Twenty-Six
W hen I arrive at the address Rome sent to me, I’m taken aback at the house as I pull into its stone driveway. The exterior is black on one side and colored brick on the other. The black, white, and gray bricks mesh perfectly with the all-black overhangs and columns that hold up the balcony overlooking the front of the house, and the underside of the balcony is covered in orange lights that glow like tiny fires. It’s clear that the designer had an infatuation with windows, because the face of the home is covered in them, some as tall as twelve feet high. It’s gorgeous and completely modern, and I find myself wondering what Rome was really into before he purchased Sandcastle from Mr. Thomas. Like Rome, the house is luxurious, well-kept, and intimidating. Even his house gives off Dom vibes.
The front door is glass with an expansive black frame, and as I approach it I see Rome walking to meet me. He’s dressed in black pants and a white V-neck T-shirt, looking absolutely delectable as he places his hand on the door and pulls it open.
“ Buonasera ,” he says with a smile. He has been flashing that smile a lot more lately and I'm obsessed.
“Hi,” I reply.
Rome steps to the side and opens the door all the way, extending a hand to help me with the small step inside. “I'm glad you're here. Come on in. You look incredible.”
A smile bullies its way onto my face as I look down at my outfit, as if I could forget that I chose to wear a white and burgundy dress that showcases a little cleavage and hugs my hips in a death grip. The back is open, but my bare skin is covered by the length of my locs, and I haven't had a reason to wear this dress in far too long. I'm hoping that tonight is the occasion I have been waiting for.
“Thank you,” I reply, beaming. “You look great, yourself. Somehow you make a simple combination of a V-neck and slacks look like something from a GQ photo shoot.”
Rome pauses to smile—and is that blush I see?
“ Grazie ,” he says.
I tilt my head. “Okay, if you're going to start speaking Italian, I don't know how you ever expect us to get to dinner.”
The smile on his face doesn't waver a bit and it makes my stomach somersault.
“I’ll try to keep it under control,” he says. “Follow me. I'm still trying to work some magic in the kitchen and don't want to burn it.”
As Rome begins to walk, I follow closely on his heel. “You're cooking? I thought you were going to order in. Actually, I thought you were going to have a chef make dinner. You know how to cook?”
We walk past an open living room that is magnificently designed, making my jaw drop. A gargantuan eggshell sectional takes up the center, with black and eggshell pillows neatly placed on each cushion, while a gray coffee table with a gun metal top rests in the center. Silver end tables with glass tops are strategically placed around the ends of the sectional and matching loveseat, and the entire space is punctuated by the fireplace made of the exact same black, white, and gray brick from the outside of the house. The gorgeous black chandelier hanging from the center adds the finishing touch to a jaw-dropping space that leaves me stuck in my tracks while Rome rushes into the kitchen.
“I'm Italian,” he says. “Of course I know how to cook. My mother wouldn't have let me live to see adulthood if I didn't.”
I somehow manage to peel my eyes away from the living room and make my way into the kitchen, only to be blown away a second time. Black cabinets next to white marble countertops and mirrored black appliances nearly overwhelm my senses with their beauty, and even though Rome is clearly cooking, the place is as neat as a hospital room. There are no spilled ingredients on the counter or splashes of mystery liquids on the floor. The only signs that he's cooking are the steam rising from pots and a skillet on the stove, and the hunger-inducing aroma spreading throughout the house. I have been in his place all of five seconds and I am in awe of how this man lives. It’s almost too good to be true. I've never known a man to be this well put together.
“Rome, your house … it’s surreal,” I compliment, still eyeing everything and taking it all in.
“Thank you, I'm glad you like it,” he replies. “I just moved in a few months ago so I'm still getting used to it, like a lot of things in my life. But I do love it.”
“I bet. Was your last place as nice as this one?” I ask, taking a seat on one of the tall chairs by the island.
“Oh, no way,” he says, turning his back to me so he can do something on the stove. “I mean, don't get me wrong, I've never been poor, but my place was average middle class. My circumstances changed when my father passed away.”
