by Chloe Cox
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.
chapter 8
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.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Do you guys have a plan?”
“We’re going to dinner tonight to discuss ‘terms.’”
Stella’s eyes went wide. “Like…a contract?”
“I mean, probably not, you know. So formal. But yes. Those kinds of terms, what else?”
“Actually, I was asking about, like, wedding plans, but what you’re doing sounds far more interesting.”
<
br /> Lola cringed. Of course she’d been thinking about negotiating the terms of her submission to Roman freaking Casta instead of…well, anything and everything else. “What do you mean, wedding plans?”
Stella gave her a practiced side-eye that said ‘I know you’re evading the real issue, but I’m gonna let you do it because you’re my friend.’
“Well, your picture was on the gossip sites, and that politician weirdo isn’t letting up. This is, like, a public thing. And didn’t you say you guys had to do public relations on the whole situation?”
“Yeah. You remember what it was like with the reporters outside my apartment.”
“Weeeellll,” Stella said with relish, “what’s better public relations than a big ol’ Volare wedding?”
Lola almost choked on her diet soda. “Are you kidding? Do you know how long it takes to plan a wedding? Ford suggested this, but, I mean. It’s not realistic, is it?”
Stella scoffed. “Um, I know exactly how long it takes to plan a wedding, it’s like all I’ve been doing. But, I bet I can get my wedding planner to do this on the quick. She’ll love the publicity, too. Plus, a Volare wedding? Please—everyone will love this.”
Stella was such a picture of innocence that Lola knew her friend was up to something. She know Stella the romantic wouldn’t give up on the idea of Lola and Roman living happily ever after, no matter how much Lola tried to convince her that Roman was not interested in real love, and so Stella was probably planning something. Lola was about to object when her phone buzzed with a text message. She grabbed at it, half expecting it to be Roman.
BEN: Lola I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for coming to Volare and…I’m sorry for everything. I wanted to try to explain why I fucked up so badly—you deserve that. If you never want to hear from me again, just say the word. I love you.
Lola didn’t know whether to cry or to scream.
“So is that Roman?” Stella said, smiling over her straw.
Lola blinked, shook her head. “No, it’s nothing.” She looked up, and it was obvious Stella didn’t believe her, but this just was not something Lola could talk about while still holding it together. She was just stretched too thin—the combination of Roman and Ben was still more than she could handle. She wasn’t ready to think about all the ways Ben’s betrayal had hurt her, not when she had this new danger in her love life.
Roman.
Lola forced a smile and said, “So tell me about this wedding scheme.”
~ * ~ * ~
Roman did his best not to grin as Harold Jeels inspected his brand new marriage certificate. The redder Jeels’ face became, the more Roman struggled not to smile.
Eventually he stopped struggling.
“Everything satisfactory?” Ford asked. Jeels grunted.
They were meeting in Ford’s midtown office this time, Roman preferring that Jeels not get anywhere near Volare or Lola if it could be helped. There was something about the man’s obsession with Volare that made Roman very wary—Jeels obviously considered his crusade to be a personal one, and that meant he was crazy. Crazy people were dangerous, and this crazy person had Lola in his sights.
Still, it was fun to see Jeels lose his temper.
“This is outrageous,” he sputtered.
“No, it’s legal,” Ford pointed out.
“This is an obvious attempt to circumvent regulatory issues. It’s dated today. It’s a fraud. You only married that woman—”
“Mr. Jeels,” Roman said, standing up to tower over the angry politician, “Watch how you speak of my wife.”
The silence was frosty. Roman didn’t often make conscious use of his physical stature to intimidate other men; he felt it was beneath him. This time, he made an exception. Let Jeels feel as small as he was.
“You have lost, Mr. Jeels,” Roman continued, buttoning his suit coat. “Whatever fixation you have with the society I have founded, and with my wife, is your own business. But I promise you that if you try to hurt either Volare or Lola again, I will make you suffer.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Roman stared at him. In different circumstances, Roman might have tried to help a desperately unhappy little man such as this. Jeels was one of those men who projected his dissatisfactions and fears onto the world around him and then spent their lives fighting shadows and leaving innocent casualties in their wake. In different circumstances, Roman would have pitied him. But he had gone after Volare. He’d gone after Lola.
“Get out,” Roman said.
Jeels cowed, his face twisted up in fury. Without another word he waddled out of Ford’s office.
“You know,” Ford said, “it is, technically, my office that you just threw someone out of.”
