by Chloe Cox
“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.
“I advise you to relax,” he said, rubbing the lube into the sensitive flesh. She had chills, her mind whipping back and forth, her body spasming randomly.
She felt it. Textured rubber, pressed against the tight ring of her anus. He twisted it against her, drilling into her slowly, surely. She hadn’t had anyone near her ass in a long time, and her body fought against it, tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing. Finally he slapped her thigh.
“Relax.”
Her mind blanked. He pushed the plug in with a final pop, and the pain overwhelmed her, eventually lulling into dull pleasure.
She sighed.
“No, Lola,” he whispered, “Your punishment isn’t over.”
He didn’t know that she welcomed more pain, that she craved the release—she’d been walking around scared of the inevitable emotional pain that this situation promised her for so long that she’d learned to ignore it, but that didn’t make it easier. When he’d struck her it had begun to release, the physical draining the mental, and now she needed more.
“Yes,” she said.
But he didn’t hit her. Instead, she felt the tip of his cock push up against her pussy, and she groaned.
That kind of release would work, too.
He pushed in slightly, and pulled out. Pushed in, pulled out. Her clit was throbbing, and the anal plug was just a tease; she wanted to feel full of him completely, to obliterate what remained of her thoughts. She tried to strain toward him, but the restraints held her back. She rattled them again, frustrated.
“To the brink, Lola,” he said, and plunged into her fully.
She screamed. His full length and the plug he’d pushed into her—she was stretched, fuller than she’d been in ages. Complete. He pounded into her hard and fast, pushing her right up to the edge—and then he was gone.
She screamed again, this time in anger.
Her fists clenched, her breath came in gasps, and her back arched as much as it could on its own. In a few minutes, she came back down.
And then he was back.
Fucking her to the brink, over and over, and leaving her there, swollen and hungry and empty.
Until she screamed incoherently.Until she begged.
“Don’t hide from me again, Lola,” he said, teasing her swollen clit with one finger.
“Fuck you,” she gasped. “You hypocrite.”
Everything stopped.
She couldn’t believe what she’d said. Couldn’t breathe for it. But it had been true; she’d known it as the words had come out.
Oh God, oh God, oh God…
Leather slapping against leather, one of her ankles freed, then the other, Roman coming around the front and his hands working even quicker there. Her wrists free, nothing holding her in place except that she was afraid to move.
No matter; Roman lifted her easily, slung her over his shoulder, walked to the bed, and threw her down.
He grabbed her legs behind the knees, keeping them spread in the air as he kneeled over her, his erection bobbing, shining with her wetness.
“No hiding, then,” he said, looking directly at her.
His eyes were wide, bright pools of black, and for one long moment she felt like she could fall into them—and then he was falling on her, driving inside her, and all conscious thoughts were gone.
He started slow, filling her even deeper than he had before, pushing her legs up next to her head so he could go so deep that he hit the end of her.
She screamed when that happened, too.
“One hundred strokes, Lola,” he rasped.
This time, though, he kept a hold of her. He settled his elbows in on either side of her head, fixed his eyes on hers, and fucked them both up and over the edge.
He recovered first.
He always recovered first. It was against nature. Just once, Lola wanted to fuck him senseless. She wanted him to know what it felt like. As it was, she let him clean her off, let him slowly, gently remove the plug, let him rub her whole body down with lavender oil until she felt like that boneless rapture would last forever.
Finally, she let him pick her up, the both of them stark naked while he carried her back to the bedrooms.
His bedroom.
He set her down on his bed, the bed she’d slept in since she’d arrived, the bed he’d never once shared with her. He turned down the smooth, soft sheets and tucked her in.
She realized that, again, he wasn’t going to stay.
Her hand shot out from between the sheets and grabbed his.
“I know there’s something you’re not telling me,” she said.
Her voice sounded parched, unused. She hadn’t realized what her body had been through. He looked at her, his brow furrowed. Then he kissed her on the forehead and left.
When he came back a few minutes later, he had a glass of water.
“Drink,” he said.
She obeyed.
It didn’t make her any less stubborn.
“I told you to stop protecting me,” she said.
Roman sat next to her, his bulk giving her warmth, his hands still free to stroke her face.
“I cannot,” he said. He was smiling, but sadly. “This is who I am.”