Damn. I almost forgot that he said he recently lost his father. He told me at the restaurant but clearly didn't want to elaborate. I wonder if I’ll be able to get more out of him tonight.
“I remember you told me about your father,” I say, trying to tread lightly. “Were you two close?”
Rome doesn't speak or turn around for five long seconds before he answers, “Yes.”
“I'm really sorry to hear that, Rome,” I say, hoping my sincerity can be heard through my words.
“How about you? Both of your parents still with us?” he asks, looking over his shoulder.
“Fortunately they are,” I reply. “And my mom is just like yours. There was no way I was leaving her house without knowing how to get down in the kitchen. We still cook together whenever I go see them. Does your mom still teach you things to cook? I call and ask my mom for directions and ingredients all the time.”
Rome stirs a pot before tapping the spoon on the side and setting it down on a napkin next to the stove. When he turns around, his face is blank. “My mom died in a car accident when I was nineteen.”
“Oh my god,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. No wonder he has such a hard exterior—only thirty-five years old and he has already lost both of his parents. “I'm so sorry. That’s horrible. I can’t imagine how hard that must be for you.”
He licks his lips as he stares at the floor. “Yeah. I certainly have my moments, but … I manage.”
After another few seconds of awkward silence, Rome adds, “Now I have a head full of memories that sometimes make me cry, but more often than not, make me smile and laugh. There is a lot that I wish both of them could've seen, but I know they’re still with me in one way or another. I like to think that Mom is here whenever I cook, making sure I don't burn anything. Even now she's looking over my shoulder every time I touch this ravioli.”
A soft smile forms on my lips as Rome turns back around to continue cooking. Somehow, I can imagine him and his mother standing over a stove together, laughing as he torches something for the first time, leaving it charred and filling his mother with fits of laughter. It’s nice learning something deeply personal to him. It makes him more tangible and human instead of some mysterious, mystic creature that feels like he hopped off the pages of a BDSM romance written by Nasir Booker.
“That’s a great way of thinking of it,” I say with a smile that he can't see while he cooks. “So, you're making ravioli. Have you mastered the recipe yet or do you have a little book with notes scribbled all over it?”
“I'm making ravioli with Italian sausage ragout,” he corrects. “And I absolutely have this down pat. What I love about this recipe from my mom is that it doesn't require a whole lot of effort, but it tastes and looks like it could be a gourmet dish.”
“Oh, yeah? Well let me see what you're working with over there.”
I get up from my seat and approach Rome from the back, but he holds out a hand to stop me.
“No, no. You stay back there,” he jokes. “You can't look at the ingredients while they are separate. It ruins the flavor.”
“It ruins the flavor ?” I ask, giggling. “How does seeing it ruin the flavor?”
“I don't know but that's what my mother always told me, so that’s what I'm sticking with. You can see it once it all comes together. Now stay back. I’m just about done anyway.”
Laughing, I return to my seat by the island and watch as Rome moves about the kitchen like a trained professional. He grabs plates from the cabinet and sets them down side by side, then pours handmade ravioli in the center of each one. The smells filling my nose make my stomach rumble, but watching him work his magic in the kitchen makes my insides quiver. He grabs another pot and begins pouring from it, but his body blocks my view. I can only smell it, and it’s mouthwatering. After everything is put together exactly how he wants it, Rome spins around and presents me with a plate. My eyes bulge.
“Ravioli with Italian sausage ragout,” he says like it’s an introduction. “It’s a sofrito base of crushed tomatoes, mild and spicy Italian sausage, red wine, and a little bit of milk. Trust me, the flavor is like no other.”
My eyes remain wide as I look down at the exquisite dish. “Well, it looks absolutely unreal. I can't wait to taste it.”
