by Cox, Chloe
Roman took her hands and placed soft leather cuffs around her wrists, hooking those into the headboard. She was now restrained spread eagle on his bed—her bed? She’d been sleeping in it. He’d slept in the silly bed she’d had made for him, just to get him to say something about it.
No, she thought as she tested the restraints. Definitely still Roman’s bed.
He was on his knees, still wearing the suit she’d made him wear earlier that night, balanced between her legs. He seemed to be taking in the view.
“So beautiful,” he said under his breath. “You don’t even know, do you?”
She didn’t have time to answer him before he ducked down for another kiss, his hands taking the opportunity to explore her helpless body. He ran one hand down the side of her face, down her neck, to her breast, and let the other ride up her thigh, so slowly, and stop just inches away…
“Oh God,” she said.
He kneeled between her legs and smiled. “Not yet,” he said, and shrugged off his suit coat. His tie came next, then his shirt, then his trousers. Roman stripped himself with almost the same skill with which he always stripped her.
The result left her breathless.
In all their encounters, she’d never really looked at him—really looked at him—naked. He was beyond magnificent. They’d left the light on in the bathroom, all those hours ago, and it glowed against his skin now, the shadows deepening the ridges and planes of his bronzed body. He was already erect, almost proud, swollen and darker than the rest of him.
“Lola,” he said softly, his hands beginning to work their way up her legs. “I want to see.”
And he thrust two fingers into her, hard, twisting them as he did. She arched off the bed at the sudden intrusion, bucking against her restraints, and she heard him chuckle softly.
“So sensitive,” he said, and she looked down just as his thumb passed over her clit.
“Oh shit, Roman,” she cried, her arms pulling at the restraints in reflexive reaction to the lightning suddenly coursing through her. “Please, I need you inside of me.”
“Come first,” he said, and crooked his fingers inside of her while his thumb began making quick circles around her clit.
She rose up almost too quickly, catching the thread of a light orgasm that only left her hungrier. When she opened her eyes again there he was, smiling like a wolf. He licked his fingers.
“I’m going to have so much more of you,” he said, and climbed off the bed.
She wanted to scream in frustration. All she wanted, over and over again, was Roman, any which way she could get him. She was so far gone that she nearly moaned just to see him return, though she couldn’t see what he carried.
“Close your eyes,” he said. “If you open them, I will only make you wait longer.”
She did as she was told, though she felt like, at this point, if it weren’t for the restraints she could practically hover off the bed. Roman dipped his fingers into her again and she clenched around him, only to be rewarded with a slight chuckle as he spread her own juices around her clit. She moaned again, lifting her hips off the bed, and then she heard it click on.
The buzz of a vibrator.
She fought to keep her eyes closed.
“Roman—”
He put it directly on her clit. Lola screamed, her body unsure whether to register the sudden influx of sensation as pleasure or pain. Roman took care of that for her by plunging into her, the vibrator still held against her clit. She felt the contractions coming, yet still building at the same time, and her confused body writhed under him as he drove into her again and again.
“Come,” he growled, and she felt his lips around her nipple as she came again—or continued to come?
She was screaming.
She was sure she could hear herself screaming.
Her body was shaking uncontrollably as he slowly pulled out his still erect cock with deliberate wickedness.
“Open,” he said.
Lola opened her eyes to see Roman over her. She tried to rise up to kiss him, but found herself inhibited by the restraints. He brushed her cheek, in that way he always did, and smiled beatifically at her.
“Look at me this time,” he said.
And then she felt him slowly, slowly enter her to his full length, stretching her in this position. She pulled against her ankle restraints, wanting to wrap her legs around him and pull him even deeper, but he only shook his head and thrust harder.
“First, come,” he said.
He held himself over her like that, looking at her so that she felt even more naked than she in fact was—how does he do that—and [drove] into her with unrelenting force until he pushed her up and over one more time, looking into her eyes as she came screaming his name.
She was covered in sweat. Her body ached. Aftershocks raced through her with unpredictable fury. She was starting to feel delirious.
It felt…unfair.
“Please…” she managed, rattling her restraints.
“Yes,” he said. “Now. This time.”
And he released her arms and legs, only to wrap them around his body.
This time, they came together.
~ * ~ * ~
Roman wasn’t dreaming. He just slowly became of aware of consciousness as sleep receded in gentle, lapping waves.
What he became aware of first was a warm, breathing, pulsing body under his. The smell of peaches. A fierce, sudden attachment, wanting to reach out and hold her.
Lola.
But there was something strange about that. No, not strange—nothing felt strange—it felt right.
Something new.
It took him a few moments after that to realize what had happened.
He had fallen asleep with her. On her. They slept together, exhausted, drained, physically depleted. He had slept. And he had woken up, knowing it was Lola, not thinking, even for a second, of Samantha, not until he remembered there was something new about the whole experience.
He rolled to his side, pushed himself off the bed, not totally sure that he wasn’t dreaming.
There she was, her limbs still entangled with his, naked and glowing. More beautiful than he’d ever seen her.
