Marrying the Master

Lola
Theroux opened the first door she could find, ducked blindly inside, and
quietly shut that door behind her. Only then did she breathe.

Only
then did she look around.

She
was pretty sure she’d just stepped into a broom closet. Didn’t matter. She’d
just needed to escape before
he
saw
her, and, well, a broom closet would just have to do.

In
just a few moments, she’d be taking the last irrevocable step. She’d thought of
little else in the past few days, but seeing him standing there, waiting for
her, brought it all home like a slap to the face.

Well,
no. If she were being totally, completely honest, a slap to the
face
was not what she thought about when
she looked at him, and that’s what made it so difficult to think straight.
Instead she thought about the previous night, about how he had actually
spanked
her, and a warm flush began to
spread across her skin. She thought about all the nights ahead of her, and the
warmth started to pool between her legs. And then she thought that maybe she’d
already taken those last steps. Maybe she was already lost. Maybe last night…

She
shuddered, her eyes closed even in the dark, thinking of his hands on her.
Thinking of the heat of them, thinking of the rough tread of his calloused
fingers, thinking of the way they’d raked across her skin. The way they’d
lulled her into a sort of trance, then ripped her out of it, hot and hard and
urgent, stoking her own desire until she’d lost all control.

She
had
lost all control. She’d done
something she’d both dreamed about and dreaded. And it
might—would—change everything.

And
now she’d come here, to the City Clerk’s Office, silent and awkward and with
her mind reeling, somehow still feeling the aftershocks of last night’s
orgasms, to follow through on a promise. A promise that was the only way to
save Club Volare in the aftermath of the exposé that had run in
Sizzle
, the tabloid story that had set
the city on fire. The story had gotten the attention of all of New
York—including the worst sort of government official: the morally
outraged kind.

Lola
hadn’t thought it would matter at first. Volare scrupulously obeyed all local
and federal regulations. They paid their taxes. They ran the safest place in New
York, and would never settle for less.

But
she hadn’t counted on the determination of an angry little man from the state
senate, which was why Lola was at the City Clerk’s office. Club Volare needed
to be in compliance with a ridiculously antiquated law from the seventeenth
freaking century—something about unmarried couples running public houses,
which came right after a law about witch burning that the city had had the good
sense to repeal—or they would not only lose their liquor and cigar licenses,
but be subject to ridiculous penalties and charges. Not only that, but Senator
Prude was rumored to be getting the health department involved. Just because
Senator Harold Jeels had issues with sex, and had found a loophole,
and
none of the other politicians felt
they could stick their necks out for a sex club, Volare would be closed. And
the owner…

Roman
Casta.

Lola
owed him so much. He’d been an instrumental part of her life even before she’d
come to work for him running Volare. And she admitted that she did love
him—in a limited way. Lola had worked incredibly hard to get over Roman
as soon as it became clear he would never look at her romantically all those
years ago, but she could admit to platonic love, at least. And she loved
Volare. So that was why she was here at the clerk’s office. To be precise, that
was why she was hiding in a broom closet at the clerk’s office.

A broom closet.
Really. It had looked just like a bathroom from the outside.
Well, I suppose a closet isn’t totally
inappropriate
, she thought.

After
all, she would be entering a different sort of closet in a minute. She was
already halfway in. After this, there’d be no going back. She’d have to commit
to the charade, and hope it didn’t break her.

Playing
house with Roman. Being in public with Roman. As his…

She
couldn’t even
think
it; it was too
insane. She used to dream that Roman Casta would one day propose to her. It had
been childish; she knew better now. And she knew that Roman didn’t do
relationships, didn’t do romantic love, knew that he could never learn to love
her, and she even knew why. And now she had to
pretend
. She’d have to pretend after knowing what it was really
like to have Roman Casta love you, even if it was only physically.

And
she’d do it again, if he asked. She’d let him have her however he wanted.

God,
she hoped he would ask.

So
it would be torture, obviously. But she’d thought she could handle it. Until
she’d come walking down the hall, her heels echoing ominously against all that
marble, telling herself she’d be fine, and she’d seen
him
standing there, talking to Ford Colson, Volare’s lawyer.

Roman.

Holy
tap dancing Christ, but the man was gorgeous.