Rome smiles as he brings his plate and places it next to mine, but instead of eating or even escorting me to a table, he begins quickly grabbing the pots he used to cook and starts washing them off in the sink. He scrubs one completely clean, dries it with a paper towel, and puts it in a cabinet under the counter before placing the others in the dishwasher. It doesn't take him long, but he cleans off every single thing he used, leaving nothing behind. It doesn't look like he used the kitchen at all. When he's finished, he grabs both steaming plates and looks at me. “Alright. Follow me to the dining room.”
With raised brows, I nod. “Lead the way, Sir.”
As I climb off my chair, I follow Rome down a short hall that leads to the dining room, and it is just as breathtaking as the other rooms in the house. A beautiful mahogany table sits in the center surrounded by florid black chairs, with a chandelier hanging over it like a floating centerpiece. Everything in the room looks more expensive than anything in my house. It’s stunning.
Rome puts our plates down and says something about going back to the kitchen, but I barely even hear it. My mind is on how unreal all of this is. The house, the man, his clothes, the way he cooks, how he cleaned everything immediately instead of leaving a mess behind that he would have to return to later. He is organized and in control of everything, never seeming to lose his cool or lack composure. In every way, he is methodical and planned out. It’s like he read the secret handbook on everything Dom-like and memorized each page. It makes me want to parade him around the world, taking him to every BDSM-centric establishment to show everyone that he is what a Dom is supposed to look like. Everything Rome does is precisely how I believe a Dom should act. Being a Dominant is more than just a title for him. It is his way of life. He dominates everything around him, owning it all without having to announce it or brag. He steps into the room and everyone takes notice—he even owns the people in his presence without needing to beat them into submission. I've never seen anything like it, and it makes me melt every time I'm near him. Although every submissive has their own definition and example of what a Dom is, Rome is everything a Dom should be.
When he returns, he's holding a bottle of red wine and two crystal glasses to go along with our meal. He pops the cork and fills each glass, setting them next to their respective plates before taking his seat. He picks up his fork and stops, looking directly at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You go first.”
“Go first?”
“I won't start eating until you do,” he says.
Good fucking god.
I battle with myself, trying not to smile as I lift my fork and push it into the ravioli. Rome doesn't move as I slowly bring it to my mouth. My taste buds explode with flavor as I chew, making my eyes widen with shock.
“Good?” he asks.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” I reply. “Rome, this is so good I could die.”
“Well don't do that ,” he says, finally lifting his own fork to his mouth with a smile.
“Honestly, what the fuck?” I exclaim, putting my fork down. “How did you get like this?”
Rome chews as he shrugs. “Get like what ?”
“You know exactly what I'm talking about,” I snip like I'm frustrated. “This isn't normal. You are not normal, Rome, and there’s no way you don't know it. You live in this immaculate house that you manage to keep so clean that it looks like a model home. You dress like a model. You cook like a chef. You stood up for me in front of one of the most notorious gangsters in all of Philadelphia. You share fond memories of your mother and show her respect even when she's no longer with us. You clearly have money and know how to spend it like a grown man instead of using it to fill your place with games and toys. Oh, and let’s not forget that we’ve already slept together. You fuck like a porn star mixed with the world’s greatest Dom. It’s too good to be true. It just has to be. So, tell me what’s wrong with you right now before I get up and start opening drawers and cabinets to find it myself. Are you a drug dealer? Is that it? Are you secretly making meth like Walter White? Are you a hitman? Do you have a basement full of jars with people’s heads inside? What is it, Rome? Just tell me now and put me out of my misery, because it’s starting to look like you should be on the cover of Literally Perfect Magazine.”
“Is that a real magazine?” he asks, grinning.
“Stop it!” I say, pointing at him and trying to keep myself from smiling. “I need to know how you got like this. Your mother must’ve been an amazing woman, because her son is out of this world. Now explain while we eat this ludicrously delicious meal.”
Rome sips his wine before leaning back in his chair. “Well, first of all, I appreciate the compliment.”
“Oh my god,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Yeah, keep voicing your appreciation of my thoughts and words. That’ll make me less attracted to you.”