Lola started to push herself up on her elbows, pissed off all over again, ready to
read him the riot act, when he put his hand on her chest and gently forced her back down.
“Listen,” he said.
He brushed her hair away from her face again, traced the line of her jaw, checked to see if she was cold. She’d never seen him like this. Never seen him so…concerned.
“Lola,” he said, almost to himself, “I failed to protect a woman I loved.”
Her heart stopped. Her breathing stopped. Everything: the world, it stopped turning.
Did he mean…?
No. His wife. His real wife.
“You mean Samantha?” Lola asked.
Roman didn’t seem to notice. He only nodded. “Yes. Samantha.”
She was almost about to speak, about to let out all the craziness, all the pent up hopes and frustrations, when finally he spoke:
“I failed to protect her,” he said, stroking her cheek, “and she died.”
Lola didn’t know what to say. She let the silence settle between them, searching Roman’s face for a clue. There wasn’t one; he kept looking at her, like…like…
“Roman, she had a congenital heart defect,” she whispered.
He smiled sadly. “Yes. But stress was an exacerbating factor. No, let me explain,” he said, putting a finger to her lips and shaking his head. “I was not careful, not as I should have been. I allowed Samantha to become involved in my businesses. Some were in her name, for taxes or permits or…it does not even matter. I listened to lawyers. She agreed. But it exposed her to liability. So a competitor, he wanted to put pressure on me for a bid, so he sued Samantha. It involved the trust that cared for her parents. I would have taken care of anything and everything, we all knew, but Sam, she was not built for that kind of thing. Sam was a writer, a poet. Did you know that?”
Lola grabbed his hand, wanting to feel it warm, held in hers.
“Yes, Roman. I knew that.”
Roman squeezed her hand back. “She was, in a way, a stereotype. Always so fragile, so anxious. Not suited for the life I led, in retrospect. It doesn’t matter why or how—I failed. She paid. And I could never take it if something like that ever happened to you,” he said.
He never looked away. She couldn’t have if she’d tried.
She didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what he wanted, what he meant. The only thing she could hear for a long time was the beating of her own heart, the rushing of her own blood.
And then, all at once, she sat up and kissed him.
He was stiff, surprised, caught off-guard. She kept kissing him. His lips, his mouth, his body—eventually they betrayed him, just the way he always managed to get Lola’s to betray her.
He fell into the kiss, long and languid, balanced above her, so careful not to crush her. Soon she convinced him not to be so gentle.
Soon he was naked.
Soon she had him inside her again, coaxing them both up, in sync, together, watching him the whole way through.
It was wordless, careless, and powerful.
And later, when Lola woke up, he wasn’t there.
chapter 16
The trip to L.A. confirmed it: Roman would not be moving away from Lola, at least not anytime soon.
It had been only two days, two days filled with meetings and tours of the nearly completed construction of soon-to-be Volare LA, a stylish modification of a formerly residential compound in Venice Beach, two days where he might have, at another time in life, been amply distracted by the sort of beauty that was commonplace in L.A.
Two days of wanting Lola so badly he could almost taste her, and not having her.
It had pissed him off.
So much so that he barely heard Chance when he called. Only later, sitting bleary-eyed in the limo after taking the red eye to New York, did he remember the specifics and think, Shit. Chance doesn’t want Lola to know he’s coming home.
You did not tell Chance that you married his cousin.
You did not tell Chance that you are fucking his cousin.
It didn’t seem like the type of conversation to have over the phone. Neither, for that matter, were any of the many conversations he might choose to have with Lola.
He didn’t call her.
But he did think. Mostly he thought about her, and not “them”—he thought about her skin, how it had an almost iridescent glow in moonlight, how it always smelled sweet, how it took on a shine when she’d begun to sweat. He thought about the way her body stretched right before she contracted in an orgasm. He thought about the way she tasted.
He thought about how good it had felt to hold her, that last time. He thought about what a fantastically stupid idea it had been to step outside the scene he had so painstakingly created, and he thought about how he had been helpless to do otherwise: she had been there, wanting him, asking of him, and he had been powerless to say no. He might never be able to say no to her.
He wanted her more than he could remember wanting anyone or anything since Samantha.
Samantha.
He made himself a drink in the back of the limo; it was late for him, but early for New York. Normal rules did not apply.
