Whatever Lola Wants

As a Dom, Simon Hastings wants a submissive. Someone who will bow to his will, serve his needs, and allow him to do wonderful, terrible things to her.

That someone is not Lola Wright.

Sure she’s beautiful, and kinky, and she looks delicate—but looks have never been so deceiving. Because in truth she’s a switch with a penchant for needle play, has more swagger than an 80s rock star, and is less submissive than a feral possum. He couldn’t have designed someone less like his ideal woman. So why does he feel this fierce, compelling attraction for her?

An attraction that increases the more time he spends around her. And when he sees her topping at Odyssey, the BDSM club he belongs to, that attraction—and the chemistry he’s been trying to deny—reaches flash point.

But Simon is still a Dom, and no amount of chemistry, affection, shared laughter or quiet cuddles in the dark will turn Lola into the submissive he wants. And when faced with a choice—to continue his search for the perfect submissive or adjust his expectations to make room for the woman he never expected to capture his heart—which will he choose?

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I always wanted to write a switch, and Lola kind of came about by accident. She was just Anna's best friend at the beginning, just a secondary character in Snow Bound that I knew would have her own book, but I wasn't sure what that would look like. Then I thought, "Oh, of course. Switch!" and there she was. I love her so much - she might be one of my favorite characters ever.

behind the book

“Nice place.”

Lola snickered and poured herself a glass of water, her eyes laughing as she leaned against the counter. “Thanks.”

She was so tiny. “How tall are you?”

If she thought the question unusual, she didn’t comment. Merely sipped her water and watched him over the rim of her glass. “Five feet, two inches.”

He snorted, and her lips gave a little twitch. “Okay, five feet one and two thirds inches.”

“Little,” he commented. “Fierce.”

“I have a t-shirt that says that,” she commented, and he chuckled. Of course she did.

“You need better security.”

Her brows shot up at that. “Excuse me?”

He nodded toward the front door, which she’d unlocked with a single key and had no alarm. “You need an alarm system. And a deadbolt that works on a separate key from the door lock. And a chain,” he growled, realizing she didn’t even have that. He scowled at her. “What’s the matter with you?”

“You mean besides whatever brain spasm led me to bring you here?” She smirked as his scowl deepened. “It’s a secure building, Simon.”

“A doorman does not make it secure.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “The elevators are restricted access. Didn’t you see me use my key fob to access this floor?”

He had, and while he approved, he was far from mollified. “Is the garage secure at least?”

She shrugged. “I think so.”

“You think so? My car is parked down there.”

She rolled her eyes and set her glass aside. “I don’t have a car, so I never go down there. You can ask Chet on the way out.”

“Chet?”

“The doorman.”

He snorted. Chet. Yeah, Chet was keeping the place secure.

She walked toward him, looking amused, stopping with her toes just inches away from his sneakers. Her bare toes, he realized. She must’ve kicked her shoes off in the kitchen. Cute little toes that were painted the same bright red as her fingernails, the same bright red as her lips.

He looked into her face, amusement battling with the heat that had been lurking in her eyes all night. Hell, it had been there Saturday night, when their eyes had met across the room after her scene. Heat and lust and something just a little bit dangerous.

“I’m sorry my building security isn’t up to Big Dick Hastings’ standards.”

He knew she called him that to work him, knew it was deliberate. The best thing he could do was ignore it.

Fuck that.

“When are you going to stop calling me that?”

She tilted her head, the sparkle in her eyes making them shine. “What? Big Dick Hastings?” She batted her lashes. “Why, when it stops pissing you off, of course.”

He fucking knew it. “I want you to stop now.”

She regarded him silently for a moment, lips pursed as though in consideration. “No.”

His mind had gone blank. Unsurprising, since most of his blood had rushed to his dick. “What?”

“No. I don’t want to stop calling you that. It’s fun for me, and I don’t think it really hurts your feelings.” Her gaze grew speculative. “Does it?”

His gaze narrowed. “It pisses me off.”

She smiled.

“I could make you.”

She laughed. “How?”

Bend you over my knee, spank that tight little ass until it glows like a stoplight. He bit the words back and bared his teeth in a snarl.

Her laugh this time was knowing. “If you think that’ll make me stop, you don’t know me very well.”

He tamped down the urge snatch her up, and kept his hands in his pockets. “I don’t, do I? Had no idea you were kinky, for example.”

“Mmm.” She mimicked his pose, tucking her hands into the pockets of her smart capri pants. “I knew you were, the first time I saw you.”

“The day you smashed Grant’s balls.” A flash of shared amusement passed between them before he remembered what she’d said. “How?”

“How did I know you were kinky?” She shrugged. “When you’re a submissive—or even just an occasional bottom—you learn to recognize the signs.” She smiled at his look of surprise. “Doms always think they’ve got a lock on reading body language, voice inflection, etcetera, but trust me. Submissives are more subtle, but spend much time in the scene and you get to develop some pretty good Dom-radar.”

Her smile widened. “And being a switch, I’ve got both.”

Before he could answer, she was strolling away. “So. Since you can’t do what you’d really like to do to get me to stop calling you Big Dick Hastings—" she shot a look over her shoulder that said she knew exactly what he’d been thinking—“maybe we can settle it another way.”

