Wrecked: A Dark Billionaire Romance (The Billionaires Secret Club Book 1)
Wrecked: A Dark Billionaire Romance: Chapter 4

The aqua water in my pool sparkled. I’d read somewhere, years ago, that the sight of water was calming. Today, as I listened to my mother rant, it wasn’t working. The glistening water was not making me calmer.

Though if my mother was involved, nothing short of an elephant tranquilizer was likely to calm me. I loved my mother. But I had very little tolerance for her antics.

My mother was a world-class complainer. She was in the Bahamas, at our family villa in Nassau, but even there she wasn’t satisfied.

My father bought our villa, Sunset Breeze, when I was born. My mother had named it Sunset Breeze because the interior was all white, with gold and yellow accents. As a child, I’d celebrated every birthday there, as well as two weeks every summer and every Christmas. I hadn’t been allowed to touch much of anything, so I stayed on the porch or on the beach.

When we were there, my father was truly off work. He’d play board games, and make homemade lemonade. He taught me to swim there, to sail and to ride a bike. He taught me to surf there.

I hadn’t been back since my father had died.

I tasted the salt in the air. I lifted my gaze to the ocean. “Mother.”

She paused in her tirade.

“Did you need something?” I asked, trying not to sound as irritated as I felt.

“Yes. I need renovations on this villa.” She gave a hearty sigh. “The bathroom is completely unacceptable. The tile clashes with the countertop. The tile is arctic white, and the counter is cream.”

“I’ll send some contractors over as soon as they’re available. But once they’re there, you cannot interfere.”

“Richard, this is serious. I’m sending you photos right now.”

Her last few words were slurred. She was already drunk, and it wasn’t even that late at night, not in the Caribbean. She was an alcoholic. And everyone looked the other way. Even my father had, to my great frustration.

My mother had no concept of what was serious. How could she care about mismatched tile so soon after she’d lost my father? I knew the answer. She never loved my father. So moving on hadn’t been difficult for her, not at all.

It hadn’t been that easy for me. Some days I didn’t think I’d ever move on.

Last time she’d demanded a renovation project, she’d hassled the workers so much they’d walked away from the job. My father had been good at smoothing things over.

I would not be doing any smoothing over, not for her. If the contractors showed up, they’d be paid, whether or not she was happy with their work, and she’d be the one to deal with unfinished work.

“Mother, I’ve got to go.”

I deleted the photos of the villa bathroom as soon as they arrived. I didn’t have the energy to placate my mother right now. The contractors would have to do it for me, God help them. I took a sip of whiskey. It didn’t help. Maybe I should watch my own drinking, given that my mother relied on alcohol to function in her everyday life.

Maybe I would, one day. But today was not that day.

Even with the whiskey and the calming sounds of the ocean, my stomach was tight. It wasn’t often that I was apprehensive. I liked a battle; I relished it. I enjoyed confrontation. I didn’t shy away from hard conversations — I dove in, and dealt with whatever issue. Losing a contract, arguing with an adversary, negotiating with a partner. I could do all of those things.

When it came to my mother, I avoided.

Which is also what I had been doing with dating.

Until now.

The first woman would be here in two hours.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in my pool. I stripped off my clothes and dove in. I cut through the water, pushing myself lap after lap. But the concrete rectangle of the pool wasn’t enough; it was too small, too restrictive.

I needed open water. I needed waves.

I’d spent a year searching for the perfect house on the beach. In the LA area, that wasn’t easy to replace, but I was unwilling to stay in the city. I’d found this renovated beach house, promising myself that I’d swim in the ocean every day.

I hadn’t kept that promise.

I lived on the ocean, and I never swam in it. Somewhere in the house, I had a surfboard. But I hadn’t kept it waxed after my father died. I’d left it to deteriorate, just like I had my personal life.

I grabbed a pair of swim trunks from my closet and pulled them on. I walked out, barefoot, no hat, no sunscreen, no bottle of water.

All that stuff was unnecessary. I wanted to feel the ocean.

I waded into the sea, and dove into a wave.

I swam for an hour, until my anger with my mother faded, and my apprehension about the upcoming meeting with the submissive lessened as well. My muscles ached, but my head was clear.

Unable to put it off any longer, I headed inside. I showered. I shaved. I put on cologne, the kind the stylist had chosen for me. Wanting to set a formal tone with the potential submissive, I put on a suit.

I wanted her to understand immediately that this was not a date. This was not a relationship. It was a transaction, with agreed upon terms. There would be no negotiations.

The first candidate would be here shortly.

I hoped she wanted this too. The woman didn’t have to be a true submissive, but I needed her to want to be here, whether it was for money or other reasons. I needed this to work. Travis had been right, in his crude way, when he said I needed to get laid — I was tightly wound.

I craved intimacy with a woman. Not just sex, but companionship. And I would never admit it, not even to him, but I was lonely.

At thirty-two years old, I saw all my peers dating, getting married, or even just enjoying one-night stands. None of those options had worked for me. What I wanted in a woman proved to be elusive. But now I had a rare opportunity to get what I needed.

The night before, I had read articles on dominance and submission. I didn’t want a script — the interactions had to feel natural. But I also needed the submissive to be aware of what might happen, which meant I needed a plan.

There was a large chance that she’d never been exposed to any of these ideas before. She was a virgin, and I wasn’t sure how innocent she would be.

I’d have to teach her what I wanted. And most likely, I’d be teaching her about submission as well. The thought of a virgin naked for me, untouched by another man, doing exactly as I said with no arguments, was intoxicating.

Instructing her in how to follow my command was a daunting prospect, but a thrilling one.

Researching the dynamic at this point in my life felt distinctly unsexy, but highly necessary. But I never walked into a boardroom without a plan. This should be no different. As I read, I had made mental notes on what was crucial to me, and what wasn’t. I didn’t need her to call me sir, or master. My name in a respectful tone would be fine. I studied all the typical aspects: rewards, punishments, collars, contracts, role playing, servitude. Assuming any of the candidates were acceptable, I would have to introduce the more demanding aspects later on. An inexperienced woman would be overwhelmed by so much information at once.

I was realistic. A perfect outcome would not be immediate. I’d have to train her and condition her.

I would have to emphasize that the bells and whistles so many dominants wanted weren’t vital to me. I wanted one thing beyond her virginity, and that one thing was non-negotiable:

Her complete and utter obedience.