by Chloe Cox
chapter 7
Lola was on fire by the time Roman threw her down on his bed. The look he gave her—pure animal hunger—only made her crazier. She stood up, wanting to strip his suit off, wanting to finally be next to his naked body, and forgot all about his Dom side.
He pushed her back on the bed.
She shivered and looked up at him. Daring him to come at her.
He answered by bending down, looking her in the eye, and ripping her dress off her shoulders. Another vicious pull, another tear, and she was naked, her clothing in tatters.
She moaned, grabbed his arm, tried to drag him down on top her. He smiled at how ineffectual she was; it was like pulling at a mountain. With no apparent effort he pulled her up next to him, and then down over his knee as he sat on the bed.
“What—” She struggled.
“You taunted me,” he said, his arm moving across her back, pinning her flat to his legs. His cock pressed up against her belly through the thin fabric of his pants and she writhed against it. Then his hand was between her legs, steadying her. “Manipulated me.”
She stopped struggling, guided only by the throbbing between her legs.
“You’re going to punish me,” she said. She was laughing a little, delirious and drunk with excitement. She couldn’t believe this was actually happening.
“I will spank you,” he said, his hand beginning to toy with her, moving around just outside—taunting, the way she’d taunted him. “I wonder if you might come like this, over my knee? I think you might. I think you will like it.”
“Oh God, Roman, please…”
“Please what?”
“Please fuck me,” she said, covering her head with her hands, her naked breasts pushed up towards her chin. “Please.”
He spanked her.
Hard.
The sound of his open hand hitting her soft flesh echoed loudly in her ears, each blow deliciously humiliating, each blow reminding her: this was Roman. Oh God, Roman. Roman.
In just a minute, she was moaning. Writhing under him, arching up to him, craving him. He laughed, moving his arm so he could play with her breasts.
“I want to see your ass red,” he said, and spanked her again.
She really was on the verge of coming.
Without warning he dipped a finger into her, found her hot and wet, and she heard him catch his breath.
Then the growl.
He flipped her over and threw her back on the bed as though she weighed nothing at all. “Stay.”
He had his clothing off in no time, and then he was moving toward her, his dazzling bronze skin pulled tight over layers of corded muscle, rippling, coiling, like a wild animal on the verge of frenzy. She wanted to remember that sight for as long as she lived.
“You come when I say,” he said, climbing on the bed. “You come when I say.”
She rose to meet him, and he pushed her down again, gently this time, shaking his head. “I have waited so long to look at you,” he said. He slipped a hand under one knee, lifting her leg, kissing her calf, her knee, the beginning of her thigh. He rested his face against her flesh, breathed deeply, and then he looked.
Lola was not shy, she had never been shy; she ran a damn sex club. She had been in any number of scenes, had dominated men, been dominated by them, taught them, let them teach her. She thought she’d plumbed the depths of her own kink, her own desires, and only recently had found herself lacking. Wanting. As though she’d run out, as though she’d been spent, and she’d begun to feel herself a bit of a fraud, running a sex club when she couldn’t get off with anyone else. When she couldn’t submit, when she no longer felt herself capable of the sexuality she’d once known. She’d mourned it, that loss of who she’d been.
But now Roman Casta looked at her with raw lust, with naked power. Roman looked at her like she was the most beautiful, sexual, desirable woman who had ever lived, and the longer he looked at her like that, the more she remembered who she was.
“I have wanted to see what you look like when you come for so long,” he said. He was moving his fingers lightly along her skin, setting her to tingling, like he simply couldn’t get enough of the feel of her.
His words finally penetrated the fog of sensation, and she rose up again.
“How long?”
“Always.”
His eyes locked with hers, and she knew it was the truth.
“Now lie back and let me see you, Lola,” he whispered, “or it will be the crop.”
She blinked, and then threw her head back laughing. She hoped it would be the crop. She hoped it would be whatever he chose to use on her, whatever he felt like, whenever—
“Oh God,” she moaned, and looked down. Roman still knelt between her legs, one hand smoothing the skin down her leg, towards her belly, the other doing something she’d never imagined possible, his eyes on her face.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
His fingers worked the outside of her folds in a steady, pulsing rhythm, stroking pressure, on, off, on, off, finding nerve endings she didn’t even know existed, sending streaks of fire through her body. Roman’s face grew hungry, hungrier. “Look at me,” he said again, and pushed two fingers into her as far as they would go.
Lola arched her back, a small sound escaping her as she remembered to keep looking at him. It was so difficult. He felt so good inside her, so right, that it frightened her, and she wanted to hide from him, wanted to feel this on her own somewhere private, where it was safe.
Roman knew.
“You do not hide,” he said, and brushed her clit with his thumb, his fingers curling inside her, moving in and out, in and out, slow and strong. “This first one, I see,” he said, and picked up the pace, his eyes intent on her face.
She was helpless.
She felt herself caught up in the tide he had created, her hands clawing at the twisted sheets in time to the ebb and flow, each wave stronger than the last, until finally his other hand came down upon her lower belly while he massaged her g-spot from the inside, and she was overcome.