Just
the sight of him standing there in the hall, his shoulders broad and relaxed,
his aquiline features sharp and intimidating, cutting shadows in the morning
light like even the spring thaw was slightly afraid of him—it was enough
to take her breath away on a good day. He made standing in a hallway look like an
athletic feat. Like the world was waiting on him, and not the other way around.
It was always like that with Roman.

He
was the Master.

Those
kinds of thoughts were
not
making
things any easier.

In
fact, it was impossible not to think about what had happened the previous
night, what had taken them both by surprise. What Lola had dreamed about
happening when she’d first met Roman, what she’d worked so hard to
stop
dreaming about
since.

Roman
Casta, on top of her.

Roman
Casta, inside her.

Roman
Casta, owning her.
Dominating
her.

She’d
thought about all that, when she’d seen Roman, and that was when she’d run away
to the broom closet.

Now
Lola was starting to feel warm all over again in all the places he touched her.
She could have sworn she could actually feel his hands on her again, ripping
her dress off, throwing her on his bed, spreading her legs.

Not helping
.

And
it should never have happened in the first place. She kept repeating that to
herself, hoping against hope that her body would listen to her mind and stop
this insanity. Her last break up had totally fucked her up, and Lola hadn’t
been able to come with any Dom since. Her ex had lied to her, and then Roman
had lied to her, refusing to tell her that he had planted the
Sizzle
article to try to control an
inevitable media frenzy, and so she hadn’t been inclined to trust anyone enough
to submit. She’d contented herself with half-hearted domination of Volare newbies
as Mistress Lola, indulging in the Dom side of her switch nature, and she
thought she’d gotten used to it.

Until last night.

Until Roman.

It
didn’t matter that she was furious with him. It didn’t matter that she was
hurt. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t seen the need to apologize for keeping
her in the dark about the whole
Sizzle
thing.
It didn’t matter that she’d told herself she could never trust him again. When
he touched her, she was absolutely helpless.

Oh
God, she was in so much trouble.

Lola
groaned, leaning her head back against the door just as someone knocked on it,
hard.

She
cursed. This was particularly undignified. Hiding in a broom closet wasn’t
exactly how she wanted to start things off. She was the competent, totally in
control, organized Mistress Lola. Mistress Lola did not hide in closets.

“Lola,
I know you are in there. I saw you.”

That voice, like molten silver.
It was Roman. She leaned her head
back against the door and whispered again, “Oh,
shit
.”

“Open
the door,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

Lola
turned around and cracked the door open. Roman glared at her.

“You
are hiding,” he said.

“No,
I’m not.”

He
cocked his
head,
as if he were keeping score and she’d
just lost a point. Well, it
had
been
a stupid lie.

“Step
away from the door, Lola,” he ordered. “Now.”

She
wanted to protest, but there was no point. She could feel him pressing on the
door, opening it slowly so he wouldn’t hurt her, but opening it just the same.
It would be useless to resist. She stepped back into the darker recesses of
what she was glad was a pretty big closet. Still, when Roman stepped in, all
athletic six feet and change of him, it was a tight fit.

He
was so close.

She
could smell his cologne. Not just his cologne—
him
. All male. He was wearing a three-piece suit for the occasion,
an impeccably tailored dark gray suit with a crisp white shirt and a red tie,
just a splash of his Spanish color. It set off his dark olive skin and his
darker jet black hair in a way that made her want to run her hands through that
hair. And then maybe lick his neck.

Wow. Seriously, Lola, get a hold of
yourself.

She
heard a click and a single light bulb overhead flooded the small space with
thin, yellow light. Roman towered above her, his broad shoulders rolling
beneath his suit jacket, his eyes glittering down at her.

Oh
God, that
look
. Like he could control
her with just a thought…

He’d
looked at her like that last night, right before he’d ripped her dress off. Or
was she imagining it? Was she already losing her mind?

“I
just needed a moment,” she said softly, trying to pretend that she couldn’t
hear the beating of her own heart.

Roman
took a deep breath, his chest expanding. His eyes trailed down the length of
her body.

“Why?”
he said.

Why?
Why?
Did he not remember last night?
Lola was pretty sure he’d been there. How was he not completely freaking the
hell out, just like her? How could he be so
in
control?

“Do
you really need to ask that?” she finally said, beginning to feel tingles on
her skin. Roman was dangerous. He was more powerful than any drug—he
didn’t even need to be inside her to make her crazy.

“Yes,”
he said impatiently. “You are hiding because you are frightened. That is why
people hide. Why are you frightened, Lola?”