Marrying the Master (14 page)

Her
dress fell over her shoulders, and he crushed a pair of chopsticks in his fist.

“Keep
going,” he demanded.

She
tugged the fabric down to her waist, baring her breasts. She paused at his
sudden intake of breath, relishing the moment: she was past the point of no
return now. A waiter could come by at any moment. The people in the next room
could be listening. She was getting naked for Roman in the middle of a
restaurant.

“Keep.
Going,” he said again.

Lola
took a deep breath and raised her bottom up off her legs, just enough to shimmy
the dress down to her knees, and then a quick pull and she was naked, but for
her shoes.

“Give
it to me,” Roman said, hand out.

Lola
hesitated. He’d have her clothes. No way for her to cover up at a moment’s
notice, no place to hide.

“I
will
spank you again,” he said. “And I
will do it here. Give them here.”

She
handed over the dress.

He
smiled, folding the dress neatly and placing it behind him. He looked her up
and down very slowly, his face an open display of appreciation.

“My
God,” he whispered. “I may need to have you photographed.”

 
Lola bit her lip. She could feel her
nipples hardening into fine little points, and she was sure she was blushing in
more than once place.

“Now,
what else did you want to talk about?” Roman said, brandishing the remaining
set of chopsticks above the platter of appetizers. It wasn’t just fried little
fish and crabs, there were cuts of sashimi, figs wrapped in cured meats, and
about four things she couldn’t immediately identify.

A
peal of laughter from the next room cut through the momentary silence, and Lola
was suddenly reminded of her predicament. She hadn’t ever submitted like this,
in public, to anyone. She was unbelievably turned on, but also…frightened.

“Roman,”
she whispered, “Is this really a good idea? I’m naked, and—”

He
silenced her by reaching across the table and pinching her nipple with his
chopsticks as though it were just another morsel. It was a sharp sensation, the
kind of thing that balanced deliriously on the border between pleasure and
pain, and thus intensified both. Her pulse quickened.

“I
do not think you have had very good doms, Lola,” Roman said. “You are such a
natural submissive, and you have not even known it. There has been no one to
show you.”

“Roman…”

“Yes,
they might hear you.”

Lola
listened: the silence indicated that they had. Hadn’t it?

“We
said we’d be exclusive,” she breathed.

Roman
smiled, and tweaked her nipple with the chopsticks. “No one else will touch you
as long as I have a say in it, Lola. But I am only human. I will show you off.”

Lola
felt drunk. She’d chugged coffee, just in case she’d been tipsy, but nothing
could sober her up from this. Roman Casta, talking about showing her off. About
how much he wanted her. About the things he was going to do to her.

“Lola,”
he said, beckoning with his free hand. “Come here, and tell me what you wanted
to talk about.”

She
crawled over to him—
crawled
,
where did that come from? It was instinctive, naked, on these ridiculous
cushions—and he quickly pulled her onto his lap. Her nakedness felt all
the more total next to his expensive clothing; it was like an outward
expression of their power arrangement. She felt like a coveted possession.

“Um.
I wanted to talk to you about an idea,” she said. He had threaded one arm
around her and had abandoned the chopsticks and appetizers to fondle her
absently while she talked. It made talking about even simple things a bit of a
challenge. “Stella thinks we should have a big wedding ceremony.
For the papers.
For publicity.”

He
was rolling her nipple between his fingers again, and smiling at the evident
effect it had on her.

“What
a coincidence,” he said, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Ford thinks we
will have to run a public relations campaign. That should serve both purposes.”

“Hmm?”

He
dropped his hand to her thighs, and pushed between her legs, flicking at her
vulva. She started, and tightened her arm around his neck.

“Roman…”

“Do
you agree?”

“What?”

He
laughed outright now. “Tell Stella to make it the greatest show on earth. We
have to fight a publicity war now. You two can organize, simply give us the
dates.”

“Sure,”
she breathed, and moved her leg to give him better access. It didn’t matter: he
was just torturing her. His finger teased her, grazing her flesh at will,
giving her no release.

Some
part of her was amazed. Some part of her kept thinking,
He can make you do anything
.

“Give
me wine,” he said.

She
looked around—there were just the specially shaped carafes, like
scientific beakers with long spouts. Roman had poured an elegant stream of wine
into his mouth from a great distance. Lola didn’t want to be outdone.

She
picked up the carafe and tipped it from a few feet, pouring the wine in a long
arc into Roman’s open mouth. She even knew when to stop. She felt somehow even
more servile, even more…

His
submissive.

“Very
good,” he said, and the arm he had wrapped around her waist moved briefly to
give her a pat her ass.

“You
shmuck,” she said, smiling.

“You
liked it,” he countered, and tweaked both her nipples. “There. That’s better. I
want you to be properly adorned when the waiter arrives.”

“The
what
?”

But
there was already a knock on the wooden frame. Lola startled like a frightened
bird, and looked at the flimsy rice paper door that separated them—and
her nakedness—from the rest of the restaurant.

Of
course the waiter would be coming by.
Of course
.
It was a freaking restaurant.

“I
know this place,” Roman said.

The
door slid open. The young waiter gawked. Roman said, very calmly, very firmly,
“Come in and close the door.”

Lola
clung to Roman. She was simultaneously furious and thrilled. She felt like she
was on display—well, not felt
like
,
she absolutely
was
on display—and
at the same time completely safe. She didn’t doubt for a second that Roman
would break any number of laws to protect her.

