Marrying the Master (18 page)

She
definitely wasn’t prepared for him to be sitting at one end of the immense
kitchen counter, waiting.

Waiting
for her.

Lola
froze, stunned all over again by the feral male beauty of the man. He was
still, his
eyes
burning with that intensity she’d come
to expect. She’d never figure out how he did it, but his stare held her
motionless, like a hunter cornering his prey. He only sat, his back perfectly
straight, his muscular frame perfectly outlined by his crisp white shirt, his
dark skin almost golden in the warm afternoon light.

Lola
licked her lips. She knew he was waiting for her to speak, to ask, to serve.
Everything about him exuded dominance.

“Have
you eaten?” she asked. “I could cook something.”

He
didn’t answer, merely raised an eyebrow. They’d only eaten take out, sometimes
not even together, since she’d “moved in.” Her offer to cook him dinner was the
first suggestion of domesticity, of…marriage.
Of normal
people marriage.
What the hell had made her do that? She hadn’t even
thought about it; it had just come out.

Oh
God, what was he thinking? Why did she want him again already?

“Roman,
maybe we should talk.”

He
rose suddenly, exhaling in one long, slow breath. He had her pinned with his
eyes; she hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even put down her paper coffee cup.

“Agreed.
After.”

“After?”

“Come
here.”

She
started walking before she could even think. Her body belonged more to him than
it did to her.

Did
he know?

Did
he like it?

The
closer she got to him, the more she felt it: that familiar charge, the thing
that started to invade her brain whenever they were close. Her breathing was
shallow, her skin warm,
her
pussy already moist.
Whatever he did to her made her more aware of her body than she’d ever been.
She felt every motion, every breeze,
every
casual
brush of fabric…

He
stood by the end of the brushed stainless steel counter, his eyes dragging her
in close. Lola wasn’t short, but he towered over her. His sleeves were rolled
up, exposing muscular forearms and large hands. His top button was undone, the
top of his chest visible.

She
reached out to touch him.

He
grabbed her hand.

“I
did not give you permission to touch me,” he said.

Lola
snapped to attention. That was… She recognized that. That was formal. That was
domination. That was controlled, not the impulsive ferocity of animal Roman.

She
almost groaned, fighting against it. She just wanted him
now
.

“Look
at me,” he ordered.

She
did. His jaw was clenched, and a vein throbbed in his forehead. He looked like
he was struggling, too.

“This
has gone on too long, Lola,” he said. “It’s too chaotic.
Too
unstructured.
Without boundaries.
That is my
responsibility. I have been…remiss. I intend to correct that now.”

A
thrill rippled through her at his words, and at the same time some part of her
balked: that would mean distance between them. The only time they were close
now was in that wordless space where they had incredible, mindless sex in those
uncontrolled, un-scene-like fits.

But oh God, the prospect of a proper scene with Roman.
She wanted him all the ways it was
possible to have him.

“Yes,
sir,” she whispered.

He
took the coffee cup from her hand and placed it on the counter. For the first
time she noticed there was a small velvet bag there.

“I
never properly disciplined you for hiding from me at the clerk’s office,” he
said casually, reaching for the bag. “Did you think I’d forgotten?”

There
was a small, hard smile on his lips. Lola stiffened.

“No.”

“Good.”

Roman
casually began unbuttoning her blouse without even looking, his deft fingers
completing the task with practiced skill.

“Look
straight ahead, Lola,” he said. She heard a metallic
clink
on the counter. Apparently he’d found what he’d been looking
for in that bag, and he wanted it to be a surprise.

He
turned his attention back to her, and pulled her blouse completely off. Her bra
followed. He paused then,
then
took a moment to play
with her nipples. She felt him smile as they hardened in his hands.

“So
perfect,” he said. “Do not move.”

He
bent down, one hand still kneading her breast, his grip getting harder,
rougher, and pulled her skirt over one hip, then the other. She was only in her
underwear and stockings now. His free hand roamed freely over her body, tracing
the curves and planes, teasing her stomach, where she fluttered at his touch.
He removed her underwear, careful not to disturb the stockings.

“Step
out of them.”

She
did, trying to control her breathing. She had become spoiled. Holding out for
gratification, not touching him, not having him immediately inside
her—she was starting to sweat.

He
slipped his hand between her shuddering thighs and kissed her stomach. Then he
swiped one finger along her slit, coming away wet.

“Good,”
he said, standing up. He reached for whatever was on the counter—she
hadn’t looked; she could still obey—and then she felt the sharp bite of
clamps on her nipples.

She
sucked in her breath.

“These
are on a lead, Lola,” he said. “Don’t fall behind.”

And
he walked off, a light metal chain trailing behind him.

Lola
felt the first tug on her nipples, the clamps biting into her flesh even more,
and began tottering after him, unsteady on her heels for the first time in her
adult life. The pain was just the sharp kind to drive her pleasure, and the
sight of Roman walking imperially ahead of her…

He
tugged on the chain again, two sharp pulls, two sensations streaking through
her body to her throbbing sex.

“Come
on, Lola,” he said lightly.

He
led her down the stairs to the floor where most of the private rooms were, and
into a wing she hadn’t been in before. The lighting was more subdued here.
Dark, dramatic lighting.

