My Secret Master (A Dark Billionaire Romance)

by Flite, Nora

  My Secret Master

  A Dark Billionaire Romance

  USA TODAY Bestselling Author

  Nora Flite

  Copyright © 2015 Nora Flite

  All rights reserved. My Secret Master is a work of fiction. This title was originally published as Perfectly Too Far, and has been extensively edited and extended. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Also from Nora Flite:

  Outlaw Road

  Exposing the Bad Boy

  Last of the Bad Boys

  Only Pretend

  For the Thrill

  For the Fight

  For the Bond

  Hard Body Rock

  Slow Body Rock

  Flawed Body Rock

  True Body Rock

  Watch Me Fall

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  - Chapter One -

  - Chapter Two -

  - Chapter Three -

  - Chapter Four -

  - Chapter Five -

  - Chapter Six -

  - Chapter Seven -

  - Chapter Eight -

  - Chapter Nine -

  - Chapter Ten -

  - Chapter Eleven -

  - Chapter Twelve -

  - Chapter Thirteen -

  - Chapter Fourteen -

  - Chapter Fifteen -

  - Chapter Sixteen -

  - Chapter Seventeen -

  - Chapter Eighteen -

  - Epilogue -

  ~ABOUT THE AUTHOR~

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  - Chapter One -

  Naomi

  A preview of my future...

  “You think you're not a slave, that you're not meant to kneel and please your Master.” He chuckled, a noise that stroked my inner thighs as good as his hand could have. “I'll have fun proving you wrong.”

  Bending down, he caught my ankles. Easily, he spread them wide, fixing them inside two straps bolted to the floor.

  Oh god, oh god! My chest was threatening to split open from the tremor in my lungs. I thought I'd been too deep before, but now, I knew what deep really meant.

  “I'm going to break you,” he whispered, circling behind me.

  His voice coerced a wave of excitement. Determined to bury it, I stared at the far wall, but it was torture of another kind, because I could see the exit. I tugged at the ropes, knowing it was hopeless. I'm trapped, what will he do to me?

  Hands moved down my back, then further, cupping my ass cheeks, fondling them lightly. My shout was a mere mumble behind the gag. I started to writhe, shaking in my bonds.

  He slapped my ass hard, the noise cutting the air. The pain traveled in a burst through my flesh, down to my toes.

  “Clearly, you have trouble obeying. Let's fix that.”

  Wondering how he meant to 'fix' me, I flooded with worry.

  And also with something else.

  My whole core was electric. It burned, making my breathing heavier. Wilder.

  Control yourself, I demanded. Think of a way out of this!

  But with what he had planned... nothing I did would make a difference.

  He'd said he was going to break me.

  And he meant it.

  Current Day

  I placed my hand gingerly on my mailbox, closing my eyes as if to pray. My forehead wrinkled with hard grooves, thoughts running with one simple phrase:

  Acceptance letter, acceptance letter.

  Bracing myself as if preparing to be punched, I tugged the panel open. As soon as I did, envelopes spilled out and across the damp ground. Groaning, I slumped my shoulders, hurrying to gather up the wet paper.

  We'd been experiencing a streak of rain in the supposedly sunny realm of Los Angeles.

  Shutting the mailbox, I slipped eagerly into the dryness of my studio apartment. The screen door hung limp on its hinges; I ignored it. The thing had been broken since I'd moved in.

  Every time I call the landlord, they assure me they'll fix it soon.

  Yup. Soon.

  Huffing, I opened my arms and let the mail drift onto the coffee table. Dropping down in front of it, I dug through the mushy paper until I finally found what I'd been waiting for.

  With trembling hands, I held the envelope before my eyes.

  This is it, this has to be my acceptance into the California College of Fine Arts!

  Swallowing the lump that wouldn't go away, I tore the envelope open. There, still soggy from the rain, I found my letter. Peeling it apart, I scanned the printed text rapidly. Finally, at the bottom, my answer awaited me.

  Not admitted.

  My heart was throttled by my sadness. They denied me. Why?

  Scowling, I crumpled up the rejection letter. In one great swing, it bounced off a wall, landing in the corner. With a defeated groan, I began pacing the length of the room. It wasn't a long walk, my place was painfully small.

  Rejected. After everything.

  What did hard work matter, if you just ended up on your last dime in a city you couldn't even afford?

  Eventually I slumped onto the one other piece of furniture I owned. The mattress sat on the bare floor, covered in blankets and used quite often as a couch.

  My fingers worked into my long strands of hair, absently tying it into knots.

  I need a plan. Something, anything, HAS to go my way for once.

  Luck had never been in my favor. I was the kid that always tripped on unseen cracks in the sidewalk, or dropped her lunch when everyone just happened to be watching.

  Didn't life owe me a little karma?

  The sharp ring of my phone cut through the air, startling me so that I yanked my hair. Flinching, I dug into the pocket of my jacket. My heart fluttered a moment as I imagined that this was my sign.

  Had the cruel world finally called to give me a break?

