The Billionaire's Secret (BDSM Erotic Romance) (His Submissive, Part Six)

by Ava Claire

  A waitress saddled up to our table. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen, even though her heavy handed makeup made her look about thirty. Her hair was dishwater blond and she was smacking on her gum like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.

  “Y’all decided?” she purred.

  I glanced at Megan as she gingerly pushed the menu to the edge of the table like any full on contact would infect her. “Just a coffee for me.”

  The waitress turned in my direction. “And you?”

  “I want the Big Rudy burger, as close to rare as possible, large fries, and I want to substitute a cookies and cream milkshake for my drink.” I handed her my menu and added, “With whipped cream. Lots of whipped cream.”

  Her dingy brown eyes softened. “One of those kinda days, huh?”

  I just glared at her.

  She shrugged a shoulder and hustled off, barking out our order.

  “You know rare here probably means just killed out back, right?” Megan said, looking at me like I was insane. “I didn’t even check their sanitation grade. I’ll probably get salmonella from my mug alone.”

  “If you’re going to complain all night, I can just take a cab home.” When I saw the hurt flicker across her face, I rolled my eyes and dropped my head to the table. Another person I’d done wrong. I was on a freaking roll. “I shouldn’t have invited you.”

  “Agreed.” Even muffled, her voice was taut with anger. “I’m not going to be your punching bag, Leila.”

  I let out a sigh, peeking at her over the wall of my arms. “Sorry.”

  “Uh huh,” she said with an eye roll of her own. The waitress dropped off her coffee and I could tell she was saying a prayer as she brought the rim to her lips and took a sip. She winced like she just threw back a shot.

  I sat back up, the sides of my mouth twitching. “Better than Starbucks?”

  “I’m gonna sprout hair on my chest any second now,” she joked, cradling the mug between her hands.

  “Chest hair is the new black according to my sources,” I remarked, giving into the smile. “And you know I have my finger on the pulse of all things hip and cool.”

  She pretended she was scouring the room for our waitress. “I better get a refill then.” She reached for the sugar and sprinkled some in the cup, stirring it in pensively. “You ready to talk about what happened?”

  I pushed my back against the tattered booth, the cut of the jagged fabric preferable to poking at the fresh wound. “It’s complicated.”

  “You are dating one of the sexiest, most successful businessmen in the States and apparently, Captain Freaking Gorgeous is throwing his hat in the ring. Complicated is a bit of an understatement, don’t you think?”

  She had a point. I’d passed complicated as soon as I signed on the dotted line and became Jacob’s assistant and submissive.

  There really weren’t any words for my current situation. Somehow, my real life fairytale took a detour and became a nightmare. Somewhere along the way, I became the villain who kept hurting the person I cared about most. It was hard enough admitting that to myself, but saying it out loud? That was unbearable.

  But Megan didn’t back down. “I’m guessing you finally talked to Jacob, face to face.”

  I gave her an inch. “Yes.”

  “And it didn’t go well.”

  “Now that’s an understatement.” I dodged the daggers she flung in my direction. “Yes, we finally talked.” I crossed my arms, remembering the sheer joy at even seeing his face. “He made a joke and then we kissed.”

  “You kissed?” she said excitedly. “You kissed, that’s--” She paused, green eyes reading my pinched expression. “--not great?”

  “Not great,” I confirmed, looking at the kitchen. Where was my food? I needed grease, chocolate, and fat if I was really going to talk about this. “He barely kissed me and when I tried to touch him…” The hurt sliced as deep as before, right to the bone. I couldn’t finish.

  “Oh,” Megan said softly. Her shoulders slumped. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh that’s not the worse part,” I said with a bitter chuckle. “The best is yet to come.”

  Suddenly she was looking like she wanted to turn back, not wanting to hear any more. “So today in class, one of my students--”

  “I thought you wanted to find out why I’m about to devour three thousand calories in one fell swoop?”

  Almost on cue, our waitress came up with my mega meal and milkshake on a tray, unloading all of it on my side of the table, then topping off Megan’s coffee. I took a sip of my milkshake, swallowing the creamy mix as she shifted uncomfortably.