Roman
opened the last door on the end, and led her through.

It
was a giant playroom.

Roman
had led her to a playroom that had already been prepared.

There
was a padded spanking bench on one end, and suspension restraints rigged on the
other. There was a St. Andrew’s
Cross
on the far wall,
and the sidewalls were decorated with various tools, the way a medieval hall
would have weapons. In the center was a bed.

Lola
felt her eyes widen. She hadn’t played with any of this stuff, not as a sub, in
so long…

Roman
began to wrap the chain around his hand, drawing Lola forward. Her nipples
screamed; her sensitivity was increasing. She felt warm and flushed, and she
looked down to find a pink blush spreading from her chest outwards. The silver
glint of the nipple clamps caught her attention, and the sight of herself,
clamped and chained for Roman, heated her.

“Lola,”
he said sharply. “On the bench.”

Lola
bit her lip to keep from smiling. This was shaping up to be more ‘funishment’
than punishment, and she was absolutely, one hundred percent ok with that.

She
mounted the spanking bench, mindful of the chain still attached to her nipples,
and bent over it. Her breast came just over the edge of the padding, her arms
on two armrests extending from the bench, her knees resting in the stirrups.
She took a moment to center herself, already feeling like she could slip into
subspace; her pulse thundered in her core.

Roman
walked around to her front. He lifted her chin and unclipped the chain from the
clamps. Then he fastened restraints around both of her wrists. He moved behind
her, and she felt the leather restraints close around both of her ankles.

Then
the stirrups swiveled on their hinges and spread her legs.

Roman
placed one hand on the back of her calf and swept over the length of her body
in one long caress.

“This
won’t be funishment, Lola,” he whispered in her ear.

Oh fuck.
Of course he could read her mind.
Of course.

She
tried to shift, but the restraints held fast. The clamps brushed against the
edge of the bench, and she either whimpered or moaned—she couldn’t tell.

The
next thing she felt was a leather edge drawing a line down the back of her leg.
He was tracing the seam of her stocking with…a riding crop?

She
shivered.

“Why
did you hide from me, Lola?” he asked.

“I
told you,” she said, her body clenching and unclenching in anticipation, “I
just needed a moment.”

The
crop snapped on the back of her thighs, just below the curve of her ass. She
jolted, the nipple clamps providing a stinging chaser.

“That
is a half truth, no?” he said, lazily running the crop up the inside of her
thighs.

Her
mind raced. What did he want her to say? The truth was that she had been
overcome with the sight of
him
. That
she had been overwhelmed by what had happened, scared that she couldn’t take
it, that she’d only get her heart broken again…

“It’s
true,” she lied.

He
hit her again, harder, right on the tenderest flesh, and she cried out. Tears
pricked her eyes, and she thought, weirdly, about how she hadn’t felt actually
pain in a scene in so long.

She
was remembering why she liked it.

It
was starting to drive her higher, higher, up to a place where most of her
anxieties fell away…

He
hit her again.

And again.

Ten
quick strokes, until she was flying.

“Roman,”
she sobbed.

“Tell
me,” he said.

“You
were too much,” she gasped. “I couldn’t… I was afraid.”

She
felt something else now—still leather, but round—tracing patterns
on the sensitive skin of her buttocks. Whatever it was trailed down, slowly,
until it made gentle circles around her entrance.

“Afraid
of what?”

He
didn’t wait for an answer, but slowly penetrated her with the handle of the
crop. She groaned, clenching around it, aching for release.

He
pulled it out.

“Afraid
of what, Lola?”

“You.”

There
was a pause. Maybe she imagined it.

“Me?
Why?”

She
shook her head, desperately thinking of a way to back track.

“No,”
she said, her words coming between gasps. “Us. I was afraid of us.”

She
heard him hiss. She thought he’d hit her again—she wanted it, wanted the
release of more pain and pleasure. Instead she heard a
click
followed by the buzz of a vibrator, and her vision went white
as he pressed it directly against her clit.

She
screamed something—but not in words.

He
pulled away just as she came close to the edge.

“Roman!”
she screamed, rattling her restraints, her nipples burning, “
Please
.”

“No.”

She
screamed in frustration this time. He spanked her with his open hand, harder
than she would have thought possible.

She
closed her eyes, and when she opened them again he was standing in front of
her. She raised her head to try to look at him and wondered why he hadn’t asked
more questions. Why he hadn’t followed up.

Instead
he removed the clamps from her nipples. She hung her head as he started to play
with her breasts, rolling her painfully engorged nipples between his fingers,
driving her more insane. Her whole body was primed for him.

“What
frightened you about us, Lola?” he said very softly.

She
groaned. She couldn’t. She couldn’t say it. The words wouldn’t form.

“I
can’t,” she said. “I don’t know how...”

His
fingers squeezed her bruised nipples. She craved more.

He
bent down, tucked her damp hair behind her ear, and kissed her harshly. She
felt tears begin to fall, and then he was gone, moving behind her again, and
she found herself hoping he would beat her red and raw, hoping for the kind of
pain that could finally, finally release this pressure of knowing she was
probably in love with this man she couldn’t have.

She
felt cold, thick lube fall between her butt cheeks, and her back arched at the
shock. Again she pulled against the restraints, and again she was reminded that
she was helpless.