Marrying the Master (9 page)

“You
know, I wouldn’t have believed it, either,” Ford said, leaning back.

“Call,”
Salvador said. Alyssa dealt the final card, but Salvador didn’t even look. He
was staring at Lola.

She
took a deep breath and turned slightly to Roman. His hand tightened on her
thigh. Each time he moved, she was torn: she wanted it, oh God, did she want
it, but part of her was still fighting for self-preservation. After those
kisses, she knew: if she gave in, it would be all in. She’d be lost to the way
she felt about Roman. And it might be worse than she knew.

“Your
action, Salvador,” Roman said.

“It’s
a pity she’s off the market,” Salvador said, ignoring Roman. “Care to bet her?”

Lola
shot him a glare—a decidedly un-submissive glare. “No,” she said.

There
was a pause.

Salvador
chuckled. “Are you
very
sure that she
is your submissive, Roman?”

Lola
could hear the low growl in Roman’s throat, could feel his fingers digging into
her flesh. She closed her eyes and rode the pleasure that all of those things
gave her. She opened them when she felt his hand slip inside her dress and cup
her breast, his fingers on her bare skin.

“She
says no to you because she knows that she is mine,” Roman said. “
Mine.
”

He
pinched her nipple, and she jumped. She heard laughter.

Oh shit
.

She
loved it. But she was fighting it. Why? She wanted it, she enjoyed every single
second, and fighting it was costing them. It was costing Volare. With their
luck, Salvador Benes would be the first person Harold Jeels found, the first
one he interviewed, and he’d spin a tale of fraud and deception.
For what, her pride?
No, not even. Her fear. She was afraid
of falling completely into Roman Casta.

“Oh,
fuck it,” she said under her breath, and bent down to Roman’s ear. “Yours,” she
whispered, and nipped his earlobe.

Roman’s
hips shifted under her, and the growl became louder. Lola was wet, and she
wasn’t wearing any underwear. Roman would know just how turned on she was in
only a few moments, if he didn’t already. Lola closed her eyes against both the
humiliation and the heat that that aroused in her.

“Come
on, Roman, what is your price?” she heard Salvador say with naked urgency in
his voice. “How much to bet a submissive Lola?”

Roman’s
hand left her breast abruptly, so quickly she was almost hurt by its
absence—and then it was there again, on her thigh, rushing up her leg…

“
Priceless
,” Roman said. “If you look at
her once more I will throw you out myself, I swear to God.”

And,
under the table, his hand found her core—and found her bare, and very,
very wet.

Lola
opened her eyes in shock, and looked at Roman. He met her eyes, and shifted his
hips—and then she felt
him
.

He
was rock hard.

For her.

Her
fantasy, her unattainable man—he wanted
her.
He was hard because he wanted to fuck
her.
She had done this; she could do this. The rush was instant,
the adrenaline flooding her brain and drowning what remained of rational,
cautious thought.

She
bit her lip and moved her hips against him.

His
eyes bored into her, a single vein in his forehead throbbing, and then his
hand…his hand kept going. His fingers parted her wet outer lips and slid down
the length of her, searching for her opening, stroking her softly, lingering on
the pressure points between her inner and outer lips—oh God, of course
Roman would know about that…

Her
back began to arch, her eyes half closed,
her
mouth
open…

“Roman,
I checked. The action is to you.”

She
didn’t even look. She was already spiraling down into her own little world,
into Roman…

“All
in,” Roman said gruffly.

~ * ~ * ~

She
felt like liquid silk in his hand, her body responding to every touch, every
thought
he had. He was mesmerized.
Everyone was mesmerized. He hoped they appreciated that he allowed them the
pleasure, the
privilege
, of seeing
Lola Theroux close her eyes, lick her lips, and moan…

She
stopped.

Her
eyes were open.

Her
face crashed. Before his eyes, under his hand, she wilted.

“Roman,
I called—”

He
ignored Salvador. “Lola, what’s wrong?”

She
didn’t answer him, just looked over his shoulder. Roman turned, and the sight
he saw filled him with anger.

Benjamin
Mara.
In his club.
Hurting Lola.

Again
.

Roman
turned Lola’s face toward his and said very quietly, very urgently, “Look at
me.” She did, and the sadness he saw there sliced through him. “He will not
hurt you, Lola. I will deal with this.”

He
lifted her, placing her gently in the chair, and had not gotten two steps
before he realized that Jackson was behind him. Then Bashir joined them, a
quick arrow of angry men moving toward one, singular target.

“He’s
mine,” Roman said curtly.

Benjamin
Mara soon found himself isolated and alone. This gave him enough warning to
turn, face Roman, and speak.

“Roman,
please, I’ve come to apologize—”

Roman
kept moving until Benjamin Mara backed up, faltering, flat against a wall,
trying to disappear into it. Roman didn’t even need to touch him.

He
said, “Do not speak. Do not move. If she tells me to, I will harm you—do
you understand? You are only safe because of my respect for her.
Do not test me.
”

Benjamin
Mara swallowed. He was shorter than Roman, like most men, and thinner. It would
not be a real contest. Roman almost regretted it.

Roman’s
voice was cold. “This is my club. This is her club. Her space. You do
not
invade it, after what you did. You
do not show up uninvited. You indecent, pathetic, uncivilized piece of shit.”

“I
wanted to explain—”

Roman
smelled stale whisky. It was from the man’s sweat. He’d been drinking—that
was the only reason he’d come. Roman was even more disgusted.

