Marrying the Master (11 page)

He
growled again, a sound she had come to love, and moved inside her mercilessly,
his whole body pumping into hers. She watched herself bloom under him in that
mirror, and for the first time in months, she felt like herself.

“Again,”
he said.

Her
body obeyed his voice of its own volition, again and again. The last thing she
thought as her mind left her was: This. This is right.

Hours
later, Lola eased into wakefulness, various parts of her body protesting more
than others. She was sore. There was light glinting off of something, directly
in her eyes. She moved and stopped: holy shit she was sore.

It
came back to her in a slow trickle, and then all at once, in a flood.

Roman.

Oh
God, she hadn’t dreamed it. She hadn’t dreamed any of that. The party, the
lies, the lies becoming true…or not true, but half true. Roman nearly killing
Benjamin just for showing up, Roman chasing her down, Roman showing her what
she was.

Roman inside her.

She
shivered at the memory. And then came the worry: this wasn’t any man. Any
dom
. Only he didn’t know it, didn’t know how long she’d
wanted him, didn’t know how this could feel for her.

Or
did he? He’d said he’d wanted her always. She hadn’t dreamed that, had she?

Lola
kept her eyes closed, not wanting to face the day, or the differences she was
sure it would bring. But she had to. She had to at least face him. Maybe it
wouldn’t be so bad. Not so different. Maybe it would work.

She
opened her eyes and rolled over to find an empty bed.

And
then she remembered: of course, Roman Casta never sleeps with his conquests.
Never in the same bed.
He’d brought her to his bed, fucked
her unconscious, and then left.

She
was no different after all. She should have known that. She
did
know that—so why was she so
disappointed?

Lola
sat up, pulling the soft red sheet with her—not silk, not satin, just
some impossibly high thread count cotton. Softer.
More
comfortable.
And of course, red.
She looked
around the room, taking it
in
as she couldn’t have the
previous night, trying hard not to dwell on the fact that he was very much not
there.

It
was…less showy than his office in Volare proper. Not quite so ornate. The
mirror looked like an antique—oh God, the mirror; she couldn’t help but
remember the sight of him taking her from behind. Looking into it now she saw
herself blush, her pale skin reddening to match her unruly hair.

She
looked
away,
saw a dark wood bureau with photographs.
An old one, back in Spain: his mother? A grandmother? She thought his parents
had died, that he had no family.
Another picture, this one of
a young, pretty woman, smiling blissfully into the camera, brown hair, blue
eyes, an unaccountably kind expression.

Samantha
.

Lola
was very sure now that she was the only woman who’d seen the inside of this
room in years. He wouldn’t let anyone see that picture. She didn’t know what to
do with this information. Roman left no clues. He didn’t stay to explain.

Lola
got up, propelled herself off the bed, wrapping the sheet around her. It hissed
as she pulled it from the bed, chasing her as she made a foolish tour of the
room, looking for clothing.
No, he
destroyed the dress
. She smiled. She’d be able to feel that memory for the
rest of her life.

She’d
be thinking of this night when she was old and grey. She’d remember it long
after she’d forgotten everything else.

“Ok,
no time to be maudlin,” she said.

If
she were any judge by the light streaming in, they had an appointment with a
justice of the peace in only a few hours, and Lola did not want to show up for
her first wedding, fake and rushed and calculating though it may be, with a
head full of confusion and fear.

She
needed time to think.

She
opened the door, ready to charge through and get changed, and stopped in her
tracks.

There
was Roman. Asleep on an expensive, uncomfortable looking modernist divan, a
piece of furniture that looked more decorative than functional, but that
happened to be located directly across from what was undeniably
his
bedroom. The bedroom where he’d
fucked her, and where he’d allowed her to sleep. He was sprawled out, barely
covered by a fleece blanket, his heavily developed pecs rising and falling
slowly in the soft light. He looked peaceful.

She
had never seen him like this before, had never seen this side of him. And yet
the man she watched while he slept looked like someone she had known, had cared
for, forever.

No. That is a dangerous way of
thinking.

It
was just sex. It is always just sex with Roman. And she was not some
inexperienced dummy who confused an excellent fuck with love.

“Get
your shit together, Lola,” she muttered, and proceeded to do exactly that.

Roman
came awake all at once, as though he’d only just closed his eyes, and looked
immediately at his bedroom door.

It
hung ominously open.

She
was not there.

She
was not anywhere.

He
checked the entire apartment, all fourteen rooms and two floors of it, his
sense of foreboding growing with every empty, untouched room. She had rifled
through her suitcases and used the shower and somehow he had slept through all
of it.

And
she was gone.

Roman
returned to his stupidly expensive divan and sat, running his hands through his
hair. He had specifically chosen this spot to avoid this very scenario. He did
not want Lola waking up and wondering too long, or having to chase him down.
She had fallen asleep—passed out, more accurately—before he’d had a
chance to explain, to the extent that he could explain this…situation, and he
hadn’t been able to bring himself to wake her. She’d looked happy. Content.
Peaceful.
For the first time in months.
So much so
that he hadn’t realized how accustomed he’d become to lines of worry on her
face, to anguished expressions that she thought she’d hidden.

It
had made him angry
at
Benjamin Mara all over again.

