dance for you."

And it makes me wet.

The hands carefully rinsing out my hair go still. "You know when I'm there."

"When you walk into the club and start watching me, something inside me relaxes because I feel safe."

I risk opening my eyes to see what he thinks of that and get caught in a stare so intense it makes me shiver despite the warm water and steam.

"I keep you safe even when I'm not there," Angelo promises.

"Good to know." Pressing my water slick body against his, I trap his hard shaft between us. "But it's not the same."

"You get excited when you dance for me."

"I do."

"But you don't when I'm not there."

At the risk of making his head swell, I admit, "No, I don't."

Heat surges between us again, but Angelo doesn't give into it. He pours more shampoo on my hair as if he knows that long hair like mine needs a second wash almost every time.

Who am I kidding? He probably does know. He probably knows what size shoes and underwear I wear too.

"Your style of dance is like art. No one else's even comes close." He's just as careful and thorough this time around washing my long hair as the first.

"Thank you. I don't usually get compliments on my artistic style of dance."

"That's because the audience is too caught up in your beauty to notice."

"That's one way of putting it." The customers are too busy dreaming about what they want to do to my body to notice the art in how it moves.

Angelo maneuvers me closer to the wall of the shower and detaches the head cascading water in a steady stream. "I'm a man, amate . Seeing your tits makes me hard."

No surprise there.

"And I will never grow tired of looking at all your perfect curves." He stops like he's waiting for me to acknowledge that.

"Okay."

Lifting the showerhead, he begins a more thorough rinse of my hair. "But your ability to tell a story through dance is special. It makes me feel and that's not something I do often."

"What does that mean?" How does someone not feel?

"Emotions are the 2.7mm Kolibri in my arsenal for life."

"Uh, I'd probably know what that meant if I knew what a Kolibri is." It's a weapon. I got that much because that's what you keep in an arsenal.

"It's a small gun with very little impact power." He puts the showerhead back on the wall.

"Okay?" Then it clicks. "You're saying that you have emotions but they're weak."

"When I feel, that emotion isn't weak, but the impact emotions have on my life is very low because I feel so infrequently."

Is he saying he doesn't actually feel anything for me? Is obsession an emotion? I'm pretty sure it's not.

"You feel desire for me." The still hard penis between us is testament to that.

"Yes." He closes his eyes, almost like he's in pain. "And it's playing hell with my intentions right now."

"I thought psychopaths were all about getting their needs met, no matter what."

"You realize that as a made man, I am not going to visit a psychologist, right? I don't have a neat diagnosis for the way my brain is wired."

"Can you feel love?" He's already claimed to love me, but if he can't feel that emotion, it's a lie. And he promised he wouldn't lie to me. "Do you have a conscience?"

If he doesn't, it won't bother him to lie to me.

"Define a conscience. Do I feel guilt for killing the enemies of my family? No." He starts to spread conditioner onto my hair, the yummy scent of coconut intensifying. "Do I feel guilt for killing men or women who would destroy the people most important to me? No."

"That sounds like you don't have a conscience then." Which explains why he finds it so easy to cut a man's hand off for touching me, but not why he would do it.

"Do I feel something inside me that is acutely unpleasant when I see you unhappy? Yes." The angles of his handsome face are harsh with intensity. "Does the need to take care of your sister and mom spring from my need to take care of you? Yes."

My heart speeds up, because although he's answering the question about his conscience, what he's describing sounds a lot like an assassin's version of love. It's not going to be hearts and flowers with Angelo, but I'm not a hearts and flowers kind of girl.

Obsession works for me in a way that casual interest wouldn't.

Maybe knowing I'm his focus is what makes me feel safe.

"Is that a conscience?" He pulls me close and rubs his hands up and down my back, and then massages my bottom as the steam swirls around us. "Maybe not. But it's what happens when a man who has no soul finds one."

Unless my ability to read people has suddenly taken flight, he's not lying. For the first time, Angelo's assertion that I'm his reclaimed soul rings true. And it touches emotions that I do my best to protect but am well aware of having.

Angelo believes that I give him the equivalent of a conscience.