“I'm just being myself,” he goes on with a nonchalant shrug. “It’s true that my mother was a phenomenal woman who raised me as well as she could for as long as she could, and my father was no less incredible himself. He taught me all about hard work and putting other people before myself. He instructed me about business and how to keep my head on straight and my eyes on the prize. But the parts of my personality that make me a Dom are parts I can't explain. I don't know where it originates from. Admittedly, I've dated quite a few women, and I've learned something important from every relationship I've ever been in.”
“What was your longest relationship?” I probe.
Rome hesitates, swallowing hard. “Five years.”
“Oh, wow. Okay. How long ago was that?”
“Four, almost five years ago.”
“How did it end? Are you still on good terms with your ex?”
His eyes drop to the table and he clears his throat as apprehension crawls up his neck, stiffening his posture.
“I really don't want to talk about my past relationships,” he says. “Just know that the person you see before you is the real me. I'm not putting on an act of any kind. This is who I am. I like to cook and I have a bit of OCD. I need everything to be clean and kept in its designated place or I feel a strong lack of control that bothers me to no end.”
“So you're a control freak?”
“Absolutely,” he answers quickly. “I think that’s one of the qualities that makes me a good Dom.”
I nod. “Touchè.”
“What about you?” he asks, covering his mouth with his hand while he chews. “You're so focused on how I became the person I am, but you're not exactly a walking mess either. I'm about as picky as it gets, and I knew from the first moment I saw you that you would be my undoing. There's an aura about you that pulled me in, and I was hoping your personality would rub me the wrong way, but it locked me in chains instead. Every time we spoke at the office, it was like you put more locks on the trap that ensnared me, making it so that I couldn't get away from my desire for you. So, how do you explain that? Is your mother an incredible woman, too?”
I let out a long sigh as his words weave their way through me like a magic spell, heightening my senses and lowering my inhibitions. The good food and wine doesn't hurt either, but the way he stares has me in a chokehold, and I don't even want to fight my way free.
“I don't know how you expect me to answer that,” I reply. “You can't go dishing out compliments like that and expect me to act like you didn't.”
“I have no expectations. I just want to know about you.”
After a sigh, I say, “Okay. Well then, yes, my mom is awesome. She is just as strong-minded as I am and always pushed for me to be the same way. She is where I get all of my mental fortitude and strength, and my father is where I get all of my drive. I honestly don't think I get my submissiveness from either of them, if I'm being honest.”
“So your parents don't have a D/s dynamic?”
I laugh aloud. “No way. My mom would never say that she has submitted to a man, or anyone else for that matter. This is just a part of who I am, the same way being a Dom is who you are. It’s funny because it’s natural for me to feel submissive, but I always want it to be earned. It’s not something I am ever willing to just give away for free. Once it’s earned, I'm at my happiest.”
“How important is it to you that you're in a D/s dynamic?” he asks, continuing to eat his food as if we’re not talking about deep, explicit parts of our lives.
“It’s instrumental,” I answer, pushing my fork into my mouth. I cover half my face with my free hand so that I can continue explaining. “Once you've experienced BDSM in real life, I don't think there is any going back. I've seen how good it can be, and my kinks and fetishes have only grown the older I've gotten. I'm not going backward for anyone.”
“I agree,” he says after swallowing another bite. “While I know that this lifestyle isn't for everyone, I feel like there is no other way for me to exist. Being a Dom isn't like putting my shoes on at the start of the day just to remove them at the end. It’s in my blood, still coursing through me even when I'm asleep. I've always made it clear to anyone I was dating that you don't get me without BDSM. Even though I was always open to taking it as slow as my partner may have needed, meeting me here was always a requirement.”
“Have you broken up with someone over them not being interested in BDSM?”
“Absolutely,” he replies with no hesitation or regret. “I won’t have a vanilla life the same way I won't have a life filled with racism or misogyny. Some things are non-negotiable.”