His eyes tracked her movements as she walked to the sofa. “How’s that?”

She leaned her weight against the end of the sofa and gave it a shove, maneuvering it so it was against the wall, out of the way. “I’ll make you a bet. If you win, I stop calling you Big Dick Hastings.” She grinned, wide and wicked. “At least out loud.”

His eyes narrowed, watching her move to one of the side chairs, shoving it over so it sat next to the sofa. “And if you win?”

“If I win,” she said with a small grunt as she shoved the other chair over to rest next to its mate. “Then I get to top you.”

He barked out a laugh. “Honey, if you think I’m going to let you stick needles in me, you are drunk.”

“Doesn’t have to be needles,” she said mildly. “It’s not my only topping skill.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m a top, a Dom. I don’t bottom.”

She paused, bent over, in the middle of pushing the coffee table to join the other furniture against the wall. He forced himself not to get distracted by the firm curve of her ass.

She watched him for a moment, then shrugged and continued pushing the table, putting her back into it until it butted up against the sofa. “Well, we could probably come up with something else. Everything is negotiable.”

He watched with growing interest while she systematically removed all the extra furnishings—lamps, pillows, a bin full of magazines—from the living area until the space was completely clear. She stood in the middle of the empty rug, hands on her hips, in white capri pants and a red camp shirt, her painted toes glinting at him.

“The main point of the bet,” she said as she began unbuttoning the shirt, “is that if I win, I get to continue calling you Big Dick Hastings. Really, that’s my win.”

His eyes narrowed as her nimble fingers continued to work the buttons until her shirt hung open. “What’re you doing?”

“Getting ready.” She slipped the open shirt off her shoulders and tossed it toward the sofa, and he felt it like a one-two punch to the solar plexus.

She wore a white bra edged in lace. Simple, practical. Not fuck me wear. But her nipples were hard beneath the practical white cotton, and the gentle curve of those tidy, barely-a-mouthful breasts made his mouth water.

Her hands moved to the waistband of the slacks, unbuttoning and unzipping with unhurried movements. She wasn’t trying to be sexy or seductive; she was just taking off her clothes.

It was the hottest strip tease he’d ever been privy to.

The slacks slipped with a whisper of sound down her bare legs. She picked them up and tossed them on top of the shirt, then simply stood, and let him look.

She was all pale, smooth skin and firm muscle. Her limbs seemed surprisingly long for such a small woman, her legs sleek and strong. Her hips curved into a nipped in waist, her breasts sat high and firm on her rib cage. The panties matched the bra and sat low across her hipbones, giving him an unfettered view of her belly. Flat, firm, the dip of her belly button an intriguing shadow.

He finished his slow scan of her body and returned his gaze to her face. Her eyes were steady on his, but the heat in them was like a blast furnace. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, and her breath came just a little faster than normal as she waited.

What was she waiting for? Oh, right. His turn to talk. Jesus, Hastings, get your head in the game. He hoped he could maintain some dignity and speak without stuttering. “Getting ready for what?”

“The bet, of course.” She tilted her head. “Are you interested?”

“Oh, I’m interested,” he growled, his hands fisting in his pockets. A good twelve feet separated them, for which he was thankful. If he’d been close enough to touch her, he’d already be pounding her into the rug. “What’s the bet?”

The flush on her cheeks deepened. “We spar.”

He couldn’t have heard her correctly. “I’m sorry?”

“You try to pin me, I try to pin you. Best two out of three.”

He wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t think clearly enough to manage it. He’d get his hands on her, he realized. All over her. He cleared his throat. “I outweigh you by over a hundred pounds, sweetheart.”

She smiled. “Well, then you don’t have anything to worry about, do you? We’ll say a win is a pin, pushing your opponent off the rug—" she indicted the large square carpet she stood on, surrounded on all four sides by bare hardwood—“or submission.”

“You’re joking.”

Her eyebrows raised, she shook her head. “Nope.”

Was he seriously considering this? He looked at the panties again, thought about getting them off her. Oh, hell yes.

“Rules?” he asked, his voice little more than a growl.

She set her hands on her hips. “We’ll keep it polite. No hair pulling, biting, eye gauging. Faces and genitals are off limits. We don’t try to damage each other.”

He grunted. “Agreed.”

“Tap outs will be promptly acknowledged. And respected.”

He lifted one arrogant brow. “I don’t need to cheat, sweetheart.”

“Good to know.” Her fingertips tapped on her hips, drawing his eye, heating his blood. From the smug look on her face when he looked back up, she knew it. “You in?”

This is insane. She must be crazy. Fuck, I must be crazy. Tell her no. “Yeah. I’m in.”

excerpt

content warnings

Whatever Lola Wants is a BDSM romance with graphic, detailed sex and graphic, detailed play. In addition to what I consider to be BDSM basics (bondage, spanking, deliberate infliction of physical pain for sexual gratification), there is also a detailed needle scene between Lola and a secondary character. Blood is mentioned, though there's not a lot of it, and how the needles are applied is described in detail. If this is a squick for you, beware!

R