Lola & the Millionaires: Part One

by Kathryn Moon

  “Yeah, but there’s two of us,” Rake said, reaching to my chest and cupping a tender breast.

  “And we know what sets you off better,” Leo said, words rough in my ear.

  His head bowed again, lips finding their target immediately, and my eyes squeezed shut. Probably better to let them make their point, right? I gasped as Leo sucked my clit and flicked it with his tongue, fingers diving into his hair.

  Definitely. It’s good for their egos.

  I arched into Leo’s kiss and offered up my breasts to Rake. I’d just help them along a little.

  “Lola? We’re home?”

  I woke up frowning, a little pool of wet drool under my cheek, and I sat up so fast my head crashed against the top of the car.

  “Oofuck.”

  Matthieu laughed, sitting up from beneath me, his hands cupping my head. “Aw, shit. Apologies, Lolotte.”

  My eyes were fixed to the wet spot on his dark t-shirt, and I reached up to quickly wipe my mouth. Maybe he hadn’t noticed? Except those perfect crows feet were wrinkling in the corners of his eyes and his lips were twitching.

  I sighed and tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Sorry about the…drool thing.”

  “Forgiven,” he said, grinning. “You were talking in your sleep, you know?”

  I frowned and sank back on my heels. Matthieu and I had curled up on the deep bench seat of the limousine for the ride back to the city. Since my sleeping had been pretty irregular all weekend, and Matthieu purred like a motor every time we touched, I’d slept nearly the entire way back.

  “Was it a nightmare?” I asked.

  Oddly enough, Matthieu’s smile grew even wider. “No, I think it was a confession of love. To french fries?”

  I laughed, pulling my hair off the back of my sweaty neck and into a ponytail, pushing myself out of the limo and stumbling onto the sidewalk. Dreaming of french fries? For once, I regretted not remembering my dreams.

  “It gave me an idea for dinner,” Matthieu said, sliding more gracefully out of the back of the car and heading for the trunk to grab our bags. “Have you ever had properly French fries? Pommes frites?”

  My mouth was already watering. I shook my head and he nodded, passing our driver an envelope, probably a generous cash tip. “We’ll drop our things inside, and then I’ll take us for a drive.”

  I followed Matthieu up the front steps and into the house, laughing as he took my hand and ditched our bags by the elevators.

  “Don’t you want to change?” I asked, tugging on the back of the t-shirt I’d drooled on.

  “No, we’ll… We won’t go in. It’ll be like a drive-thru, kind of.”

  “French french fries from a drive-thru, in the city?”

  “Kind of,” Matthieu repeated.

  I’d only been down in the bottom level once for a quick swim, and we’d used the elevator to drop us off right by the pool. It was in a long and narrow space with optional jets for resistance, and a beautiful starlight speckled lighting feature on the ceiling. From the stairs with Matthieu, we passed the pool room, and a giant glassed-in gym with workout mats and two of every kind of exercise equipment.

  “How much does the membership cost?” I asked, teasing Matthieu and eyeing the serious weight system.

  “I’m pretty sure Wes would happily sneak you in anytime,” Matthieu said. “So would I for that matter.”

  “No wonder you’re all so hot. I’d have a six-pack too if I had an onsite gym,” I said.

  “Given the state of the rest of your building, I’m pretty sure you’d get tetanus if not something worse. Here we are.” Matthieu opened the door to a garage, four of five spaces occupied by the kind of beautiful pieces of machinery that anyone would stop to stare at if they saw them passing.

  There was a lean polished black motorcycle at the far end of the room that surprised me, as well as several sports cars. But my favorite by far was the one Matthieu headed directly for, a vintage mint-colored convertible that was all curves and a long nose. It had a cream soft top up for the cool weather, and rounded cat-eye headlights.

  “Is that yours?” I asked, jogging down the metal steps to the garage floor.

  Matthieu opened the passenger door, his eyes busy admiring the car. “It is. The ’72 XKE.”

  “Is that a serial number?” I asked, staring blankly back at him.

  Matthieu snorted. “It’s a Jaguar. My favorite child,” he said grinning.