She came in waves, rising up a little further each time, finally crying out his name as he caught her, his arm around her back, his face close to hers now.
“More,” he said, “more. So perfect, Lola. So beautiful.”
She flung her arms around him, terrified at having just let go. He kissed her neck, her face, her arms, her chest, her lips, until she began to calm down again, until she felt it building in her again. Her hips gave her away, and Roman slowly lowered her back to the bed, kissing a path down her trembling body from her lips to her stomach to her pussy.
“God, I have wanted to taste you,” he said, his voice more husky, less controlled. She felt the wet warmth of his mouth surround her clit, his tongue dancing with it, his lips sucking on it. He was relentless. He licked her softly at first, and then, as she started to writhe under him, he seemed to lose himself, devouring her, using his hands, thrusting his fingers into her. A man who knew so much technique abandoned it to pure hunger, and it drove her back over the edge, her thighs squeezing Roman’s head, her mouth calling his name.
His name, again.
Lola was breathing hard, opening her eyes to a strange ceiling, her extremities feeling numb. She was bewildered. She couldn’t remember when she’d last come so hard.
And then there was Roman, looming above her. Roman, turning her face to his, telling her she was beautiful. Roman, stroking her body as she came down from the peak, not letting her settle, but pushing her back up toward another. She heard herself groan, not using real words, just sounds. She wrapped her arms around him again. She didn’t even know what she wanted.
He pushed up so he could look down on her, his hand smoothing her hair away from her damp forehead.
“Tell me,” he said, and he rose up, his hands sliding under her legs. He lifted them up, resting them on his shoulders, lifting her bottom almost up off the bed. Lola squirmed, suddenly very aware of his erection, poised there.
Not enough.
He bent down, his mouth closing around her nipple, and bit it gently. She cried out, feeling his tongue on her, sucking at her. He came up for air, grinning, and said, “Beg.”
Lola looked at him, powerless. He would make her say it.
“Roman…”
He rubbed the head of his cock against her still swollen clit, his grin giving way to that intense hunger. “Say it, Lola.”
“Roman, please, I need you inside me,” she said, reaching for him, trying to pull him down. “Please.”
Roman took her hands in one of his, pinned them up above her head, and leaned forward so the head of his cock was just nestled in her entrance. She whimpered.
“Come saying my name,” he said. “Come looking at me.”
“Yes,” she said, more desperate than she’d ever been, “Just do—ahh.”
He sank into her, so much bigger than she’d thought, stretching her more than anyone else ever had. She closed her eyes, already forgetting.
“Open,” he growled, and pushed in deeper.
Oh God.
She hadn’t known how deep he could go, and he lifted her farther off the bed so he could push even deeper into her. His eyes fixed on hers as he pulled out and drove into her, dark, deep pools that she had avoided for so long, not wanting him to see how she felt. There would be no hiding now.
Roman still held her hands in his, his abdominals expanding and contracting with every long, slow thrust, his breath melding with hers. A single bead of sweat gathered on his brow, and still he held her, helpless, his to fuck, love, break.
“Roman,” she said, her voice strangled. So much she couldn’t say, all of it contained in that word. Her hips were pushing back at him, the two of them crashing into each other
He bent down, caressed her lips with his.
“Come,” he said, watching her eyes.
She convulsed, conscious of the effort of keeping her eyes open, aware of his every stroke, still sure and powerful, responding when he paused in her while she contracted around him, her muscles fluttering, trying to draw him in. Trying to consume him, as much as she could. He let her hands go and she grabbed at his shoulders, burying her face in his neck while she screamed and sobbed at the same time, her body not done.
He kept going.
She saw his face again and he looked how she felt: raw, fevered, delirious. The sight of him like that, of Roman Casta mad and frenzied for her, sent her spiraling up and out of control, and this time when she came, he came with her, emptying himself into her with a long, loud cry.
They lay together like that for a long time, Roman still inside her, breathing hard, his weight on her chest both surreal and comforting.
How long would it take her to come around to the fact that Roman had just fucked her? When would she believe it?
Lola let her fingertips play lightly on his skin, around his muscled shoulders, the hard planes of his back. They were both still slick with sweat, and growing colder. But she didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to change a thing.
Slowly, Roman stirred. He swiveled his hips, and she gasped to feel him growing hard inside her.
Again.
“More,” he said in her ear, and pushed himself up on iron arms. She tried to move her legs, and discovered that she was already sore, but those eyes…
Transfixed.
Still helpless.
His.
“I want you to see,” he said, his own breath still ragged. He pulled out, and she looked down to protest, saw his cock covered with both of their juices, huge and hard, and became, momentarily, speechless.
Didn’t matter. He knelt down, scooped an arm around her, and pulled her up. His large hands handled her as though they’d always known how to, and that thought brought back all of their history—or lack of it—and she was scared again. She must have gone stiff, because he noticed.
“Shh,” he said, and positioned her in front of a hastily constructed stack of pillows. She was on her knees, her weight resting on her ankles, the pillows an inviting stack right in front of her.
“Look up.”