“I agree one hundred percent.”
“Good,” he says with a nod as he lifts his wine glass. “How about other non-negotiable things? What are your hard limits?”
I finish my entire glass of wine and refill it as I start to reply. “It’s like I told you before, I'm okay with just about anything that doesn't involve blood, urine, feces, or anal. I'm willing to try anything but those.”
“Anything?”
“Just about. I'm very open-minded—fond of paddles, floggers, and riding crops at equal levels. In love with praise just as much as degradation. In fact, I might even love degradation more.”
“Oh. Interesting. How about CNC?”
My eyes widen. “I've never done that before, but it sounds like tons of fun under the right circumstances—meaning everything being laid out beforehand so that I'm not caught off guard.”
“I see,” he says as if making a mental note. “Do you have any soft limits—things that you're curious about trying but aren't sure about yet?”
“I think I've tried everything I'm interested in. I've even done electroshock. At this point I'm only left with hard limits, and I don't budge on those.”
“As you shouldn't,” he says with a raised eyebrow.
“How about you?” I ask. “Any hard limits?”
Rome’s eyes shift up and to the side as he thinks, and I wonder if it’s his expression or the wine in my belly that makes it so cute.
“I think we’re the same … mostly,” he answers.
“Mostly?” I ask, although it comes out more like an exclamation.
“Alright, don't judge me,” he says, grinning. “I'm totally with you on feces and blood, but I have had a sub who liked being peed on … and I didn't hate it.”
My eyes bulge as a slow smile takes over my mouth. “Oh my god! You've peed on someone?”
“I must admit that I have.”
“Did she pee on you, too?” I ask, and when Rome doesn't answer, he speaks loud and clear. “ Oh my god ! Rome!”
“I told you not to judge me,” he says with a huge, adorable smile on his face. “Wow, I didn't know you were in the business of kink shaming, Miss Washington.”
After laughing, I manage to stifle it and act serious. “Ugh. Fine. No kink shaming. I just didn't expect that. Okay, I'm done. Anything else I should know about you?”
Rome hesitates a moment before saying, “No, that’s it.”
“Do you have a favorite kink?”
“Impact play,” he answers, this time with no hesitation. “But specifically with floggers. It’s my favorite toy by far. How about you? What’s your favorite kink?”
“Bondage,” I blab without thinking.
“Oh? Why?” Rome asks as he finishes his food and leans back with his wine glass in his hand.
I take my final bite of food and mirror his posture, leaning back in my seat. “Because it takes absolutely all control away from me. I can't move or shrink away to show my nervousness. I have no choice but to submit—to be completely controlled. To be used by someone of my choosing. To be owned. But I've never been with anyone who has the necessary tools and furniture to truly restrain me. I've worn cuffs and a ball gag before, but there's a lot of stuff out there that I haven't had the luxury of experiencing.”
Rome gazes at me for a moment, a smirk pulling one side of his mouth as he raises his glass and takes a long swig of his wine.
“What?” I ask, curious about his expression. “What’s that face for?”
Out of nowhere, Rome stands up and sets his glass down on the table next to his finished plate.
“Follow me. I want to show you something,” he says.
As exhilaration begins to course through my veins, I finish off my second glass of wine and rise to my feet. Rome smiles again before leading me out of the dining room and through another hall separate from the one that led us from the kitchen. We take a few quick turns and reach a closed black door that he opens with a twist of a gold knob, which leads to stairs that Rome immediately descends. I follow him silently until we reach the bottom and the two of us stand before a large space shrouded in shadows and ominous darkness.
“What is this?” I ask. “I can't see a thing.”
“This,” he answers, “is my playroom.”
Rome turns to his left and flicks a switch on the wall, sending light traveling down the center of the basement like a lightning strike. Once it reaches the far end, it spreads out across the entire room, illuminating the space and jolting my heart like a shock from a defibrillator.
My eyes widen to the size of planets as I gasp and my jaw drops open. “Oh, my god.”