  “You know, I know how to drive stick,” I said, waggling my eyebrows.

  Matthieu’s eye twitched slightly. “I’m resisting the urge to make a terrible joke. Get in. Passenger side, please.”

  Matthieu drove us to the trendiest district of Old Uptown, full of little boutiques and galleries and eclectic restaurants. We passed an upscale vintage store that I used to regularly window shop at, and then turned into a narrow alley.

  “Umm, is this a legal maneuver?” I eyed the dumpster we passed narrowly with a slight wince. But it seemed unlikely that Matthieu would risk his precious convertible.

  “It is, technically, a thoroughfare,” Matthieu said, his own gaze cautious on the wall near him. After the length of one deep building, the alley opened up and there was enough room for us to pass without holding our breath.

  “Not one an SUV would fit through,” I said.

  Matthieu stopped the car at a backdoor in the center of the block, and I got the first perfect whiff of salt and spud and grease.

  “How have I missed this place? I used to live around here and I was on this block all the time.”

  “Napoleon is in the basement level. They do most of their business while the clubs are open,” Matthieu said, pulling his cell out of his pocket and shooting off a text.

  “And they take back alley orders?”

  “They do from investors,” Matthieu said with a sheepish smile. “Normally I’d go in, but I’m in the mood to eat with a better view than exposed brick and a lot of hipsters.”

  Before I could think of what to say to that, the back door opened and a young black man with a large grin and a white chef’s apron came dashing over to the car. Matthieu rolled the window down and shook his hand.

  “Segal,” the man greeted, his accent thicker than Matthieu’s. He dove into rapid French and passed Matthieu a thin menu.

  “Deux grande, s’il vous plait,” Matthieu answered with a nod. “Et un petit poutine.”

  The chef ran back inside, and Matthieu passed me the menu. It was a long list of entirely sauces.

  “I ordered us both a large order of their fries. The large comes with six sauces, but you can choose more if you want. I can never make up my mind. They have little cup carriers and Paul will just fill them up for us.”

  “Matthieu. You’re telling me I lived near a restaurant entirely devoted to dipping French fries in flavored dips and I never knew?”

  “Double fried french fries,” Matthieu said. With a brief frown, he added, “Remind me to take my cholesterol pill when we get back. And don’t tell Wes or Leo. They’ll be on me about this.”

  I made a soft dismissive sound. Leo couldn’t really talk. He had a sweet tooth that deserved at least two cavities, even if he was meticulous about flossing.

  Between Matthieu and I, we ordered just about every flavor of sauce on the menu—including bordeaux wine, figs, and sage!—and poor Paul had an extra set of hands help him bring everything up to the car.

  “What if I accidentally drip?”

  Matthieu shrugged, a massive cone of french fries settled between his thighs as he pulled the car back down the alley and onto the street. “I’ll get Bertha detailed. Don’t worry. Now tell me what happened with Wendy?”

  I gave Matthieu the full rundown of the dinner with Wendy while he drove, and I helped him navigate the complicated chart of dips we’d collected. He didn’t take us back Uptown, but over to the western docks, pulling up to an empty spot and a view of the harbor, freight ships at a distance and the sun setting to our left.


  “She didn’t give me a concrete timeline or names or anything,” I said. “Just a very clear picture of how she plans on building her business and what she plans on taking from Designate to do so.”

  “Hmm, maybe I’m a little old fashioned for the publishing industry now,” Matthieu mused, twisting in his seat to face me. “I know her plans make sense financially, but I can’t imagine running a company all through social media, with so little actual socializing involved between my employees.”

  “That was what I thought too actually,” I said, pointing to Matthieu with a fry. “I love walking into the Stanmore. And getting to know the other people in the departments. Plus…maybe it’s silly, but if everything is digital I…” I hummed and blushed under Matthieu’s intent stare. The sunset was burning over the harbor behind him, creating a strangely romantic picture, and I was about to admit something that seemed a little childish. “When I was little, I used to cut out the things in magazines that I loved and tape them up on my walls. I think most girls did probably. And I just wonder about stuff like that. Like how do you make a wish board to put up on your bedroom wall to wake up to without magazines? Print things out from the internet? It seems weird to me.”

