Marrying the Master (22 page)

With Lola?

Everything
had been in somewhat of a holding pattern in the past few days. Then pictures
of the two of them arguing outside the Cloisters had surfaced online, Dagmar
had declared Volare the only secure venue for the wedding, and Roman had been
unable to get in touch with Chance. The wedding was in one week. One. Week.

“I
did not say you could move,” he said harshly. Lola froze. “Why the one week
delay
? Why not—”

She
huffed impatiently. “Dagmar told you, you just weren’t listening. She has to
throw them off or something, since they took those pictures of us fighting
outside the Cloisters. And she has to organize the vendors. Look, I
don’t—“

“Don’t
interrupt me,” he said.

Silence.

She
was getting better at this.

She
was not a sub that all Doms would want. But she was a sub he would want. Did
want.

Couldn’t
bear to leave.

He
had received a call about construction in L.A. earlier in the day. Nearly
completed. He would have to decide soon whether to stay or to go. He could no
longer remember why it had ever seemed possible that he could simply pick up
and leave for six months, a year.
Maybe longer.

“You
are stressed,” she said, her voice softer. She was close to him, her white skin
luminous in the soft light from the bathroom that had become hers. He had
accepted that she would stay in his room, but he slept on that ridiculous
mattress in the hall, stubbornly refusing to concede her point and answer the
unspoken question. She couldn’t have him in her bed all night, even if he
couldn’t tell her why.

Now
she reached up and cupped his cheek, her hands soft and warm. The way she
looked at him, her big green eyes gone soft and wide, all her empathy and
understanding spilling out, there for him to take—begging him to take it…

It
undid him.

“What
are you so worried about, Roman?”

He
didn’t answer. Her eyes on him made him feel…raw. Like she could see the things
he tried to hide. Like her gaze strafed away his defenses. He hated
it—and he loved it.

Only
Samantha had made him feel like that. Samantha had made that feel safe.

Lola
felt safe—until he remembered. Until he remembered what he—what
this—would inevitably do to her.

She
pressed up against him, the warmth of her penetrating his clothes. He could
smell her. The peach shampoo she used, the Chanel she always wore, the scent of
her sex, always lingering. That light from the bathroom filtered through her
red hair, turning it every shade of fire, and settled on her soft face. She had
no idea what she did to him.

What
she’d always done to him.

“Lola,”
he said, letting his head fall toward hers.

“You
can tell me,” she said.

He
couldn’t. “No, Lola,” he said. His voice sounded strangled. “This is only
mine.”

She
laid her head on his chest and wrapped her arms around him, pulling her naked
body as tight against him as she could. She felt good to him like that. Felt
right.

“Ok,”
she said, and she pressed her lips to his chest, kissing him through his
clothing. “Whatever you need.”

Whatever you need.

He
saw the shadow of a dimple in her cheek and felt her smile more than saw it,
heard it in her voice. “Or are you just getting worked up about what I’m going
to do at this dinner?” she asked. “It’s a Volare event, after all; I’m sure
there’ll be…distractions…”

She
looked up at him with that teasing smile, biting her lip. He saw through her,
just as she saw through him, and he knew she was only trying to distract him
from whatever was on his mind.

It
worked.

“What
do you mean, distractions?” he said.

“Oh,
you know,” she said, pushing off his chest and sauntering towards the bathroom,
her perfect, plump ass drawing his eye like a magnet. “I’m sure people will get
out of hand. It will be hard to resist. They’ll all be watching us. Some will
be watching me. That Salvador guy has been—”

He
caught up with her just before she reached the bathroom, one hand slipping
around her waist where he could press it flat against her belly, the other
grabbing her wrist. Slowly he brought her wrist around to the small of her
back, and watched her back arch with that slow, supple grace.

Just
the feel of her skin against his…

She
made him insane.

“No
one else watches you,” he said.

She
laughed. “Roman, it’s Volare. It’s a sex club. We run it. How could you
not—
”

He
ran his hand down her lower belly to cup her sex. “No.”

Her
breathing became ragged, but she soldiered on. “It’s not like they haven’t seen
me in scenes before…”

“
No
.”

The
idea of Lola and anyone else, even from afar, even if they didn’t even touch
her—it made him crazy. Ever since he’d allowed himself to touch her, she
had become his. His alone.

“No,”
he said again, and let her wrist go. He slid his hand along the curves of her
body, feeling every inch,
wanting
every inch, until he got to her breasts. He indulged himself with her nipples,
playing with them, kneading the flesh, holding off just to torment himself a
little longer.

He
could lose himself like this, caressing her stomach there, kissing her neck
here, could lose himself in the feel and pull of Lola, the sounds of Lola’s
pleasure, the look on her face…

“Get
on the bed,” he said.

He
followed her, shedding his clothes as he went. The look on her face when she
saw his erection tested his self-control. He wanted to watch her this time, and
wanted her to watch him. Wanted her to know that she was his, and his alone.

“Spread
for me,” he said.

Oh
Jesus God, she was beautiful. It hurt him, somewhere deep in his chest, just to
look at her.

He
had meant to go slowly, but the closer he came to her the stronger her pull,
and as he lowered himself over her he found he couldn’t stop himself. He
plunged into her, finding her wet and hungry for him. He couldn’t go deep
enough in her, driving in harder and harder, looking for a way to bury
himself
totally.

That
she screamed out his name helped.

That
he felt her inner muscles begin to shudder, begin to suck him in further,
helped.