  “You should only talk about it if you’re ready to talk about it.”

  “Oh I’m ready,” I said with a big, plastic smile. “Why wouldn’t I want to tell you all about how I broke Jacob Whitmore’s heart?”

  “Leila--”

  “Why wouldn’t I want to rehash the single moment that’s been playing on loop for hours? To relive the look of gut wrenching agony on his face? To talk about how after everything we’ve been through, how I fought so hard to get him to open up, he thinks that I did it all so I could just stab him in the chest?”

  She snapped her mouth shut.

  “He thinks I don’t respect him. And why wouldn’t he? This Cade crap is the second time I’ve kept the whole truth from him.” My voice was getting louder and Megan glanced around nervously at the diners who shot their eyes in our direction. I didn’t even notice them. “He thinks all of his love has been wasted on me. He thinks I don’t love him.” I yanked out the toothpick holding my burger together and picked it up, lettuce and onions raining back onto the plate as tears streamed down my face. I didn’t taste anything but I just kept biting, stuffing the meat down my throat. I just wanted to feel something, anything other than this pain.

  “He knows you love him.”

  I dropped the last soggy bit onto the graveyard of food and washed it down with half of the shake.

  “Of course he does,” I said sarcastically. “That’s why he acted like touching me was revolting. That’s why he wiped off his mouth like…like…” I looked at my plate and my stomach tumbled. “I think I’m going to be sick.” But I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.

  Megan’s concern morphed into horror as she scooted out of the booth and gripped my arm, guiding me to the bathroom. It wasn’t until she pushed me into the stall that my limbs worked again and I sunk to my knees and retched. My body expelled everything I’d forced down my throat in the past ten minutes. When I came up for air and saw that I was in the dirtiest stall on earth, knees glommed to the floor and dirty pads sticking out of crusty wastebasket a few inches from me, I dry heaved.

  “You okay?” Megan asked outside the stall. I guess that was the one up side. She didn’t just see me puke up chunks of Rudy’s.

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and rushed out of the gross cubicle like it was on fire. I flipped on the water at the sink and used my hand as a gourd, gurgling and spitting it out.

  I gripped the sides of the sink, willing the nausea way. “I’m fine.”

  “No you’re not,” she said, calling my bluff.

  I gave her a weak smile in the mirror. “No. I’m not.”

  She pulled off a couple of paper towels and reached around me to wet them. “C’mere.” I turned to her and held still while she pressed the cool thing against my forehead. “Don’t think about Jacob or Cade or any of that right now.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “How the hell am I supposed to not think about it?”

  “Well you can start by not giving me attitude,” she said sternly, pulling the paper towel from my forehead and tossing it into the trash. “What good are you to anybody or anything if you have a nervous breakdown?”

  She had a point, but I couldn’t get Jacob’s eyes out of my head. “I can’t just not think about it.”

  “Well how about this: I’ll go pay the bill then you and me are going to see some ridiculous movie
. Nothing action-y,” she added when my face soured, “And nothing sappy.”

  “That leaves kiddy movies or some depressing foreign film.”

  “I hear Wreck-It Ralph is amazing,” she said with a sly grin.

  “Wreck-It Ralph?” I repeated slowly, sure I misheard her.

  She steered me out of the bathroom and back to our table, leafing through her wallet and dropping a twenty. Before I could go through the list of reasons why I had no interest in seeing an animated movie, we’d already climbed into her car and were pointed in the direction of the movie theater.

  “I really just want to go home,” I said dismally. And listen to some highly emo Pandora station as I cried into my pillow.

  “You can fight it all you want, but you’re wasting your breath.” She hit a button and the car made the metallic clunk of locks engaging. “We’re seeing it. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Doctor’s?” I said incredulously. “You moonlighting as a medical professional in between molding young minds?”

  “I took a biology class once,” she said with a wink. “And I dressed up as Meredith Grey last Halloween.”