  The number on the screen was one I recognized. Sighing, I clicked the button. “Hey, Mom.”

  “You sound so cheerful,” the sarcastic voice on the other end said.

  I had to crack a smile. It was true, I knew I sounded defeated. Shifting on the bed, I stretched out on my stomach and stared blankly at my coffee table. “Sorry, it's just the rain. I hate it, you know?”

  It wasn't entirely a lie.

  “Well, if you say so. How's everything? Have you applied to any colleges yet? Gotten into one? Sold any art?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Hah, what a barrage of questions.”

  My mom laughed, but I imagined her rolling her eyes. “Sweetie, it's all really the same question.”

  “I know.” My attention shifted from the table, to the rest of my mail that had drifted to the floor near me. “And you probably know the answer already.” Blinking, I noticed a single square of green among the junk-mail.

  Reaching out, my fingers tugged the letter closer, balancing my cellphone between ear and shoulder.

  What's this? I wondered.

  I was distantly aware of my mother talking, but I'd stopped listening. There, in my hands, was the most unassuming envelope. Carefully I tore it, tugging the card free.

  “Naomi,” my
mom snapped. “Hello? Are you there? I asked you a question.”

  Sitting up in a hurry, I crushed the phone in my trembling hand. “Sorry, what was the question?”

  “I said, if things don't get better, you know you can always come home. If you don't get into a college soon, it'll really be your only choice. You're twenty-three, honey. I can't afford to keep you out there in LA if there's no reason for you to be there.”

  With a smile that was slow, yet unending once it started, I lifted the letter before my eyes. The script was soft, curled. It proclaimed exactly what I needed just then.

  We'd like to extend you an offer to display your work in our gallery.

  “Actually, Mom,” I said softly, “Things may finally be looking up.”

  ****

  Staring at the wide glass front window, I tried to make myself stop smiling. My face was starting to hurt, but I was simply too excited.

  Well, if I'm honest, the location isn't great... and I'm pretty sure the building next to this is full of junkies.

  I didn't care. Nothing could smother my joy.

  Tugging the small wagon behind me, I pushed into the building. It was a single large room with rafters arching above. It reminded me of a warehouse, and it smelled strongly of sawdust and paint thinner.

  I inhaled slowly, enjoying the scent. It reminded me of work.

  Staring around, noticing the dark red walls and the lights hanging down, I didn't spot the can of brushes until I tripped over it. “Augh!” I shouted, stumbling onto my ass, the wagon of canvases tipping over.

  Apparently my luck hadn't gotten better, after all.

  “Are you alright?”

  The voice was female, high pitched like a bird. I flinched, my cheeks burning pink. The only real damage had been to my pride. Glancing up at the speaker, I saw a woman who reminded me of a willow tree in both height and hair.

  My laughter was forced. “I'm fine, yeah.” Standing quickly, I dusted off my pants and flashed an embarrassed smile. “Sorry about that, I didn't notice the cans there.”

  Brown eyes, friendly and warm, looked me up and down. “It's fine, that was quite an entrance!” She extended a long arm, spindly fingers stretching. “I'm Veronica, you must be...?”

  “Naomi, Naomi Starling.” As I shook Veronica's hand, I noticed how cold it was.

  “Oh, yes!” Laughing, she suddenly wrapped me in a hug. It was a gesture much too friendly for a first meeting.

  Before I could even ask what was going on, the woman gripped my shoulders. Holding me at a distance, she studied me. “You're so young, I was sure you'd be ancient. Your paintings have such an old soul in them! What are you, a college kid?”

  “Uh, well, 'attempted' college kid,” I said with chagrin. “Haven't gotten in where I want yet—wait, you've seen my work?”

  “Of course! I saw it at the craft festival on Vine last month. You weren't there, so I just grabbed one of your cards.”

  I flushed, recalling how I'd gotten lost and been late that day. LA traffic, combined with its one way streets, had done me in. One of the event agents had to set up and guard my booth for several hours.

  It hit me, then, who Veronica had to be. “Wait. You're running this gallery?”

  “Running is a strong word,” she said, winking. Bending down to right my wagon, she started loading the canvases back inside. I crouched to help as she kept talking. “I do my best, don't get me wrong, but it's, you know.” She waved her arm around her head. “This city makes running anything a hurdle.”

  “Oh,” I mumbled. I guess I shouldn't have assumed this was going to be some high-end experience. My stuff isn't well known, don't know why I thought this gallery would be my break. Dropping the last canvas into the wagon, I straightened up.

  Veronica emulated me, raising an eyebrow. Her peach lips crinkled up at one side. “I'm bad at this, that wasn't meant to make you feel depressed or anything. We run the gallery with different artists once a month, so there's plenty of time for you to make some sales. Don't worry about the money.”

  How could I not worry about the money?

  I tugged at the end of my braid, once more studying the space. “Who else will be setting up their art here?”

  “What do you mean?” She grabbed her hips, cocking them to the side dramatically. “Didn't you realize by now?”

  Anticipation crawling up my spine.

