by Chloe Cox
“I do not care. Speak about the relationship, speak about how you feel, but never forget that he is beneath you.” He gripped her waist tighter and sought out her hand. “Never.”
Now Lola’s eyes flashed, and she pulled herself up to her full height. How did she put it? She could switch gears on a dime? She’d always said it was a redhead trait. He could see that she’d switched into ‘angry.’
“You don’t have to tell me that, Roman, believe me. That doesn’t change my current lack of credibility as a sub. I haven’t felt…I haven’t been sure of myself in that role, especially not publicly, since Benjamin. And no, you do not get to tell me how to speak about my relationships, no matter how disastrous, because they are mine.”
Roman smiled, unable to stop himself even though he knew it would annoy her. He loved her fire. Always had, and, likely to his detriment, he always would. But now it seemed to be covering something, something more vulnerable, some core of hurt that she still carried with her. The trust that submission required had always put Roman in awe of any true submissive, and Lola was no exception. He could not imagine what it was like to have that trust betrayed, to feel as though you could never be your full self again because someone had chosen to hurt you instead of cherish you.
Something low in him wanted to simply go out and hurt the man who had done this. Something else made him want to stay here and fix it.
He drew her in, wanting to make sure she understood this.
“Lola,” he said, “just because you have not found a man worthy of your submission does not change who you are. I see you. I know you. Do not forget that.”
She blinked, her red lips parted. Roman didn’t know what she had expected, but it was apparently not that.
He went on, “You will find your way. I will lead you. From this moment on, in public, you are my submissive. Do you understand?”
Roman put his hand under her chin, and raised it gently. “Answer me.”
It was an unmistakable order.
“Yes, sir,” Lola said, surprising herself. He could see that it had been an automatic response.
Roman liked hearing those words far too much. For a moment his dominant self gained the upper hand over his conscience, and he had to take several steadying breaths. If they were not very, very careful, they would both find out what happened when the walls fell.
chapter 6
Lola had been having second thoughts about all of it—about risking her own heart playing submissive to Roman’s Dom, about tempting Roman until she had proved that she affected him even a little bit, and most of all, about playing with fire—right up until he said those words.
Just because you haven’t found a man worthy of your submission doesn’t change who you are.
I see you. I will lead you.
Mine.
Every anxious thought rattling around inside her head faded in the face of those words. She melted all over again. She wished he could see what he did to her. Wished they weren’t blinded to each other by sheer familiarity. Wished he took her seriously enough to want her for his own.
Did he? She had been crushed when she’d found out he didn’t respect her enough to tell her about that stupid Sizzle article, or about Catie’s undercover intentions. But he had just said those words: I see you.
She was powerless to say no. Didn’t want to say no, even though she knew that would be the smart thing to do.
And so here she was, being led by the hand across the room by Master Roman, feeling every member of the club she’d helped build watch in awed silence. Word must have already spread, and if it hadn’t, they only had to see Roman’s body language. He was all Dom, and all of it was directed at Lola.
Oh God. Already she felt overwhelmed by him. She was shaky, unsteady. And while theoretically the presence of a strong Dom would be the exact thing she needed, it was Roman, and how he had such a hold over her while she had nothing on him, that made her feel so…weak.
“Roman,” she said, pulling a little bit on his hand. He turned, his expression one of concern. Intense concern. She swallowed. “How are we going to do this, exactly? How are we going to…come out?”
“We are going to be,” he said, and drew her in to another searing, sealing kiss.
This one could leave no doubt in anyone’s mind, at least about Lola’s feelings. Her whole body betrayed her and responded to him, as though it had found its true master, and it definitely wasn’t her. The warmth spread from his lips to hers, down her neck to her chest, her breasts, to her churning, molten core.
He pulled away, leaving her panting, his head still close to hers, his breath warm on her cheek.
“Like that,” he said.
And he pulled her, dazed, the rest of the way to a poker table. As though to put an exclamation point on that very public kiss, Roman sat down languidly in a wide, comfortable armchair and pulled Lola down onto his lap.
It took Lola a second or two to regain her bearings. She wasn’t imagining it: everything stopped for a second while the whole room watched them. Slowly normal conversation began again—though it was now hushed, maybe—only with eyes still on them. She turned to the table, hoping for some relief, and was sorely disappointed: here was Ford, grinning evilly, and Jackson Reed, looking astonished and pleased, and a newer member, a man whose eyes she’d felt on her more than once: Salvador Benes.
Great. They were playing poker.
“Does this mean what I think it means?” Salvador asked, reaching for his drink.
Roman’s arm tightened around her, and Lola felt herself begin to flush.
“What do you think, Salvador?” Roman said.
Salvador shrugged and gestured to the cards. “We waited for you.”
Roman reached over, and Lola could only think about how close his mouth came to her breasts, which were practically falling out of her dress to begin with. It was sort of the point of that particular dress. And now she was sitting on Roman’s lap, while men she knew watched, open-mouthed.
She felt dizzy.