  “Well there’s no fighting that logic,” I laughed.

  Laughing. Me. Even though everything in my personal life had gone to shit.

  I sat back in the seat, conceding. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

  ****

  After uncontrollably sobbing during Wreck-It Ralph like it was a Nicholas Sparks movie then falling into a restless sleep on Megan's futon, I didn't think it was possible to wake up feeling worse than I did the night before.

  I couldn't have been more wrong.

  Every part of me ached. The very act of reaching for my cell to shut off my alarm felt like lifting free weights. And when I could no longer press snooze and make it to work on time, my attempt to stand just drove the throbbing agony to my head.

  I felt like I'd been hit by a dump truck. Twice. I couldn't even keep a glass of water down. The only bright side was Megan was OCD when it came to housecleaning so getting up close and personal with her toilet didn't make the nausea worse. And then there was the fact that whatever stomach issue I had kept me from the office--and facing Jacob.

  After a succinct conversation where Natasha managed to gleefully delight in my crappy state of health, we figured out a way for me to just work from home so I wouldn't get behind.

  I flipped open my laptop, dragging my hands to the keyboard. I pulled up the Whitmore and Creighton portal, eyes narrowing as my stomach trembled. It had been about an hour since I’d attempted drinking something and I knew I needed to stay hydrated unless I wanted to add dehydration to the list.

  I dropped my laptop back on the tumble of sheets beside me and sucked in a steadying breath before I stood up. I went rigid as a statue, exhaling after I maintained my balance for a full minute.

  So far so good, I thought warily. Halfway there.

  The kitchen was only a few feet from the futon (Thank God) but I still gripped the island, just in case it was adrenaline keeping me vertical. Megan had left out a couple of Gatorades right on the counter beside the stove and there was also a pack of saltines, but I was nowhere near brave enough for solids.

  I cracked one open and brought it to my lips. I gingerly sipped it and paused in case my body rejected it, but nothing happened. I finished the rest and dropped the empty bottle into the recycle bin.

  Feeling slightly more confident, I didn’t inch my way back to the couch. Maybe this day wouldn’t be pure hell. I stopped short, only a few feet from solid ground when I heard two solid thumps coming from the door.

  Fear rippled through me. Who could it be? Megan had a key, and she was knee deep in elementary kids at this point. She didn’t live in the safest of neighborhoods so of course my mind shot to the worst possible scenario, all of which ended with me being assaulted, robbed, and left in a bloody heap on the floor. That’s what I get for all of those Law and Order: SVU marathons.

  The knocks magnified and a deep, familiar voice accompanied them. “Leila?”

  It had to be some fevered dream. I was conked out, imagining things. To prove it, I pinched my arm then hissed when the pain came through loud and clear. I took a tiny step toward the door, opening my mouth then snapping it shut.

  “Leila, if you’re in there--”

  I rocketed to the door. Ever since he stormed out I wanted him to come back and here he was. I couldn’t let him walk away again.

  Jacob. Holding a crumpled bouquet of roses.

  And looking as horrible as I felt.

  His dark hair was a crumpled mess with the layered locks sticking out every which way. His usually strong jaw was hidden by shadow and untouched by a razor. His blue eyes were bloodshot and puffy from lack of sleep. His white, button down shirt had an ashen, dusty parlor and I realized with a gasp it was likely the shirt he was wearing the day before. But there was one earthquake status difference. His shirt was half tucked, half not into a pair of dark wash jeans.

  Jeans.

  Jacob Whitmore was wearing jeans.

  I was definitely dreaming. Even on our most relaxed days in Venice, he still wore blazers with sleek cut trousers. Jacob was a walking, talking advertisement for sophistication. He just didn’t do jeans.

  I must have been gawking like I was watching a train wreck unfold before my very eyes because he gestured with the roses, bringing me back. “Planning on inviting me in?”

  I blushed and stepped aside, letting him past. My eyes dropped to his rear and a flash of lust echoed through me. Despite the rest of his wrinkled exterior, he looked like sex on a stick in those jeans.