Maybe not a fully realized one. He couldn't be top enforcer for the Cosa Nostra godfather if he was squeamish about killing, or doing the other things he has to.

But the fact that Angelo cares about my mom and my sister's well-being is more important to me than his job title.

Yes, I'm aware that makes me a little bit like him. The people I care about are more important to me than the people who end up in Angelo's crosshairs. And one thing I'm certain of is that my family and friends, like Bianca and Piper, will never be there.

Because I am his soul.

And he won't hurt me, adding him to the list of three people I believe that of absolutely: Mom, Cookie and my best friend, Bianca De Luca.

"My conditioner has been in long enough." And I've waited long enough for what comes next.

Sex.

Angelo doesn't move, but his hands on my butt feel so good, it's hard to complain about that. "Xabat said to leave it in for at least three minutes. It has only been two and a half."

"I don't think thirty seconds is going to make or break the silkiness of my hair. My hair has done just fine with bargain shampoo and conditioner and no special hair masks all my life. We are not doing one more thing to put off sexy times."

He smiles patiently at my rant, which probably took the thirty seconds he wanted to wait anyway.

"Doesn't that hurt?" I point at his rigid erection, still leaking from the tip.

My nipples ache with pleasurable pain. I'm positive it wouldn't take more than brushing against them for me to have a mini-orgasm.

"I'm used to it being this way around you."

"You spend hours at the club like this?"

"Sometimes."

We already talked about that, but I was more interested in the fact that he wasn't always turned on than that he spent hours that way on other nights. "You mean you never went into the bathroom to rub one out?"

"No." His grimace of distaste says it all.

Right. The clean thing. "Why not go out to your car and take care of it?"

"That would have meant not watching you."

And he would rather sit there in painful arousal than stop watching me.

Before I can say another word a wolf's smile takes over his rugged features. "Time's up."

Was he freaking counting the seconds in his head?

"Good!" I'm ready to bend forward and dunk my head under the chest-high spray rather than wait for him to remove the showerhead from the wall again.

But he doesn't give me the chance. In a lightning fast move, the showerhead is in his hand again. He rinses my hair for the final time with a subtly different touch. Caressing my skull with sensual movements, my soon-to-be lover works the conditioner from my long tresses.

He replaces the showerhead and pumps some soap gel into his hands. "Now, it's time to wash you."

"How long is this going to take?" I make no effort to hide my sexual frustration, even as I can't take my eyes off his hands rubbing together to make a good lather.

Angelo's laughter is pure masculine appreciation for the condition he's gotten me in by washing my hair.

I don't care if he thinks he's the world's best lover and has mad skills for turning a shower into foreplay. I'll give him a plaque with that on it if he'll just get to the good stuff.

"Can we hurry this up?" I ask crankily. "Only, I'm ready for my first orgasm not engineered by my own hand."

He goes still in the act of running the soap over my shoulders and down my arms. "None of your other lovers has ever give you a climax?"

"I've never had another lover, so that would be a no."

His jaw works as his hands tighten on my upper arms. It doesn't hurt, but I'm not going anywhere.

"You've had boyfriends."

I don't bother asking how he knows that.

"In high school." I haven't dated since I graduated. "And they were more friends that were boys than boyfriends."

But like all my other school friends, I lost touch with the boys that took me to the prom and sat next to me at our school's sporting events. We always went in groups, and they were lucky if they got a short kiss goodnight.

"They didn't touch you?" Angelo's voice is tight, like he's trying to control those emotions he says don't rule his life.

Something sure seems to be impacting him right now.

"No. They were lucky if they got a kiss goodnight." I don't mention that I experimented with tongue kissing with my sophomore crush.

I have a feeling that will put him on Angelo's list. I'm learning how my sociopath's brain works.

"They never touched you here?" He cups my breasts, kneading them with deft fingers.

My knees go wobbly. "N…n…ooo…"

"They never saw the pretty pink raspberry of your nipples?" Angelo squeezes my breasts one last time before pinching both my nipples.

I was right , is the last coherent thought I have as my body crashes into an orgasm that cannot even sort of be described as mini.

When the sparkly bits recede from the edges of my vision, I'm in Angelo's arms being carried from the now silent walk-in shower.