He
had even thought, for just a moment, of staying. Of letting
himself
fall asleep next to her. It was the only time he’d considered it seriously, in
all the years since…

But
he could not, in the end: the risk was too great. Whatever happened, he did not
want to lose Lola. Did not want to think of anyone else when he looked at her.
Did not want to fill those moments that they had together with grief.

Instead,
he’d dragged a piece of furniture halfway across his apartment and fallen
asleep like a dog waiting at the end of the bed. And he’d
still
missed her.

He
was so preoccupied with these thoughts, with rushing to get dressed so that he
wouldn’t miss their first fake wedding, knowing that she would be there because
she was Lola and she would never fail the people who counted on her, that it
wasn’t until he was already walking up the steps of the city clerk’s office
that he allowed himself to think:
Christ,
Lola
.

He’d
had Lola.

He
stood there, frozen, a huge monolithic statue in the way of any number of
people on their way to and from demanding jobs, that one thought echoing in his
head: he’d had Lola.

He
was certain of nothing except one thing: he had to have her again.

Ford
was waiting for him outside the appointed room with that same evil grin that
Roman had noticed the previous night.

“Where’s
Lola?” Ford asked, doing his best impression of innocence.

“She’ll
be here.”

The
grin faded slowly. Ford stepped closer, his voice lower.

“Roman,
did it go badly? Did something happen?”

Roman
stared at him. There was no way to answer this, not without talking to Lola
herself. It had not gone badly for him,
of
that he
could be sure. But his worry for her, and his irritation at her disappearance,
grew with every passing moment.

Roman’s
silence, however, spoke volumes.

Ford
stepped back. “Holy shit.”

“Do
not say anything, Ford,” Roman warned. “Do not intrude on her business. Leave
her alone unless she asks to talk to you.”

“It’s
not just her business, Roman, or yours. I’m Volare’s lawyer. I have
responsibilities. Hey—”

Roman
brushed past him, unhearing. He’d just seen Lola approach from the other end of
the hall, look at him, and dodge into a side door like she was in some
screwball comedy.

Not
just a side door.
A utility closet.

He
sighed, and knocked on the door.

“Lola,
I know you’re in there.”

She
opened the door a crack, and he stifled a laugh at her bashful expression. He
pushed his way in and somehow managed to keep his face stern.
Even in the terrible light of a—a broom closet?
Lola
was beautiful. She had the look of someone who’d just been caught doing
something she shouldn’t, and it made him hungry for her. Again.

Well,
truthfully, she could read the phonebook, and it would turn him on.

He
demanded to know why she was hiding in a broom closet. She evaded,
disassembled,
avoided
his eye. Roman realized they
would have to formalize this arrangement. They needed rules, explicit rules,
like any D/s arrangement. It had been foolish to have sex without taking care
of that first, but it had happened.

Still,
none of that accounted for Lola, unflappable Lola, choosing to hide in a broom
closet.
Lola, frightened.
A terrible thought struck
him.

“Are
you having second thoughts about the arrangement?” he asked bluntly.

“No!”

He
should not have felt such relief.

He
should have been able to keep himself from touching her.

So
many ‘shoulds.’

He
could do two things for her: give her certainty about their arrangement, and
give her something to feel besides fear.

That
was when he kissed her. And once he kissed her, he had to have her. His hands
seem to move on their own, undoing buttons, stripping away clothing. Her
nipples was
already hard and pointed, already so sensitive.

“Say
it,” he heard himself say. “
Say it
.”

Her
face, gorgeous and glowing with the flush of excitement, an instant reminder of
how she’d looked when she’d come for him the night before, and he thought it
had been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“I’ll
do anything you want, Roman,” she said. “Anything.”

She
made him
insane
.

He
spun her around, her back to him, and pushed her towards the shelves to give
her something to hold onto. He could make sure neither of them thought of risks
or dangers or fear when they walked into that room. He could make sure she felt
only aftershocks.

She
felt even better, coming around his cock, than he’d remembered. They both made
it through the ceremony with dazed, blissful looks, and it was only as they
were leaving that Roman thought: man and wife.

Now
it gets complicated.

~ * ~ * ~

“Why
does it have to be so complicated?” Lola groaned.

“Wait,
wait, wait—you had sex in the broom closet? At city hall?” Stella said.
She was gesturing with a fork full of salad while the two of them sat outside
at their favorite Italian place. It was unseasonably warm, but it was still
March, and they were the only two New Yorkers brave enough (or stubborn enough)
to insist on eating outside.

Lola
closed her eyes. It was like she lost all ability to think around Roman, now.
Like she’d broached security, and now there was no holding back years of pent
up desire.

“Yeah.”

“And,
just to clarify, this is after you had sex last night? After he threw the
Bastard Ben out of Volare? Which, by the way, what the hell with Ben showing
up.” Stella’s expression became grim, but then she remembered the real reason
for their meeting. “Holy shit, it’s not totally a fake marriage anymore, is it?”

“Hey!”
Lola opened her eyes in alarm. She had to stop that kind of talk at all costs.
“No, nothing has changed. We’re…I don’t know. But Roman is still Roman, and if
you let me forget that I’m going to get my heart broken, so could you please…?”

“Right,
sorry.” Stella chewed thoughtfully. “I’ll just pretend like that has ever
worked, ever.”