“I call,” Roman said, and settled back into his seat, squeezing Lola to him like this was all totally normal. Like this was a thing they did. The new sub who was dealing caught her eye and gave her a commiserating smile, like, Doms, I know.
Lola risked a look at Ford. He was really smiling just way too much.
Alyssa dealt out another card, and Salvador immediately said, “Raise.” He threw a bunch of heavy chips in the pot, and held Roman’s eye. Ford laughed and folded, and Jackson was already out of the hand.
“Re-raise.” Roman threw his own chips in. Lola was starting to feel like a prop, like a plaything—and she liked it.
Really liked it. And she was sure Roman could tell.
Dammit. He already had her. Already. It wasn’t even half fair.
Salvador’s eyes were on her now; she could feel them. There was something in the air, some hint of male pheromones, the kind of thing you could feel right before men did something incredibly stupid.
And here it was: “I had no idea Lola was a submissive,” Salvador said.
Roman corrected, “She’s my submissive.”
He rubbed his hand up the length of her thigh. Lola inhaled sharply.
“You know, I wouldn’t have believed it, either,” Ford said, leaning back.
“Call,” Salvador said. Alyssa dealt the final card, but Salvador didn’t even look. He was staring at Lola.
She took a deep breath and turned slightly to Roman. His hand tightened on her thigh. Each time he moved, she was torn: she wanted it, oh God, did she want it, but part of her was still fighting for self-preservation. After those kisses, she knew: if she gave in, it would be all in. She’d be lost to the way she felt about Roman. And it might be worse than she knew.
“Your action, Salvador,” Roman said.
“It’s a pity she’s off the market,” Salvador said, ignoring Roman. “Care to bet her?”
Lola shot him a glare—a decidedly un-submissive glare. “N
o,” she said.
There was a pause.
Salvador chuckled. “Are you very sure that she is your submissive, Roman?”
Lola could hear the low growl in Roman’s throat, could feel his fingers digging into her flesh. She closed her eyes and rode the pleasure that all of those things gave her. She opened them when she felt his hand slip inside her dress and cup her breast, his fingers on her bare skin.
“She says no to you because she knows that she is mine,” Roman said. “Mine.”
He pinched her nipple, and she jumped. She heard laughter.
Oh shit.
She loved it. But she was fighting it. Why? She wanted it, she enjoyed every single second, and fighting it was costing them. It was costing Volare. With their luck, Salvador Benes would be the first person Harold Jeels found, the first one he interviewed, and he’d spin a tale of fraud and deception. For what, her pride? No, not even. Her fear. She was afraid of falling completely into Roman Casta.
“Oh, fuck it,” she said under her breath, and bent down to Roman’s ear. “Yours,” she whispered, and nipped his earlobe.
Roman’s hips shifted under her, and the growl became louder. Lola was wet, and she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Roman would know just how turned on she was in only a few moments, if he didn’t already. Lola closed her eyes against both the humiliation and the heat that that aroused in her.
“Come on, Roman, what is your price?” she heard Salvador say with naked urgency in his voice. “How much to bet a submissive Lola?”
Roman’s hand left her breast abruptly, so quickly she was almost hurt by its absence—and then it was there again, on her thigh, rushing up her leg…
“Priceless,” Roman said. “If you look at her once more I will throw you out myself, I swear to God.”
And, under the table, his hand found her core—and found her bare, and very, very wet.
Lola opened her eyes in shock, and looked at Roman. He met her eyes, and shifted his hips—and then she felt him.
He was rock hard.
For her.
Her fantasy, her unattainable man—he wanted her. He was hard because he wanted to fuck her. She had done this; she could do this. The rush was instant, the adrenaline flooding her brain and drowning what remained of rational, cautious thought.
She bit her lip and moved her hips against him.
His eyes bored into her, a single vein in his forehead throbbing, and then his hand…his hand kept going. His fingers parted her wet outer lips and slid down the length of her, searching for her opening, stroking her softly, lingering on the pressure points between her inner and outer lips—oh God, of course Roman would know about that…
Her back began to arch, her eyes half closed, her mouth open…
“Roman, I checked. The action is to you.”
She didn’t even look. She was already spiraling down into her own little world, into Roman…
“All in,” Roman said gruffly.
~ * ~ * ~
She felt like liquid silk in his hand, her body responding to every touch, every thought he had. He was mesmerized. Everyone was mesmerized. He hoped they appreciated that he allowed them the pleasure, the privilege, of seeing Lola Theroux close her eyes, lick her lips, and moan…
She stopped.
Her eyes were open.
Her face crashed. Before his eyes, under his hand, she wilted.
“Roman, I called—”
He ignored Salvador. “Lola, what’s wrong?”
She didn’t answer him, just looked over his shoulder. Roman turned, and the sight he saw filled him with anger.
Benjamin Mara. In his club. Hurting Lola.
Again.
Roman turned Lola’s face toward his and said very quietly, very urgently, “Look at me.” She did, and the sadness he saw there sliced through him. “He will not hurt you, Lola. I will deal with this.”
