Marrying the Master (10 page)

“Oh
God, Roman, please…”

“Please
what?”

“Please
fuck me,” she said, covering her head with her hands, her naked breasts pushed
up towards her chin. “Please.”

He
spanked her.

Hard.

The
sound of his open hand hitting her soft flesh echoed loudly in her ears, each
blow deliciously humiliating, each blow reminding her: this was
Roman
. Oh God, Roman.
Roman
.

In
just a minute, she was moaning. Writhing under him, arching up to him, craving
him. He laughed, moving his arm so he could play with her breasts.

“I
want to see your ass red,” he said, and spanked her again.

She
really was on the verge of coming.

Without
warning he dipped a finger into her, found her hot and wet, and she heard him
catch his breath.

Then the growl.

He
flipped her over and threw her back on the bed as though she weighed nothing at
all. “Stay.”

He
had his clothing off in no time, and then he was moving toward her, his dazzling
bronze skin pulled tight over layers of corded muscle, rippling, coiling, like
a wild animal on the verge of frenzy. She wanted to remember that sight for as
long as she lived.

“You
come when I say,” he said, climbing on the bed. “You come when
I
say.”

She
rose to meet him, and he pushed her down again, gently this time, shaking his
head. “I have waited so long to look at you,” he said. He slipped a hand under
one knee, lifting her leg, kissing her calf, her knee, the beginning of her
thigh. He rested his face against her flesh, breathed deeply, and then he
looked.

Lola
was not shy, she had never been shy; she ran a damn sex club.
She had been in any number of scenes, had dominated men, been
dominated by them, taught them
,
let them teach her
.
She thought she’d plumbed the depths of her own kink, her own desires, and only
recently had found herself lacking. Wanting. As though she’d run out, as though
she’d been spent, and she’d begun to feel herself a bit of a fraud, running a
sex club when she couldn’t get off with anyone else. When she couldn’t submit,
when she no longer felt herself capable of the sexuality she’d once known.
She’d mourned it, that loss of who she’d been.

But
now Roman Casta looked at her with raw lust, with naked power. Roman looked at
her like she was the most beautiful, sexual, desirable woman who had ever
lived, and the longer he looked at her like that, the more she remembered who
she was.

“I
have wanted to see what you look like when you come for so long,” he said. He
was moving his fingers lightly along her skin, setting her to tingling, like he
simply couldn’t get enough of the feel of her.

His
words finally penetrated the fog of sensation, and she rose up again.

“How
long?”

“Always.”

His
eyes locked with hers, and she knew it was the truth.

“Now
lie back and let me see you, Lola,” he whispered, “or it will be the crop.”

She
blinked, and then threw her head back laughing. She hoped it would be the crop.
She hoped it would be whatever he chose to use on her, whatever he felt like,
whenever—

“Oh
God,” she moaned, and looked down. Roman still knelt between her legs, one hand
smoothing the skin down her leg, towards her belly, the other doing something
she’d never imagined possible, his eyes on her face.

“Look
at me,” he ordered.

His
fingers worked the outside of her folds in a steady, pulsing rhythm, stroking
pressure, on, off, on, off, finding nerve endings she didn’t even know existed,
sending streaks of fire through her body. Roman’s face grew hungry, hungrier.
“Look at me,” he said again, and pushed two fingers into her as far as they
would go.

Lola
arched her back, a small sound escaping her as she remembered to keep looking
at him. It was so difficult. He felt so good inside her, so right, that it
frightened her, and she wanted to hide from him, wanted to feel this on her own
somewhere private, where it was safe.

Roman
knew.

“You
do not hide,” he said, and brushed her clit with his thumb, his fingers curling
inside her, moving in and out, in and out, slow and strong. “This first one, I
see,” he said, and picked up the pace, his eyes intent on her face.

She
was helpless.

She
felt herself caught up in the tide he had created, her hands clawing at the
twisted sheets in time to the ebb and flow, each wave stronger than the last,
until finally his other hand came down upon her lower belly while he massaged
her g-spot from the inside, and she was overcome.

She
came in waves, rising up a little further each time, finally crying out his
name as he caught her, his arm around her back, his face close to hers now.

“More,”
he said, “
more
.
So
perfect, Lola.
So beautiful.”

She
flung her arms around him, terrified at having just let go. He kissed her neck,
her face, her arms, her chest, her lips, until she began to calm down again,
until she felt it building in her again. Her hips gave her away, and Roman
slowly lowered her back to the bed, kissing a path down her trembling body from
her lips to her stomach to her pussy.

“God,
I have wanted to taste you,” he said, his voice more husky, less controlled.
She felt the wet warmth of his mouth surround her clit, his tongue dancing with
it, his lips sucking on it. He was relentless. He licked her softly at first, and
then, as she started to writhe under him, he seemed to lose himself, devouring
her, using his hands, thrusting his fingers into her. A man who knew so much
technique abandoned it to pure hunger, and it drove her back over the edge, her
thighs squeezing Roman’s head, her mouth calling his name.

His name, again.

Lola
was breathing hard, opening her eyes to a strange ceiling, her extremities
feeling numb. She was bewildered. She couldn’t remember when she’d last come so
hard.

And
then there was Roman, looming above her. Roman, turning her face to his,
telling her she was beautiful. Roman, stroking her body as she came down from
the peak, not letting her settle, but pushing her back up toward another. She
heard herself groan, not using real words, just sounds. She wrapped her arms
around him again. She didn’t even know what she wanted.

