Page 69 of Whatever Lola Wants

Luckily for her, it had been an exciting game, and she’d spend most of the nine innings on her feet, cheering for the home team.

When they’d gone back to her apartment and tumbled into bed, she’d insisted on being on top. Her butt was far too tender, she’d told him, to rub against the sheets or be stuck up in the air as an easy target. He’d gone along without a quibble, and then demonstrated just how much attention he could pay to her ass from the bottom.

Long arms, big hands, and a ridiculous amount of upper body strength meant she hadn’t had nearly as much control as she’d wanted. By the time they were done she’d run out of curses to fling at him, her butt was throbbing anew, and she’d come so hard she might have actually forgotten her name for a moment.

And telling him that had been a huge mistake. Every night since then he’d made it his mission to get her to forget again.

She grinned down at the contract in front of her, squirming in her seat at the memory making. Which made her wince, but it wasn’t enough to dim her happiness.

She was, for the first time since she’d moved to Chicago, spending time with a man who excited her in bed, didn’t bore her out of it, and who seemed to genuinely like her. They had a surprising amount in common; a passion for their respective careers, enjoyment of most sports—he’d taken her refusal to watch the golf channel with him in stride—a shared interest in books and art. It sometimes surprised her how often they stayed up into the wee hours, cuddled in her bed in the dark, talking about current events or dissecting the documentary they’d just watched.

They’d even managed to work around the whole problem of her not being submissive. It helped that the way he liked to play meshed so well with what she needed as a bottom; when she worked her way free of his ropes or cuffs or fought back, he never got angry. He just laughed. Then he overpowered her, punished her for her antics in a way that made them both hotter, and continued with the scene.

It made for some of the best scenes of her life, and she slept like the dead every night, exhausted from multiple orgasms.

And after tasting her cooking just once, he’d declared her a disaster in the kitchen and appointed himself in charge of breakfast.

Since he always made bacon and usually cooked wearing just a pair of worn jeans—unbuttoned, half zipped, and clinging to his ass in a way that made her mouth water—that worked just fine for her.

She was falling for him.

The thought was sobering. She leaned back in her chair, chewing on the cap of her pen. She couldn’t say the realization was a surprise; trying to cook for him was a dead giveaway that she was trying to impress him. She snickered, remembering the look on his face at his first bite of her pancakes. Apparently, she hadn’t mixed the dry ingredients together thoroughly enough, and he’d bitten right into an undissolved glob of baking soda. Once he’d stopped gagging, he’d laughed. And once she’d stopped pretending to be hurt and offended, so had she.

She knew he had feelings for her. A man didn’t spend time with a woman he didn’t enjoy being with, especially a man like Simon. He had money, a great deal of power in certain circles, and the kind of dangerous good looks that brought women out of the woodwork. She rolled her eyes, remembering the first time they’d gone out to dinner rather than ordering in. She’d come back from the bathroom to find a long-legged brunette draped all over him in the bar, and their waitress had practically genuflected when he’d smiled at her.

He’d barely paid any attention to it, which surprised her. Oh, he’d been amused by the brunette at the bar, but he’d excused himself effortlessly when he’d seen Lola coming back from the bathroom, turning his back on the disappointed woman—and her enormous breasts—without a backward glance.

When he was with her, he paid attention to her. And in her experience, that alone made him unique.

But then again, he was a Dom, used to exercising control, used to being in charge. Maybe she’d made a mistake all those years she’d spent shying away from dominant men.

Because, boy howdy, it was sure working for her now.

Her self-deprecating chuckle was interrupted by the chirp of her cell phone. A quick glance at the readout made her smile. Ginger had been living in the apartment next to hers for only a short while, but she’d come to enjoy the other woman’s company. They’d had dinner once, with Anna joining them for burgers at Navy Pier, and they’d talked several times since.

She tapped her screen to engage the speaker. “Hello, Ginger.”

“Hey, Lola. Are you home right now?”

Lola frowned and checked the time display on her computer. It was already after six—she’d lost track of time working on the latest version of the Anderson contract--and thinking about Simon. “No, I’m still at work, actually.”

“Nuts.”

“Is something wrong?”

Ginger’s sigh came over the line. “Nothing that can’t wait. I bought a new bookshelf today, and I need some tools to put it together.”

“Oh. Can’t you find Peter’s tools?”

“He doesn’t have any.” Ginger’s voice was disgusted.

“He’s a structural engineer, and he doesn’t have tools?”

“When I asked him that exact question, he got all huffy and said he only designed buildings and bridges; other people build them. He doesn’t even have a screwdriver.”

“Well, you’re welcome to my tools. And you should have a key to my place on the key ring Peter left you.”

“Really?”

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