  Matthieu was only smiling. “A wish board? Is that…things you want to buy someday?”

  “No, I mean, maybe. Kind of. Mostly, it’s like…” I twisted my lips and looked out to the water to think of how to explain it. “I guess it’s like a representation of who you’d like to grow into being? Not necessarily what you own, but an example of the kind of confidence you’d have to have to be the woman who walks down the sidewalk in a red velvet trench coat, or gold lamé lace-up boots, or—oh, you know! Whatever you want,” I said as Matthieu laughed.

  “Is that who you wanted to be when you were younger?” Matthieu asked, grinning.

  That was who I wanted to be three years ago when gold lamé was still in style. I shrugged in answer and Matthieu dipped another fry, waggling his eyebrows at me.

  “A bit,” I admitted. “Mostly I… It wasn’t just clothes. I think I had little collections for everything. Houses. Pictures of guys. Nests, and things I’d learn to cook, and places I’d travel.”

  “Nests?” Matthieu’s head tipped to the side, face blank with surprise.

  I choked lightly on a fry and winced. Had I said that? I had said that. Keeping my stare on the harbor, I shrugged. “I was definitely one of those betas that wanted to find out they had surprise omega genetics. Even as I got older and it became pretty clear I didn’t.”

  Matthieu was quiet, watching me. His foot stretched across the floor to tap mine, encouraging me gently.

  “You don’t still want that?” he asked.

  A painful stillness took over me, weighing me in my seat, and I turned to meet Matthieu’s gentle gaze. “Last year when Baby’s perfume came in, I think I just realized finally that it wasn’t happening. I’m not special. It was like…it was almost like she took it from me.” Shame burned in my eyes, and I blinked it away. “Or at least, it sank in that it was statistically impossible that two beta friends in their twenties would both suddenly discover their latent omega designation.”

  “Why do you think it matters?” Matthieu asked, frowning. “Being an omega?”

  “It means you’re wanted,” I said simply, swirling a fry in a peppered parmesan sauce and then glancing up.

  Matthieu’s eyes narrowed at me. “You assume that means you aren’t?”

  My skin flushed hot, and I stared down at my lap again. “I think it’s just not a guarantee for the rest of us. Alphas are always waiting for something better.”

  Matthieu set his food aside, grabbing a napkin from the pile and wiping his fingers. “What are betas doing then?”

  The mood was souring in the car, the food heavy in my stomach and the last of the perfectly delicious fries growing cold.

  “Waiting to turn into alphas or omegas,” I said. “And then moving on when that doesn’t happen.”

  “Hm.” Matthieu didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. The quiet sound was enough condemnation. He turned the key in the ignition, and we left our quiet moment by the water.

  Thirty-One

  Lola

  His voice was mumbling in my ear, singing tunelessly to the stupid song my parents had cursed me to carry for the rest of my life.

  “Her name was Lola…”

  I tried to keep my breathing even as the mattress sank at my back. Would it even matter to Indy if I was asleep? Couldn’t he just leave me alone? Where was Buzz, and why was I always stuck with Indy now?

  “Wake up, bitch, I know you’re faking it. Like usual.”

  “Lola. Lolotte, wake up.”

  My breath hitched, and I stiffened in Leo’s bed. My heart was pounding, but my mouth wasn’t dry. Matthieu was kneeling on the bed at my back, and he coaxed me with a gentle touch to my back.

  “Was I screaming?” I whispered, looking up at his dark shadow

  Matthieu froze for a beat, and then his hands slid underneath my shoulders. “No, no you weren’t screaming. I…came in to ask you to come to my room and sleep next to me. Is that all right?”

  I nodded, and my arms circled Matthieu’s chest as he pulled me up from the bed, arms cradling me. The rest of the night had been awkward. Matthieu had held my hand for most of the drive back to the house, but when we’d made it up to the top floor, I hadn’t known where to go. He hadn’t issued an invitation, so I trailed back to Leo’s rooms, cursing myself for my dinner confessions.