He
pushed off, rising above her, not breaking his stroke but needing to see her
face: her brow was furrowed, her mouth open, her hands scratching at his
shoulders and his face.

“Mine,”
Lola said.

He
fell upon her, biting her neck and leaving his mark as he pumped into her.

Later,
after they had cleaned themselves up, already late for their own rehearsal
dinner, as Lola fixed his tie for him, he thought,
What the hell is happening to me?

Stella
Spencer had outdone herself, with a little bit of help from Dagmar. The two
women had managed to turn the main room at Volare into what looked like a
fantasy movie set interior. Specifically, it looked like the inside of a
luxurious tent, complete with samovars, lamps, a few hookahs, and various bits
of BDSM equipment strewn here and there among the low tables.

“Stella?”
Lola asked. “This almost has a…sheikh theme, you might say.”

Stella
giggled. She’d already had a glass or two of champagne, and she’d been a
lightweight since at least college.

“Maybe,”
she said.

“What
did Bashir say?”

“Um…”

“Never
mind, I can guess.”

“Actually,”
Stella said, blushing all the way to her roots, “I kind of doubt that.”

Lola
laughed, happy for her friend. No matter how stupidly complicated Lola’s sex
life got, it always made her feel good to think about how Stella had finally
gotten what she deserved—a smoking hot sheikh who was completely crazy
about her. It made it seem like sometimes things went right in the world.

Lola
needed some of that at the moment.

The
party—rehearsal dinner, technically, even without a rehearsal, or without
any idea how Dagmar was going to pull off a wedding in this same place in a
week’s time—was in full swing, and Lola was already beginning to miss
Roman.

It
was ridiculous.

She
watched her friends and acquaintances flirt and drink and chase each other
around the smoking oil lamps and well-laid tables, and all she could think about
was Roman. She couldn’t believe she’d said “mine” like that right when he was
about to come. He’d said it to her before, all kink-ified, and she’d known he’d
meant it in that animal way—only
she
knew how true it really was.

Did
he know what she’d meant? How could he if she didn’t just come out and say it?

And
even though they’d just had sex, she wanted him again. Would it ever stop?
Would she ever be able to look at him and retain full brain function at the
same time?

She
watched him through the shimmer of two smoking braziers as he laughed at some
story from Jake, the light dancing off of his bronze skin, and thought:
Nope
.
Probably not.

Look at the man.

Lola
put a hand to her neck and rubbed at the bite marks that Roman had left there
not even a few hours ago. His mark. She loved it. Roman looked across the room
and saw, and heat swept through her.

“Oh
hey, food’s ready,” Stella said at her side. Lola jumped—she’d been lost
in Roman. Again.

She
shook her head and tried to regain some semblance of control while Stella wound
through the crowd, clinking her champagne glass and making way for the servers.

“Everyone
sit down,” she said, trying to take some of the giggle out of her voice as she
looked around at the many piles of cushions. “Or you know, recline, or
whatever. Dinner’s here, is the point!”

Lola
smiled as Bashir wrapped his arms around Stella from behind, and Stella
squealed. She could only guess at what the sheikh was whispering to his future
wife, but it was met with Stella’s clear approval.

Not
for the first time, Lola found herself envying their intimacy, and she inwardly
scolded herself for being so negative.

“What
are you thinking?”

Lola
whirled around to find Roman studying her intently. Great. Why did he always
ask her that question when she couldn’t tell him the truth without things
getting incredibly weird?

“Nothing
I can tell you,” she said honestly.

He
wrinkled that perfect forehead in concern, and not a little bit of pique. “What
could there possibly be that you could not tell me?” he said.

Lola
wanted to laugh at his adorable male naïveté, but thought better of it. That
would require it’s own explanation, after all. Instead, she just smiled up at
him and said, “Allow me a little bit of feminine mystique, won’t you?”

He
reached out and hooked a finger in the fabric of her wrap dress, smiling
slightly, but with just a hint of worry. “You have all of that, Lola,” he said.

“Hey,
everyone! We’re about to get into toasts and all that, so…you know, throw back
a drink or something, because it’s about to get weird.”

Bashir
laughed and dragged a very tipsy Stella into his lap, while the rest of the
room cheered. Everyone was a bit
more drunk
than Lola
had anticipated. Apparently Roman had the same thought, because he whispered
something to Jake and the more extreme pieces of equipment began to roll out of
the room at the hands of various volunteers.

“Lola,
come,” Roman said, holding out his hand. She took it, and he pulled her down in
his lap. “Bashir had the right idea.”

Lola
couldn’t keep herself from smiling, or from rubbing her hands against his
chest, even through that now damnable shirt she’d helped him put on earlier in
the evening. She’d loved doing that—she loved helping him get ready,
making him breakfast when he’d let her, taking care of him. She knew she should
be careful about that, knew it was dangerous to let herself think it meant
anything, but…

“I’m
tired of being careful,” she whispered.

Roman’s
arms tightened around her.

She
hadn’t meant for him to hear.

Across
the glowing brazier that served as a grill for their group of cushions, Lola
saw Jake Jayson begin to stand up. He was there with Catie, the woman who had,
nominally, been the source of so much strife between her and Roman—Catie,
the woman who had initially infiltrated Volare for the chance to get a big
tabloid exclusive. Catie had needed the money to pay for her grandmother’s
care, and she had, in the end, come around and confessed—mostly because
she’d fallen completely in love with Jake—but the whole thing still
reminded Lola that there was at least one time when she hadn’t been able to
trust Roman.