  Laughing long, loud, but without any hint of rudeness, the taller woman grabbed me by the hands and gave a squeeze. “Honey, you've got this whole space to yourself. It's yours to fill!”

  “All of it?” I heard my heart more than I felt it. Everything was going numb.

  Veronica's teeth sparkled in the lights. She released me so she could spread her arms, turning in place. “All of it!”

  This... this is...

  Dazed as I was, I wondered if I might topple over. Unsure what else to do, I looked down at my small wagon, then at the large field of blank walls.

  “I think I'll need more canvases,” I whispered.

  - Chapter Two -

  Naomi

  By the end of the third day, I had managed several things.

  1. Covering a single wall of the space with art I had completed before being invited to the gallery.

  2. Showing Veronica that I could knock over more than just paint brushes.

  3. Falling asleep in the middle of painting.

  4. Actually running out of canvases.

  Thankfully, the woman had given me a few larger pieces to work on at my heart's content; huge stretches of canvas that had been left behind from a former showing.

  “Do what you want with them.” Veronica had shrugged, sipping what was certainly her fifth cup of coffee. I think it was all she ever drank.

  Blown away by the opportunity, I'd propped the large squares on the wall, set up my paints, and begun experimenting. The gallery was starting to look like an actual... well, gallery.

  With my art filling the room, I still wanted to finish one of the bigger pieces. It would be perfect for the section that could be seen from the front window.

  Dipping my brush, I let the colors guide me, becoming so wrapped up in watching the art come to life. Covered in sweat, splashes of paint, and smelling like turpentine, I was a true mess.

  But I didn't care.

  This was what I loved, and I embraced it. It was why I wanted to attend an art college in the first place. Growing up, no one in my small town had cared about art. I was mocked by everyone, and I always felt out of place.

  Then, one day, I'd found a pamphlet for California College of Fine Arts. Seeing the photos of people—working away proudly—I'd felt an instant kinship.

  My decision was obvious.

  However, I'd gotten a late start on applying. Gathering the money needed to make a portfolio, and ultimately, to fly out to LA, had been hard work. That was why the past three years of rejection letters was soul-crushing.

  But I was willing to scrape by on what tiny money I could manage. I was even willing to endure the snide remarks my family made each time my mother sent me some financial help.

  If it got me closer to my dreams, I'd do anything.

  Staring at the mixture of black as it bled into green, I didn't hear the door open behind me. I certainly wasn't aware of the crisp, perfectly shined shoes as they crossed the room.

  If he hadn't spoken, I might have painted for another hour, unaware I had a visitor at all.

  His voice was smooth, rolling like cream and syrup mixed together. “You move beautifully, like a ballerina.”

  I jumped, kicking over my color pallet. It splattered to the floor, and his compliment about me moving like a ballerina became a cruel lie. Twisting around, I brushed my hair away, staring at the man who was talking, apparently, to me.

  His outfit was darker than the paint on my canvas, a crisp vest over dove-grey sleeves. With skin paler than mine, hair ebony in even the bright lights, this stranger was a perfect combination of colorless tones.
<
br />   Then I noticed his eyes, and my opinion changed.

  They were intense, thoughtful, and bluer than they had any right to be.

  Who was this man?

  “Uh,” I said, feeling very out of my element.

  “Forgive me, I saw you working through the window.” He indicated with his sharp jaw, a smile cutting across his face. “I didn't know there was an art gallery here.”

  “We're not open till tomorrow,” I said, my voice distant. Shaking my head, clearing the haze and my throat all at once, I refocused on the stranger. Did he say I moved beautifully?

  He frowned, strolling to the side to get a better look at my work in progress. “I see. Will this be ready by tomorrow, do you suppose?”

  Blinking, I shifted around to follow him, finally turning to face my own canvas. Peering at it, I wondered what had made him so interested.

  It was more abstract than my usual stuff, and while I was enjoying creating it, I didn't think it looked particularly special. “I'm going to try to complete it, yes, why do you ask?”

  “Well, I'd like to buy it, of course.”

  “What? But it's not done and... and you don't even know how much I'm going to charge for it!” This had never happened to me before, my mind was swimming in dark water.

  “It doesn't matter.”

  The way he looked me up and down made me shiver. It wasn't a cold sensation, though. Oddly, the ball twisting inside of me was rather... warm.

  Get it together!

  There was something about this man that was setting me on edge. It had to be more than just his shockingly good looks.

  “Whatever you charge,” he said, “I'll pay it.”

  Lost, I heard myself speak before I could control it. “Why?”

  Wrinkling his forehead, the man linked his hands behind his back and eyed me like I'd made a joke. “Why? Because I like it, but more than that, I enjoyed the glimpse I had of watching you create it.”

  Blushing furiously, I stared around the room. I was trying to avoid gawking at him without being so obvious. “Uh, haha, I see. Well, I'm afraid I can't help you right now. Like I said, we're not open until tomorrow, so if you want to come back then...”

  “You won't let me watch you paint?”

  I jerked around to meet his even stare. My mouth opened, but no sound escaped. It was such a strange question.