  “Nightmare?” he asked, leaving Leo’s rooms and heading for his own across the hall.

  “Just the start of one,” I said, my head foggy with sleep.

  Matthieu’s room was brighter than I expected and compared to Leo’s vast island of a bed, his was a relatively cozy four-poster king. He had a lamp lit on the nightstand, and he left it there as he settled us together under the covers. I remained curled against his chest with one of his arms draped over my back and the other hand combing gently through my hair.

  “I don’t want to lecture you about designation,” Matthieu murmured. “But please don’t think you being a beta has any bearing on the very simple fact that you are wanted here.”

  I clamped my eyes shut. Matthieu was not going to deal with my tears on top of managing my warped headspace of the evening.

  “I shouldn’t have said that. The way Leo is here, my relationship with him…it’s not lesser,” I choked out.

  “I know,” Matthieu said, still stroking my hair into a smooth rush down my back. “Someone’s been pouring poison in your ear, Lolotte.”

  My lips twitched. “What’s that mean? Lolotte?”

  “Hm? Oh, nothing really. It’s just a…a name for someone precious. I like the way it fits your name.”

  “I do too.” The soft curls of Matthieu’s chest hair were against my cheek, and I pursed my lips, blowing against his skin and smiling as he twitched beneath me. Now that it was safe to open my eyes again and not leak on him, I shifted and raised slightly so I could look down at him.

  His hand took a fistful of my hair in a careful grip, the ends teasing my back above my loose tank top. “What do you think it means to be wanted?” he asked, head tipping, light catching in the gray hairs of his stubble. “Nests and fancy clothes and traveling?”

  My chest tightened, and I shook my head. “I don’t want to talk about—”

  “Tell me, Lola,” Matthieu said, eyes darkening. His arm lowered to my waist, voice grunting slightly as he pulled me to lay over his chest. “Do you want to be spoiled? Given presents?”

  I swallowed hard, breaths thin and even. I nodded once.

  “Say it,” Matthieu said, lips curving.

  “Yes, I want presents.”

  His hand slid from my waist down to my ass, and he smiled wide enough to give me a glint of his teeth, gentling the command in his tone. “Pretty things or french fries?”

  “French fries are pretty things,” I said, squea
king and squirming as his hand slapped lightly, just along the hem of my shorts. “Both.”

  “Do you want a spectacle of it?” he asked.

  I shook my head, face flushing and breaths starting to pant. When I let my legs slide down on either side of me, I realized I was poised perfectly over his groin. Another little spank, another wiggle, and I’d be grinding against him. My pussy burned with wanting and tried to squeeze around nothing.

  Matthieu’s eyebrow arched. “I’m not sure I believe you on that one, but we’ll start gently and in private.”

  The innuendo was not lost on me, and I couldn’t help but shift against him, happy to find him growing stiff against me.

  “Matthieu, I don’t want you to—”

  Matthieu’s hand in my hair tugged, and my words were torn by a moan and a wanton roll of my hips over his.

  “Don’t. Not everything needs to be about beta and alpha and omega nonsense,” Matthieu said, echoing my shifting with a little of his own from below. “And you don’t need to be ashamed of wanting material things to go along with emotional affection. We won’t trade one for the other, but you’ll have both if you want. Yes?”

  His fist twisted in my strands, and I rubbed myself against him, breasts scraping pleasantly inside of my tank top.

  “Say yes,” he purred, a wave of that welcoming familiar fragrance washing over me.

  “Yesss,” I hissed, eyes sliding shut as I not-quite-shamelessly humped Matthieu.

  “Ungh. Very good, Lolotte,” Matthieu growled, rising up into my motion. “Keep going.”

  It was a cherry on top of the sundae to have his permission, not that I probably would’ve been able to stop.

  “You like this?” he asked, taking a better grip on the roots of my hair. It was never painful or punishing, just the perfect grounding pressure to sing through me. I nodded and whined as I rocked on top of him. “Did you used to do this as a girl with your boyfriends?”

  I moaned, and my cheeks were full bonfire flames, I was certain of it. I shook my head. “Not boyfriends. But…”