What had he done now?
Slowly at first, then faster, faster, that brief peace that he’d felt upon waking was replaced with the dread certainty that this couldn’t be that simple. Roman had tried over and over again to cure himself of what happened when he tried to move on. And each and every time, without fail, he was wrong, and the result was always the heartbreak of a woman he cared about.
He had learned to be careful. Had guarded those women against himself.
And this time…with Lola…he’d slipped.
With Lola.
The only woman he cared for, looked out for, because her heart was his own—he’d slipped, and now…
Now, always supremely in control, Roman Casta had no idea what was happening.
He looked down on Lola’s sleeping face and watched her reach for him, watched her frown slightly when he wasn’t there. He couldn’t bear to make her unhappy even now, when she was unconscious. What would he do when it inevitably came upon him again and he screwed up for real? He had broken many hearts accidentally in the years before he’d learned that his grief over Samantha would always, always make itself known, always insinuate itself between him and the woman in his bed.
But he couldn’t bear the idea of breaking Lola’s heart.
Not her.
Never her.
He lay back down, pulling her to his chest, and lay awake the rest of the night, thinking about what he had to do.
chapter 22
Lola woke up certain that she was dreaming. Had dreamed. She rolled over to stretch out and whimpered softly. That part of the night had definitely not been a dream. She looked on the other side of the bed and saw a Roman-shaped hollow, and thought, Oh my God, that part wasn’t a dream, either.
It shouldn’t be such a strange thing, just sleep
ing with a man. But it wasn’t any man, it was Roman—Roman, who she now, finally, had to admit she was completely in love with, probably always had been in love with, almost certainly would always be in love with—and it was Roman who avoided sleep with a woman like it would kill him.
She hadn’t dreamed it. She really had woken up in the middle of the night, his arms still wrapped around her, his heart beating strong and steady under her cheek. She’d turned her head, brushed her lips to his chest, and gone back to sleep smiling.
A cold thread of panic wound its way through her: where was he?
Gone?
No: she could hear someone in the kitchen. Clanking pots and pans—good Lord, was he trying to cook? She almost shot out of bed just to catch that sight when she saw the clock.
10:00 A.M.
The reporter that Roman had arranged—what was her name? Denise something or other?—she was going to arrive in an hour.
Shit. SHIT.
Roman was probably getting ready, probably staging something. She should be up and helping him; instead he let her sleep. She smiled.
She winced when she swung her legs over the bed, still surprisingly sore, but then she smiled even brighter.
It was going to be a good day.
A good year.
Maybe a good life.
She rose from the bed as delicately as she could and headed for the bathroom for a quick shower. The bathroom had a vase full of fresh cut flowers—Roman’s service must have been around in the evening, after they’d gone to the dinner. The sight of flowers reminded her of Ben’s unknown “delivery,” and she felt a twinge of guilt, remembering their texts the previous night.
How could it seem so long ago?
She showered in record time, eschewing her normal long, luxurious hot water extravaganza, only because—and she knew this was a little nuts, but she felt like she got to be a little nuts today—she wanted to see Roman. She wanted to go help before the reporter arrived. She wanted to cook him breakfast.
Too late, she reminded herself. He was probably trying to cook to impress the reporter. She could make lunch later and make up for it.
She threw on one of those low-maintenance yet stylish one-shoulder tops and some skinny jeans, tousled her wet hair, and went out to find Roman.
She felt damn sexy just being near him.
She found him in the kitchen, a tower of copper cookware piled on the expansive counter next to his workspace at the stove; the man was making crêpes, and had apparently had to rummage through every expensive, unused piece of cookery to get to his special crepe-making equipment.
The crepes themselves actually looked amazing. There were bowls of strawberries, sliced bananas, apples with cinnamon, chocolate sauce.
It was literally the best breakfast Lola could have conceived of.
So why wasn’t he looking at her?
“Chef Roman,” she said, pulling herself up on one of the kitchen barstools, “You know the reporter lady is coming by soon?”
Roman looked up from the crêpe he was making, a shadow of doubt flickering in his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by a cool mask of reservation. He said, “I’m aware, yes.”
Maybe she was just imagining it—maybe this was just the usual post-intimacy craziness people talked about. Lola had never really fallen victim to it before, but she figured that if it would happen with anyone, it would happen with Roman.
She tried again.
“So do you have anything in particular you want to get across to her?” Lola said.
Immediately she hated that she’d said that. Like she was getting all arch and prim and naggy about some stupid interview that absolutely paled in comparison to the importance that was Roman Casta holding her through the night. It wasn’t what she really meant. It wasn’t even close. So why had she said it? What she really wanted to say was, ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you being like this? Wasn’t last night special? Didn’t it mean something?’
Roman poured another crêpe onto the griddle.
Lola watched Roman’s brow furrow in concentration or pain, she couldn’t tell which one. Given the simplicity of making a crepe, she didn’t think it was probable that the cooking was taking up so much of his brainpower, but the alternative…
“There is something we need to talk about,” he said.