“There
is no explanation, you coward. You will apologize only if
she
decides she wants to hear it, not because you would like to
stop feeling guilty. And now, Benjamin,” Roman said, fixing Benjamin’s collar
and smoothing his suit, just to let him know he could do what he wanted in this
place, “you are going to leave. And you are not going to come back unless she
asks you to. Do you understand?”

“I—”

Roman’s
fists closed around Benjamin’s lapels, and he lifted him bodily off the ground
only to slam him against the wall. Benjamin’s head bounced off the hard
surface, his arms struggling ineffectually.

“Do
you understand?” Roman said again.

“Yes.”

“Run.”

And
Roman dropped him to the ground and watched him scramble towards the exit.
Bashir wordlessly followed him, probably to make sure the snake had, in fact,
left. Jackson patted him on the back and set about fixing Roman’s own collar,
and it was then that Roman realized he was breathing hard and his blood was
pounding in his head hard enough to hurt.

“You’ve
got a woman to worry about,” Jackson said.

Roman
didn’t even say thank you. He had to find her. The rest of the club, his
friends, his business, his life—all of it paled, fell away. His moved
through the crowd unhearing, unseeing, until he saw her: just a hint of green,
moving towards one of the side doors.

No.

He
didn’t want her hurt. Not again.

“Lola,”
he said, her name the best thing he’d said all night. He grabbed her wrist,
gently, just wanting contact. She didn’t turn her head, but he could still see,
hidden under those waves of red hair, the stain of tears on her cheek.

He
opened the side door and pulled her out into the dark side hallway.
Give her darkness
,
give her privacy
.
Give her everything.

“Lola,”
he said again, putting his hand to her cheek. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have
gone so far, I should have known—”

“No!”
she said, the strength in her voice shocking him. “Don’t apologize. Please,
don’t…”

He
was lost in the warmth of her skin, in wanting her to feel better, to feel
good. He said, “Tell me.”

He
could feel her gathering her strength, and she took a deep breath. Even in the
low light he saw her open her eyes. Brave. She was always brave.

“It
was…it was good to feel…” She paused, shook her head. Then she made a decision,
and looked up. “Roman, with you, I felt it. It felt right, like I could be that
part of myself again, that I could submit, even for a little bit… Please don’t
apologize. I
needed
to know that. I
needed to know that he didn’t permanently fuck up that part of me, even if it
wasn’t…even if it wasn’t real.”

Roman
didn’t immediately register the source of her sadness. That last phrase: “wasn’t
real.” Did she think…?

“What
are you saying, it was not real?”

Lola
bent her head, this apparently too much, even for his fiery Lola.

“This
is a show, Roman, I know that. This isn’t… You don’t have to explain, I get
it.”

Roman
growled, angry that a man had hurt her so badly that she couldn’t think that he
would want her for her, that any man would, that she didn’t know how beautiful
she was, that she didn’t know that she was a light in the world for him. That
he had never shown her that he wanted her, and allowed her to think of herself
as unwanted.

He
would correct that
now
.

“
This
is real,” he said, and placed her
hand on his painfully hard cock. “This is for you.
All for
you.
Only for you.”

She
looked up, her eyes wide, her hand unmoving. He ached underneath, had ached for
her for days, for years, it felt like, all of it pulsing through his body like
a twisted drug. He needed her. He needed to be inside her, or he would lose his
mind.

Slowly
he saw the light return to her eyes, saw the sadness recede, to be replaced by
that mischievous fire. A new thought: maybe he needed to do this for her. He
was worried about sex hurting her, but it was hurting her to lie, and to
pretend he didn’t want to fuck her senseless.

She
stroked him through his pants and he groaned.

“
All
for me?” she said.

“You
were taunting me out there,” he said, knowing he needed to get the words out
before all the blood left his brain. “Goading me.”

“Yes,”
she said, and stroked harder. “But I knew you’d never go through with it. You’d
just go on protecting me. But I haven’t needed protection in so, so long
Roman…”

He
snapped. Pinned her to the wall, kissed her hard. Barely let her catch her
breath before he’d lifted her over his shoulder, stepping over a shoe that fell
to the ground, not caring even the slightest, and carried her back to his
private apartment.

Lola
was on fire by the time Roman threw her down on his bed. The look he gave
her—pure animal hunger—only made her crazier. She stood up, wanting
to strip his suit off, wanting to finally be next to his naked body, and forgot
all about his Dom side.

He
pushed her back on the bed.

She
shivered and looked up at him. Daring him to come at her.

He
answered by bending down, looking her in the eye, and ripping her dress off her
shoulders. Another vicious pull, another tear, and she was naked, her clothing
in tatters.

She
moaned, grabbed his arm, tried to drag him down on top her. He smiled at how
ineffectual she was; it was like pulling at a mountain. With no apparent effort
he pulled her up next to him, and then down over his knee as he sat on the bed.

“What—”
She struggled.

“You
taunted me,” he said, his arm moving across her back, pinning her flat to his
legs. His cock pressed up against her belly through the thin fabric of his
pants and she writhed against it. Then his hand was between her legs, steadying
her. “Manipulated me.”

She
stopped struggling, guided only by the throbbing between her legs.

“You’re
going to punish me,” she said. She was laughing a little, delirious and drunk
with excitement. She couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

“I
will spank you,” he said, his hand beginning to toy with her, moving around
just outside—taunting, the way she’d taunted him. “I wonder if you might
come like this, over my knee? I think you might. I think you will like it.”