“Give
us the Catalan
omakase
,” Roman said,
handing the speechless young waiter a wad of cash. “And tell the rest of your colleagues
not to come by this room, yes?”

The
young man, all of about twenty, stared open mouthed at Lola. Somehow it made
her feel…powerful. She tightened her grip on Roman’s neck, and extend one leg
across his lap.

He
squeezed her leg in approval.

“Yes
sir,” the waiter finally said.

“You
won’t want to draw attention to us, will you?” Roman asked. It was technically
a question, but he used the Dom voice. So really, no human mortal could
actually question it. Lola smiled into his neck.

“No,
sir,” quavered the poor waiter.

“Good.
Close the door behind you.”

Lola
heard the door slide shut. The room next door was full of chatter, oblivious to
what Lola and Roman might be up to. They were alone.

“Dinner
will arrive in twenty minutes,” Roman said, unwinding her arms from around his
neck and pushing sideways onto the cushions so that she lay down, her exposed
pussy facing him. “I want to work up an appetite.”

Lola
started to protest, but felt his big hands pin her one useful arm uselessly
behind her back. She looked back at him, unable to keep herself from smiling.
“You are unbelievable,” she said.

“You
have no idea,” he said, unzipping his fly.

“You
are really going to fuck me here,” she gasped.

“Yes,”
he said. “And I’m going to fuck you well.”

One
hand came around her front, greedily fondling her breasts, as he came into
position. “Don’t make too much noise,” he said with a smile.

And
then he pushed into her. She gasped, not quite believing he would do it. He was
fucking her sideways in the middle of a restaurant. He expected her to keep
quiet, while all of him—
all
of
him—thrust into her.

He
thrust again, even deeper, feeling larger than he ever had because of their
position, her legs nearly crossed in front of her, and she couldn’t help it:
she cried out.

The
conversation in the adjacent room stopped. Lola bit the soft flesh on her upper
left arm. Roman pumped harder. He leaned over her, and whispered in her ear.

“If
I have to pay more in bribes because you were too loud,” he said between
thrusts, “I think we will have to do this all over again.”

Lola
buried her face to keep from crying out, smiling despite her best efforts. No
other man had been able to make her laugh and come at the same time.

Roman
checked his watch for the third time, and wondered again what Lola was doing.

Rather,
he wondered about various ways he could do Lola.

It
was
maddening
. Here he was, having
lunch with the very pretty, very obviously curious reporter that Ford had set
him up with, and still all he could think about was Lola.
Lola’s
eyes.
Her legs. Her ass. The way she looked when she came.

“So
tell me about your wife,” Denise Nelson said.

Roman
felt like he’d been hit.

That
word—wife. It was a word he hadn’t used much in recent years. It was a
word that made him think of Samantha. It always took him a moment to realize
that now people meant Lola.

“Did
I say something wrong?” Denise asked.

“No,
of course not,” Roman said.

Denise
Nelson gave him a long, thoughtful look. She was sharp—her questions so
far had indicated that she knew exactly what the situation was with Harold
Jeels, and she knew exactly why Roman had agreed to an interview. She wouldn’t
be an easy ally, nor would she allow herself to be manipulated. Roman had to
make sure that it was genuinely in her best interests to write stories that
helped Volare.

He
got the sense that she smelled blood.

“You
were married before, weren’t you?” Denise asked.

Roman
tensed. This was exactly the sort of conversation he wanted to avoid. “I do not
think that is relevant,” he said.

“Of
course it’s relevant. It was a tragic story.”

“You
do not think it is poor taste to discuss my late first wife when asking about
my current wife?” He was beginning to lose his patience.

“I
think it’s interesting that when I asked about your wife, you thought of
Samantha Casta.”

Roman
laughed bitterly, even though he felt like he’d just been punched in the gut.
He couldn’t help it. He’d just wondered how he could get himself to stop
thinking about Lola constantly, like it was some sort of addiction, a weakness,
and here was a journalist claiming that he couldn’t stop thinking about
Samantha.

The
terrible thing was that he hadn’t thought about Samantha as much, since he and
Lola… No. Samantha was never far from his thoughts. But it was true, undeniably
true, that he hadn’t felt the weight of grief and guilt as heavily as he once
did. What did that mean? What did that make him?

Why
did it take a nosy journalist to point that out to him?

Roman
shifted in his chair. He didn’t know what to do with that realization. He felt
nauseous with guilt.

Why?

“Have
you ever lost someone close to you, Ms. Nelson?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Are
they ever completely gone from your thoughts? Do they just vanish?”

Denise
looked at her uneaten salad and said, “Fair point. But this is a human interest
story, Mr. Casta—”

“Call
me Roman.”

Denise
smiled, the first sign of pleasure he’d seen from her. She was trying too hard
to be the hard-nosed journalist, and then in moments like this she
revealed…something.
Perhaps more than a professional interest
in Volare.

“All
right, Roman,” she said. “Samantha’s death is part of the public record,
because it was so sudden. There was that inquest. A congenital heart defect,
something no one could have known about, if I remember correctly. But there
were reports that just before she died—”

“You
may call me Roman,” he interrupted, “But know that if you ask me about my first
wife’s death again, this interview will be over, and I will speak candidly with
your toughest competitor instead.”