  He stopped in the living room area, glancing around the place with silent disapproval. “This is where you’re staying?”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling defensive. “You have a lot of--” My eyes widened when I realized there was something slightly more important than defending Meg’s place. “How did you know where to find me?”

  His cool gaze drunk me in. “Well I’m not stalking you if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” I fired back. “How did you find me?”

  He ran a hand over his cropped hair. “I called your mother.”

  “My mother?” I winced. Great, just great. I could just imagine her perched on the edge of her seat, already prepping to call her contacts. I’d have a mess to clean up by lunch.

  “She’s worried about you,” he continued, clearly picking up on my wariness. “She told me that she had no idea where you were, but your friend Megan might.”

  “So you just decided to show up at her house,” I said, crossing my arms.

  “I’m not sure if five hundred square feet can be called a ‘house’, Leila.”

  “I’m sorry you had to come to the slums,” I said, dripping with sarcasm. “But I’m sure you didn’t come all the way here to school me on real estate.” I glared at him. “Should I bend over? Take my licks like a good girl?”

  I saw the retort flash in his eyes before he remembered the bouquet he was holding. Or the roses that were left. Red petals made a trail from the door to where he stood, piling up at his feet.

  “These are for you.” He cleared his throat nervously. “I got them last night but...” His nostrils flared. “Anyway, here you go.”

  I took them, a smile tipping at my lips as I brought the fragrant flowers to my nose and breathed them in. “For me?”

  He gave me a hesitant nod.

  “Thank you,” I said, staring at him, wanting to feel something other than the apprehension but only remembering our argument and the hurt. Swallowing, I pushed away the slight dizziness that hit me and walked to the counter, placing the roses beside the sink. I took another step and swayed, feeling the nausea taking over.

  Nonononono! I thought frantically, knowing it was coming. Knowing there was no stopping it.

  I dashed to the bathroom, surprisingly making it to the toilet. My body took over, pushing the Gatorade from my sys
tem.

  When I stopped gagging, I sunk back into my bones and felt sick for a whole other reason. Did I remember to shut the door? The floor creaked and I squeezed my eyes closed so tight I saw stars.

  Oh God.

  He just saw it. He just saw it all.

  He rushed into the bathroom, throwing the water on. I felt so weak that I could barely turn my head or open my mouth to tell him I was alright. I felt his fingers rake through my hair, sweeping the curls back and pressing a wet washcloth against my temple.

  You’re done, I commanded silently. You will not puke while Jacob Whitmore holds your hair back.

  I fully expected my body to revolt. After all, it had been going rogue since that first wave of nausea hit last night. But somehow I kept it together, breathing in and out without feeling the vomit rise in my throat. Jacob was right there, stroking my back, his calm and zen washing over me.

  Finally, I felt strong enough to stand to my feet. He took a few steps back and I closed the lid and flushed the toilet. I avoided his gaze in the mirror as I washed my hands. He offered me a towel and I pressed it to my lips. When I finally met his eyes, I saw white hot terror and an unspoken question.

  “I’m not pregnant!” I blurted, squashing that assumption dead. We were mostly careful and I was on birth control. “I think Rudy’s is the culprit. Delicious going down, not so much coming back up.”

  He visibly relaxed. “Food poisoning?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” I said with a sigh, then frowned. “You didn’t talk to Natasha? I told her I thought I had a stomach thing.”

  Jacob’s jaw twitched. “She didn’t say anything when I called this morning.”

  Of course she didn’t. I pushed away my frustration. I had bigger things to worry about--like my inability to keep fluids or solids down. And the fact that Jacob just had a front row seat to yuck.

  I blushed every shade of red, trying to think of something to say. To do. “I’m sorry.”

  He gently tilted my chin upward, his face awash with concern. “You’re apologizing for being sick?”

  “But you just saw--”

  “You don’t feel well. You’re human.” He leaned in and pressed his lips against my forehead. “It doesn’t make you any less attractive or make me love you any less.” He pulled back. “You don’t really think I’m that shallow, do you?”