He
pushed up so he could look down on her, his hand smoothing her hair away from
her damp forehead.

“Tell
me,” he said, and he rose up, his hands sliding under her legs. He lifted them
up, resting them on his shoulders, lifting her bottom almost up off the bed.
Lola squirmed, suddenly very aware of his erection, poised there.

“Please,”
she said.

Not
enough.

He
bent down, his mouth closing around her nipple, and bit it gently. She cried
out, feeling his tongue on her, sucking at her. He came up for air, grinning,
and said, “Beg.”

Lola
looked at him, powerless. He would make her say it.

“Roman…”

He
rubbed the head of his cock against her still swollen clit, his grin giving way
to that intense hunger. “Say it, Lola.”

 
“Roman, please, I need you inside me,”
she said, reaching for him, trying to pull him down. “Please.”

Roman
took her hands in one of his, pinned them up above her head, and leaned forward
so the head of his cock was just nestled in her entrance. She whimpered.

“Come
saying my name,” he said. “Come looking at me.”

“Yes,”
she said, more desperate than she’d ever been, “Just
do—
ahh.”

He
sank into her, so much bigger than she’d thought, stretching her more than
anyone else ever had. She closed her eyes, already forgetting.

“Open,”
he growled, and pushed in deeper.

Oh
God.

She
hadn’t known how deep he could go, and he lifted her farther off the bed so he
could push even deeper into her. His eyes fixed on hers as he pulled out and
drove into her, dark, deep pools that she had avoided for so long, not wanting
him to see how she felt. There would be no hiding now.

Roman
still held her hands in his, his abdominals expanding and contracting with
every long, slow thrust, his breath melding with hers. A single bead of sweat
gathered on his brow, and still he held her, helpless, his to fuck, love,
break
.

“Roman,”
she said, her voice strangled. So much she couldn’t say
,
all of it contained in that word. Her hips were pushing back at him, the two of
them crashing into each other

He
bent down, caressed her lips with his.

“Come,”
he said, watching her eyes.

She
convulsed, conscious of the effort of keeping her eyes open, aware of his every
stroke, still sure and powerful, responding when he paused in her while she
contracted around him, her muscles fluttering, trying to draw him in. Trying to
consume him, as much as she could. He let her hands go and she grabbed at his
shoulders, burying her face in his neck while she screamed and sobbed at the
same time, her body not done.

He
kept going.

She
saw his face again and he looked how she felt: raw, fevered,
delirious
.
The sight of him like that, of Roman Casta mad and frenzied for her, sent her
spiraling up and out of control, and this time when she came, he came with her,
emptying himself into her with a long, loud cry.

They
lay together like that for a
long time
, Roman still
inside her, breathing hard, his weight on her chest both surreal and
comforting.

How
long would it take her to come around to the fact that Roman had just fucked
her? When would she believe it?

Lola
let her fingertips play lightly on his skin, around his muscled shoulders, the
hard planes of his back. They were both still slick with sweat, and growing
colder. But she didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to change a thing.

Slowly,
Roman stirred. He swiveled his hips, and she gasped to feel him growing hard
inside her.

Again.

“More,”
he said in her ear, and pushed himself up on iron arms. She tried to move her
legs, and discovered that she was already sore, but those eyes…

Transfixed.

Still helpless.

His.

“I
want you to see,” he said, his own breath still ragged. He pulled out, and she
looked down to protest, saw his cock covered with both of their juices, huge
and hard, and became, momentarily, speechless.

Didn’t
matter. He knelt down, scooped an arm around her, and pulled her up. His large
hands handled her as though they’d always known how to, and that thought
brought back all of their history—or lack of it—and she was scared
again. She must have gone stiff, because he noticed.

“Shh,”
he said, and positioned her in front of a hastily constructed stack of pillows.
She was on her knees, her weight resting on her ankles, the pillows an inviting
stack right in front of her.

“Look
up.”

There
was a full-length mirror angled against the wall, an old fashioned thing with a
heavy gilt frame. Lola saw them, together. Herself naked, still somewhat
flushed, Roman behind her.
His hands moving up her sides and
around to grasp her breasts.
His lips on her neck, his eyes watching
hers.

“I
want you to see how beautiful you look,” he murmured. “I want you to see this
before I make you mine.”

She
shivered. She didn’t know what that meant, coming from him, but the dark look
in his eyes suggested this was only the prelude.
The gentler,
softer Roman.
She wanted this—and she wanted what came after.

She
saw her half-hooded eyes flutter in the mirror. “Yours,” she said.

His
weight on her back forced her to lean forward, and she braced herself on the
pillows, leaning slightly forward. Roman trailed one hand down the length of
her back, leaving gentle shivers in his wake. He cupped her bottom in his hands
and lifted her slightly, moving under her. And then he just held her there.

“
Look,”
he said.

She
saw his hips move in the mirror just a second before she felt him: he impaled
her in one swift, upward stroke. The woman in the mirror threw her head back
and keened, riding him while he bent over her, pushing her further down. He bit
into her neck, one hand supporting
himself
on the bed,
the other reaching for her hip, and drew her down as he pistoned up.

“Look,”
he growled, and she picked her head up, tired and full and exhilarated all at
once, and saw herself.

She
saw Lola getting fucked by Roman, saw him possessing her, taking her, as though
he’d never wanted anything else. As though he’d rather have her than anything
else on the planet, at that moment, maybe always.