Marrying the Master

by Chloe Cox

  MARRYING THE MASTER

  A Club Volare Novel

  By

  Chloe Cox

  Copyright 2013 Chloe Cox

  All rights reserved.

  Just a Quick Note…

  No lie, I have been waiting to write Roman and Lola’s story since I first conceived of Club Volare. I’m actually a little speechless now that I’ve gone and done it.

  I don’t know how many of you have experienced this in your own lives, but sometimes the most obvious love is the one that’s right there in front of you. Usually when that happens I kind of feel like nature just has to take its course—even if the two lovebirds have managed to build up some momentum, by that time I definitely don’t want to be in front of it!

  Anyway. Force of nature or no, I find that the loves that are most important to us are the ones that are hardest to confess in real life. Which is a shame, really—those are the people who deserve it the most, right? Anyway, writing about Roman and Lola helped me find a way to tell someone that I loved them. I hope it at least brings you some happiness, if not, you know…more. :)

  Chloe

  prologue

  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 swit
ch 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?”

  Oh shit, could he tell? As well as Lola knew Roman, Roman knew her, too—better than anyone at Volare. Could he tell how she really felt?

  A noxious pit of dread coalesced in Lola’s stomach. If Roman knew how she felt, that she’d wanted him for so long, that she’d only overcome her infatuation with him by sheer force of will, it would ruin everything. He’d have to let her down easy, and he would never touch her again. And there’d be no way they could keep up the pretense of this ridiculous plan if that happened. Volare would be screwed.

  And what the hell, of course she was frightened. Defensively, she hissed, “This is not an everyday thing, Roman! It’s a big deal, what we’re about to do, and we’re lying to, like, everyone, and breaking the law, and—”

  He frowned. “If you are nervous or frightened, especially during the ceremony, it might give us away. It could betray our deception. Remember that this is a performance.”

  A performance. That was the whole problem.

  “Believe me, Roman, I know that.”

  “Then we must make sure that you are not nervous or frightened.”

  He said it so simply, so calmly, looking at her with that maddening look. What did it mean? He gave nothing away. They stood in silence together for a moment, long enough for Lola to realize their breathing was in tune. Everything about their physical selves felt perfect together, like they were made for each other.

  Too bad about the rest—about the person that always came between Roman and anyone else.

  Lola swallowed and tried to stand up straighter. “Listen, I am not—“

  Roman cut her off, getting to the point. “Are you having second thoughts about the arrangement?”

  “No!”

  “Yet you fled my apartment this morning before we could speak.”

  Lola didn’t have an answer to that, at least not while her brain was functioning on limited blood supply. She could feel her pulse between her legs, and the man hadn’t even touched her. Just that commanding tone of voice made her melt.

  Don’t look him in the eye. It’s your only hope.

  “Speak about what?” she said weakly. Maybe if she played dumb she could pretend it wasn’t a big deal.

  Roman’s lip curled in amusement, though he wasn’t fooled. He never was. “Lola, we are standing in a broom closet. There is a justice of the peace waiting. And you are asking questions you already know the answer to.”

  “I don’t know the answer to anything,” she muttered, dropping her eyes. It was the truth. All she knew was that it made her insane to be this close to Roman Casta.

  There was a pause, and then his fingers brushed her cheek, and his hand threaded through her thick red hair. His touch sparked through her like a wildfire. She heard him exhale heavily, almost that low growl she’s heard the night before, and to her shame she craned toward his touch like a helpless puppet. She suddenly felt like she would do anything to feel him touch her more. Anything.

  It was such a dangerous way to feel.

  Especially if he felt it, too.

  “We needed to talk after last night, Lola,” Roman said. “And after this morning. Now we will talk after the ceremony.”

  The ceremony.

  “Maybe we don’t need to talk,” she said quietly, studying the floor intensely. She was still so very aware of his skin against hers. All she could think was that if they actually talked, he might see through her. “We had sex, but we’re both adults. It’s not like it meant anything. So I don’t know what you want to talk about.”

  Another low sound rumbled in Roman’s chest. He was annoyed. He said, “Don’t be foolish. We will have to talk about how this arrangement will work between us. It is clear we will not be able to control ourselves while we must live together and…pretend.”

  “Maybe we can—“

  “No,” he said sharply, and she looked up in alarm. He licked his lips and his eyes roamed over her body. “You proved that last night. You and I…”

  Roman took another deep breath, shaking his head. Roman never hesitated, never cut himself off. Lola had never, ever seen him look so…nonplussed.

  His thumb brushed against her cheek, and she thought she could feel his lust in the air between them, like a massive electrical storm brewing on the horizon. It took her breath away. Finally she looked him in the eye.

  She didn’t think she’d be able to look away ever again.

  “I am no longer myself around you,” he said hoarsely. “I am not…in control. I have no control around you. Around your body. Now that I have tasted you, Lola, it is all that I think about. And I will not stop until
I’ve had my fill. I know this about myself.”

  “I know,” she said. “You’re relentless.”

  “It is best,” he finally said, his gaze resting on her mouth, “to formalize the terms of your submission.”

  Lola’s eyes fluttered at that word. “The terms of my submission,” she repeated, almost in disbelief. She’d thought it, but hearing it said out loud was something else.

  Roman did growl now, a frustrated sound, and wrapped an arm around her waist, his hand on the small of her back, just grazing the curve of her ass. He pulled her close to him, and his other hand twisted in her hair, tilting her face up. He waited just long enough for her to see the look on his face, to see what it meant, and then he crushed her mouth beneath his.

  He was claiming her.

  He felt she was his. At least physically. At least as a sub.

  Lola’s heart thudded out a rapid answer: he was right.

  His tongue parted her lips as his fingers effortlessly unbuttoned the conservative blouse she’d chosen for today, his mouth hot and wet and demanding against hers. His hand was just as insistent, just as impatient with the barriers between him and her body; he pushed aside her shirt and bra, and grabbed her exposed breast with a grunt of satisfaction. He squeezed, hard, just like he had the previous night, and Lola gasped.

  Finally he let her mouth go, the hand that was at her back moving up to grab her hair again. He liked to grab her hair, to pull on it. It drove her wild.

  “Say it,” he said. He rolled her nipple between her fingers, his eyes on fire.

  “Oh God, Roman…”

  Roman buried his face by her neck. “I cannot look at you now without thinking about what you feel like inside, Lola. Without needing to have you. Say it.”

  He pushed his leg between hers, her skirt riding up her thigh as he did so. The hard length of his thigh pressed between her legs, pushing her now very damp underwear against her flesh.

  “You are wet,” he said into her ear, and mercilessly rubbed his leg against her. “Oh, God, Lola. You will submit to me again. I must have your submission, Lola, or I will lose my mind. Say it.”