He plated a strawberry-chocolate crepe and placed it in front of Lola, but she’d lost her appetite.
“What?” she asked.
She forced herself to look up at him. He looked pained. Like he hadn’t slept at all. There were lines on his face where she could never remember seeing them, shadows under his eyes. Even his hair seemed in disarray, falling forward into his face.
He leaned on the other side of the table, his shoulders bunching and his forearms roiling like twisted cables of rope. He stared at her intensely, his eyes boring into her with some message she couldn’t interpret.
“I said yesterday that we should continue,” he said. “And that is true. But not without some modifications.”
“Modifications?” she said weakly.
He winced. “Yes. The exclusivity requirement seems onerous, under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?” she said, almost reflexively. Then she actually processed what he’d said. “The exclusivity requirement? What are you saying?”
He looked her directly in the eye, his own eyes like sharp shards of obsidian. “If this is to go on, you should be free to…see other people, no? You can leave at any time after the ceremony, and the equity in Club Volare will still be yours.” The crepe started to burn, and he quickly tended to it. “You deserve happiness, Lola. You should look for it.”
Lola held his gaze, but her body, as if of its own accord, went slowly cold.
“I should?” she said. She didn’t even recognize her own voice.
She would have wished that, at that moment, he couldn’t meet her gaze. But he did. He looked terrible, pained, and tortured, but he did.
“Yes,” he said.
It seemed like they stood there for a long time, looking at each other. Like Lola’s brain took too long to process the actual words that had come out of his mouth. Like she had all the time in the world to think about every other failed relationship she’d ever had, every other moment where she’d misjudged a man, every other time when she’d felt like she’d left herself out and open, hopeful and yet just waiting to be hurt.
And then the doorbell rang.
Roman dusted the flour off his hands, truly annoyed.
“She is early,” he said, and looked back at Lola. “I wanted to have this conversation finished before she arrived.”
“Finished?” Lola said. “In what universe do you see that as possible in like, less than an hour?”
Roman frowned. The doorbell rang again. He looked at Lola, and she couldn’t believe what she saw in his face: pain.
What the hell? What right did he have to be at all pained? This was his doing.
“Please, Lola,” he said, “Think about it.”
And then he went for the goddamn door.
“So,” Denise Nelson said, giving them both an arch look over a mountain of untouched crêpes, “You’ve covered this slow burn romance pretty well. My readers will love it. Every girl wants to get the guy she falls for when she’s young,” she said, smiling at Lola.
Lola did her best to smile back. Roman took her hand in his. She still felt cold.
“Now—and I do hope this will be on the record, even though it wasn’t in the approved questions,” Denise said with a sharp smile, Roman noticeably tensing, “—but I just have to ask you about the second location. Our L.A. office is going crazy with gossip.”
“Second location?” Lola heard herself say.
Denise gave her a coy smile. “Don’t try that with me. We’ve had people out to look at the location in Venice. You know construction workers are just the worst gossips?”
The silence felt heavy. Lola was sure she could hea
r dust spinning in the air. Roman sighed and ran his free hand over his face, like it could wipe the slate clean.
Finally Lola looked at Roman and cocked her head, like she was only teasing her new husband. “Might as well tell her, hon,” she said.
Inside, she was thinking: Please let this be a mistake. Please don’t say you lied to me, too.
Roman squeezed her hand, squeezed it so hard it almost hurt, but kept his poker face turned towards Denise, the busy journalist.
“That’s not really for public consumption,” he said, “You understand, we will do a proper announcement when it’s ready. Through you, at your magazine. Since you’ve been so good to us.”
Even Lola could hear the implicit threat there. She almost laughed—Roman didn’t mess around. A morally crusading state senator like Harold Jeels was one of the few things on the list of things Roman couldn’t buy, but he could damn well buy Denise’s freaking magazine if he felt like it. But Roman wasn’t a bully, and Lola knew he wouldn’t take that path.
He was just a fucking heartbreaker.
“Ok!” Denise said, breaking the silence with raised eyebrows. “I think I’ve got what I need for the text to accompany the wedding layout. We’re coordinating with Dagmar, so you don’t have to worry about any of that—we’ll just want our photographer to get his shots in.”
“That’s great,” Lola said, practically shooting up from her chair when the reporter rose.
And awkward pause followed. Lola moved so quickly it was hard not to notice. Both Roman and Denise looked at her, one warily, the other with obvious curiosity. Normally Lola would never make a scene, but she had suddenly hit her limit. This was too much. She couldn’t—couldn’t —just sit and pretend anymore. She couldn’t continue with this charade in the aftermath of the epic mindfuck Roman had just pulled on her.
She should see other people?
She deserved happiness?
He’d been planning another Volare location? On another coast?
He’d lied to her. Or at the very least kept her out of the loop. She could only think of a few reasons he might choose to do that, and every single one of them made her feel even worse. Lola’s brain went into overdrive, turning over all the different pieces of information, trying to find a way to fit them together that didn’t make Roman a liar. Someone who had used her, presumably. Who didn’t give a shit about the one rule she’d made: don’t lie to me.