He lifted her, placing her gently in the chair, and had not gotten two steps before he realized that Jackson was behind him. Then Bashir joined them, a quick arrow of angry men moving toward one, singular target.
“He’s mine,” Roman said curtly.
Benjamin Mara soon found himself isolated and alone. This gave him enough warning to turn, face Roman, and speak.
“Roman, please, I’ve come to apologize—”
Roman kept moving until Benjamin Mara backed up, faltering, flat against a wall, trying to disappear into it. Roman didn’t even need to touch him.
He said, “Do not speak. Do not move. If she tells me to, I will harm you—do you understand? You are only safe because of my respect for her. Do not test me.”
Benjamin Mara swallowed. He was shorter than Roman, like most men, and thinner. It would not be a real contest. Roman almost regretted it.
Roman’s voice was cold. “This is my club. This is her club. Her space. You do not invade it, after what you did. You do not show up uninvited. You indecent, pathetic, uncivilized piece of shit.”
“I wanted to explain—”
Roman smelled stale whisky. It was from the man’s sweat. He’d been drinking—that was the only reason he’d come. Roman was even more disgusted.
“There is no explanation, you coward. You will apologize only if she decides she wants to hear it, not because you would like to stop feeling guilty. And now, Benjamin,” Roman said, fixing Benjamin’s collar and smoothing his suit, just to let him know he could do what he wanted in this place, “you are going to leave. And you are not going to come back unless she asks you to. Do you understand?”
“I—”
Roman’s fists closed around Benjamin’s lapels, and he lifted him bodily off the ground only to slam him against the wall. Benjamin’s head bounced off the hard surface, his arms struggling ineffectually.
“Do you understand?” Roman said again.
“Yes.”
“Run.”
And Roman dropped him to the ground and watched him scramble towards the exit. Bashir wordlessly followed him, probably to make sure the snake had, in fact, left. Jackson patted him on the back and set about fixing Roman’s own collar, and it was then that Roman realized he was breathing hard and his blood was pounding in his head hard enough to hurt.
“You’ve got a woman to worry about,” Jackson said.
Roman didn’t even say thank you. He had to find her. The rest of the club, his friends, his business, his life—all of it paled, fell away. His moved through the crowd unhearing, unseeing, until he saw her: just a hint of green, moving towards one of the side doors.
No.
He didn’t want her hurt. Not again.
“Lola,” he said, her name the best thing he’d said all night. He grabbed her wrist, gently, just wanting contact. She didn’t turn her head, but he could still see, hidden under those waves of red hair, the stain of tears on her cheek.
He opened the side door and pulled her out into the dark side hallway. Give her darkness, give her privacy. Give her everything.
“Lola,” he said again, putting his hand to her cheek. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have gone so far, I should have known—”
“No!” she said, the strength in her voice shocking him. “Don’t apologize. Please, don’t…”
He was lost in the warmth of her skin, in wanting her to feel better, to feel good. He said, “Tell me.”
He could feel her gathering her strength, and she took a deep breath. Even in the low light he saw her open her eyes. Brave. She was always brave.
“It was…it was good to feel…” She paused, shook her head. Then she made a decision, and looked up. “Roman, with you, I felt it. It felt right, like I could be that part of myself again, that I could submit, even for a little bit… Please don’t apologize. I needed to know that. I needed to know that he didn’t permanently fuck up that part of me, even if it wasn’t…even if it wasn’t real.”
Roman didn’t immediately register the source of her sadness. That last phrase: “wasn’t real.” Did she think…?
&nbs
p; “What are you saying, it was not real?”
Lola bent her head, this apparently too much, even for his fiery Lola.
“This is a show, Roman, I know that. This isn’t… You don’t have to explain, I get it.”
Roman growled, angry that a man had hurt her so badly that she couldn’t think that he would want her for her, that any man would, that she didn’t know how beautiful she was, that she didn’t know that she was a light in the world for him. That he had never shown her that he wanted her, and allowed her to think of herself as unwanted.
He would correct that now.
“This is real,” he said, and placed her hand on his painfully hard cock. “This is for you. All for you. Only for you.”
She looked up, her eyes wide, her hand unmoving. He ached underneath, had ached for her for days, for years, it felt like, all of it pulsing through his body like a twisted drug. He needed her. He needed to be inside her, or he would lose his mind.
Slowly he saw the light return to her eyes, saw the sadness recede, to be replaced by that mischievous fire. A new thought: maybe he needed to do this for her. He was worried about sex hurting her, but it was hurting her to lie, and to pretend he didn’t want to fuck her senseless.
She stroked him through his pants and he groaned.
“All for me?” she said.
“You were taunting me out there,” he said, knowing he needed to get the words out before all the blood left his brain. “Goading me.”
“Yes,” she said, and stroked harder. “But I knew you’d never go through with it. You’d just go on protecting me. But I haven’t needed protection in so, so long Roman…”
He snapped. Pinned her to the wall, kissed her hard. Barely let her catch her breath before he’d lifted her over his shoulder, stepping over a shoe that fell to the ground, not caring even the slightest, and carried her back to his private apartment.