Roman rolled his neck, surprised to discover that he was quite tense, and turned back to his old friend.
“Yes, but we won, so it is unimportant, no?” he said, moving to make himself a drink.
“Actually, no. Very important.”
“How?”
“Roman, this isn’t over.” Ford got up and joined Roman at the little-used wet bar. “Fuck it, it’s a special afternoon. Here, try this, it’s single malt.”
“Why do you say it isn’t over? Lola and I are married—we won. Over.”
Ford sighed, swirling his whisky. “So you know my firm does some lobbying work in Albany?”
“Yes, one of the many reasons we hired you.”
“That, and I donated the St. Andrew’s Cross,” Ford said smiling. “My Albany contacts say Jeels was getting support from another state senator who’s got a serious primary challenger. If they want to make Volare into a political issue, they don’t need ridiculous laws to do it. They can go after health certificates, zoning, whatever the fuck they want.”
Roman frowned. “You think this is what will happen?”
“I know.”
“So what do we do?”
“Politics is about public perception,” Ford said. He had that hard look in his eye that told Roman he was ready to fight. Roman liked that look. “You win public support, and you don’t become a punching bag during a political campaign.”
“Public support for a sex club?” Roman laughed.
“It’s not as crazy as it sounds. You do all that charity work, you’re married now, and…”
“And?”
“And people love weddings. I’ve already gotten press requests. Here, check this one out.”
Ford handed him a slip of paper—Denise Nelson, Tattle. The biggest gossip site to rival Sizzle. Roman thought he recognized the name. Nelson would be a pretty brunette who always looked like she was hunting something or someone.
“You can even use the opportunity to talk up the second Volare location,” Ford continued. “Speaking of which, have you talked to Lola about that yet?”
Roman frowned. No. It wasn’t something he particularly wanted to bring up. His plan to move to L.A. to set up a second Volare location, while leaving Lola in charge of the New York club, seemed less and less workable by the day. It simply didn’t sit right with him, and yet he hadn’t come up with an alternative—even though construction on the L.A. club was already nearly completed.
So. A publicity wedding, a political minefield, and cross-country moves.
“No,” Roman said, finishing his drink. “Lola and I have more important things to discuss at the moment.”
Like the terms of her submission.
chapter 9
Lola perched nervously on a stool at El Sol Vermell and ran her finger up and down the stem of her wine glass. This was Roman’s place. He’d picked it, sent her the address, time, everything. It was hidden in a side street on the Lower East Side, the part that had been long gentrified and was full of money, right next to the parts that, well, weren’t. It had lanterns hanging out front and a low-key, fashionable sort of crowd—a crowd that didn’t include Roman, yet.
She had spent the day hanging out with Stella, afraid to return to her own apartment because of reporters, which
pissed her off, and afraid to go back to Roman’s place because, well, Roman. If she saw him in the privacy of his apartment, she was a goner, no questions asked. She hadn’t been able to resist him in a freaking broom closet at city hall. Her only, minuscule hope of having a substantive discussion was meeting him in a public place.
And in the end, that might only make it worse.
She shivered, already enjoying the thought. That was not a good sign.
They were supposed to meet to discuss, as Roman had put it, the terms of her submission. Lola was no stranger to D/s, nor to relationship contracts, but she was a stranger to Roman in those contexts, and she found, to her chagrin, that it made her feel like an inexperienced virgin all over again.
“This is stupid,” she muttered into her wine.
They needed to discuss a lot more than the terms of her submission. He was kidding himself if he thought that was all that was on the menu. Their relationship had evolved—hell, it hadn’t evolved, it had wandered into some radioactive goo and sprouted wings. And Lola needed to know what that meant.
Or at least, she thought she did. Maybe. The deeper she got into that glass of wine, and the more she thought about Ben’s text, the more she wondered if what she needed was more emotionally baffling men in her life. More men that didn’t appear to respect her until after they’d screwed up, who thought it was ok to keep secrets.
How is it possible that both the men in her life didn’t seem to respect her at all? Did she somehow make that easy for them?
And oh, God, how was she supposed to submit to Roman when she couldn’t be sure about that? Never mind that she’d had no problem with that the other night. Or earlier today. She obviously wasn’t in full control of herself around him, and there was no way she could do this under those circumstances. She didn’t understand why she was able to submit to him if she couldn’t trust his feelings, or her own. She just couldn’t handle it if yet another man treated her like…