There was a full-length mirror angled against the wall, an old fashioned thing with a heavy gilt frame. Lola saw them, together. Herself naked, still somewhat flushed, Roman behind her. His hands moving up her sides and around to grasp her breasts. His lips on her neck, his eyes watching hers.
“I want you to see how beautiful you look,” he murmured. “I want you to see this before I make you mine.”
She shivered. She didn’t know what that meant, coming from him, but the dark look in his eyes suggested this was only the prelude. The gentler, softer Roman. She wanted this—and she wanted what came after.
She saw her half-hooded eyes flutter in the mirror. “Yours,” she said.
His weight on her back forced her to lean forward, and she braced herself on the pillows, leaning slightly forward. Roman trailed one hand down the length of her back, leaving gentle shivers in his wake. He cupped her bottom in his hands and lifted her slightly, moving under her. And then he just held her there.
“Look,” he said.
She saw his hips move in the mirror just a second before she felt him: he impaled her in one swift, upward stroke. The woman in the mirror threw her head back and keened, riding him while he bent over her, pushing her further down. He bit into her neck, one hand supporting himself on the bed, the other reaching for her hip, and drew her down as he pistoned up.
“Look,” he growled, and she picked her head up, tired and full and exhilarated all at once, and saw herself.
She saw Lola getting fucked by Roman, saw him possessing her, taking her, as though he’d never wanted anything else. As though he’d rather have her than anything else on the planet, at that moment, maybe always.
He growled again, a sound she had come to love, and moved inside her mercilessly, his whole body pumping into hers. She watched herself bloom under him in that mirror, and for the first time in months, she felt like herself.
“Again,” he said.
Her body obeyed his voice of its own volition, again and again. The last thing she thought as her mind left her was: This. This is right.
Hours later, Lola eased into wakefulness, various parts of her body protesting more than others. She was sore. There was light glinting off of something, directly in her eyes. She moved and stopped: holy shit she was sore.
It came back to her in a slow trickle, and then all at once, in a flood.
Roman.
Oh God, she hadn’t dreamed it. She hadn’t dreamed any of that. The party, the lies, the lies becoming true…or not true, but half true. Roman nearly killing Benjamin just for showing up, Roman chasing her down, Roman showing her what she was.
Roman inside her.
She shivered at the memory. And then came the worry: this wasn’t any man. Any dom. Only he didn’t know it, didn’t know how long she’d wanted him, didn’t know how this could feel for her.
Or did he? He’d said he’d wanted her always. She hadn’t dreamed that, had she?
Lola kept her eyes closed, not wanting to face the day, or the differences she was sure it would bring. But she had to. She had to at least face him. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Not so different. Maybe it would work.
She opened her eyes and rolled over to find an empty bed.
And then she remembered: of course, Roman Casta never sleeps with his conquests. Never in the same bed. He’d brought her to his bed, fucked her unconscious, and then left.
She was no different after all. She should have known that. She did know that—so why was she so disappointed?
Lola sat up, pulling the soft red sheet with her—not silk, not satin, just some impossibly high thread count cotton. Softer. More comfortable. And of course, red. She looked around the room, taking it in as she couldn’t have the previous night, trying hard not to dwell on the fact that he was very much not there.
It was…les
s showy than his office in Volare proper. Not quite so ornate. The mirror looked like an antique—oh God, the mirror; she couldn’t help but remember the sight of him taking her from behind. Looking into it now she saw herself blush, her pale skin reddening to match her unruly hair.
She looked away, saw a dark wood bureau with photographs. An old one, back in Spain: his mother? A grandmother? She thought his parents had died, that he had no family. Another picture, this one of a young, pretty woman, smiling blissfully into the camera, brown hair, blue eyes, an unaccountably kind expression.
Samantha.
Lola was very sure now that she was the only woman who’d seen the inside of this room in years. He wouldn’t let anyone see that picture. She didn’t know what to do with this information. Roman left no clues. He didn’t stay to explain.
Lola got up, propelled herself off the bed, wrapping the sheet around her. It hissed as she pulled it from the bed, chasing her as she made a foolish tour of the room, looking for clothing. No, he destroyed the dress. She smiled. She’d be able to feel that memory for the rest of her life.
She’d be thinking of this night when she was old and grey. She’d remember it long after she’d forgotten everything else.
“Ok, no time to be maudlin,” she said.
If she were any judge by the light streaming in, they had an appointment with a justice of the peace in only a few hours, and Lola did not want to show up for her first wedding, fake and rushed and calculating though it may be, with a head full of confusion and fear.
She needed time to think.
She opened the door, ready to charge through and get changed, and stopped in her tracks.
There was Roman. Asleep on an expensive, uncomfortable looking modernist divan, a piece of furniture that looked more decorative than functional, but that happened to be located directly across from what was undeniably his bedroom. The bedroom where he’d fucked her, and where he’d allowed her to sleep. He was sprawled out, barely covered by a fleece blanket, his heavily developed pecs rising and falling slowly in the soft light. He looked peaceful.
She had never seen him like this before, had never seen this side of him. And yet the man she watched while he slept looked like someone she had known, had cared for, forever.