Normal rules did not apply: he could say that about the Lola situation.
He could almost taste her again, every time he licked his lips. It felt as though he’d been waiting ages to feel her, to see her. Two days. He didn’t care. He jabbed at the elevator buttons with rising impatience, loosening his tie on the ride up, his cock already twitching to life.
The door opened on the foyer to his apartment and he charged through it with a sudden burst of energy, ready to bury himself inside her.
He knew where she’d be; he’d forfeited the use of his own bed almost immediately when she’d moved in without even thinking about it. He didn’t think about it now; it didn’t seem important. A motel by the airport would have been as desirable if that’s where she’d been sleeping.
He rushed down the stairs, not bothering to keep quiet, although he knew from experience that it didn’t matter much in this place—it was large enough that the sheer volume of space dampened sound. Still, he found himself slowing, walking with light, quiet steps as he approached what was once only his bedroom. He’d found himself thinking of it as hers, as crazy as that was; he’d never been totally attached to any room after Sam, so yes, it had become Lola’s. Nothing was really his.
Except, as he slowly opened the door to take in the sight of a nude, sleeping Lola, a soft white sheet half covering her beautiful body, he thought: Yes. Mine.
He stopped, transfixed by the sight of her.
He had never told anyone about his feelings of responsibility—of guilt—about Samantha’s death, about his failure to protect her. He had never even said it aloud to himself; he’d just let it fester at the heart of him.
But now he’d told Lola. He still didn’t know why. But he did know this: he felt…lighter. It had confirmed, obviously, everything he felt about his need to protect Lola, even from himself. But now that he felt that she understood, it was easier. He’d always been confident that she knew he didn’t involve himself romantically, but now that she had some inkling as to why…
Well, no, not the whole inkling. The fact was that he didn’t think it were possible that he could ever love another woman the way he loved Samantha, and that seemed tragically unfair to any woman who might attract his interest.
That, he would never say.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, watching Lola’s chest rise and fall while the sunlight slowly seeped in. She looked so happy. Blissful. His desire for her never left him, but still he found he couldn’t disturb her. What sort of bastard would? Instead he collapsed into an overstuffed armchair and contented himself with watching her sleep—for now.
And, of course, thinking about the things he would do to her when she woke up.
It was hours later when he finally woke up, totally unaware that he’d passed out in that chair. Lola was gone from the bed. He smelled bacon. She’d woken up to find him in that chair, and now she was
cooking breakfast.
It wasn’t until he left the room, now with a few hours of sleep and his brain functioning at something approaching normal, that he noticed that someone had moved the fully-made bed outside of the door to the bedroom; it took the place of the couch where he had spent so many nights lately.
It took his sleep-deprived brain a few moments to catch up. Lola. Making a statement.
Brat.
He had every intention of disciplining her that morning, but he walked into his airy, light-filled kitchen to find Lola sizzling bacon and ham and a Spanish omelet, and for just a moment—just long enough—his stomach superseded his brain.
“Oh, good, sleepyhead is awake,” she said, flashing him a grin. “Just in time. We have an appointment.”
“What?” he said. His mouth was watering. Lola was cooking in just one of his shirts.
She plated the food and placed it in front of him.
“I left you a voicemail. We’re going to look at a special location today at Dagmar’s recommendation.”
She hadn’t buttoned the shirt all the way. He could see the outline of her breasts.
“What?”
“Roman,” she said sharply. “A location for the wedding—that huge publicity thing that is happening in just a few weeks. The Cloisters. There was a cancellation; this is a big deal. Be ready to go in thirty minutes.”
And she walked off toward the bedroom.
If he hadn’t been famished, he would have spanked her right there.
Later, he thought, and he devoured his breakfast, feeling strangely content.
~ * ~ * ~
Lola did her best to act normal.
Two. Days.
Three, if you counted mornings.
All that time had passed since the last time they’d had sex. And not just sex—she had to be honest with herself about that; what had followed the highly constructed scene had been anything but formal, or controlled, or safe. It had been all about crossing boundaries, not drawing them. “No hiding,” he’d said.
It had felt so raw.
And then, of course, he’d gone and slept in that chair. He hadn’t said anything about the bed she’d had delivered and made for him; she had figured that he’d have a sense of humor about it, but then she’d found him passed out in a chair, right across from where she’d been sleeping.