The Master's Exploits: Night One

THE MASTER’S EXPLOITS: NIGHT ONE

THE MASTER’S EXPLOITS:
 

NIGHT ONE

by Jessi Bond

Copyright © Jessi Bond

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is intended for adult audiences only. All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters involved in sexual activity are over the age of eighteen.
 

The cover art for this book makes use of licensed stock photography. All photography is for illustrative purposes only and all persons depicted are models.

***

A NOTE TO READERS:
 

This book is Part One of an ongoing narrative that will be released as a series of “episodes” every Friday (on most retailers), much like your favorite T.V. shows. While each episode has its own story arc that will be concluded by the end, the over-arching romance storyline will continue throughout, reaching its conclusion only in the final episode. Each episode can be enjoyed as a standalone, but it is highly recommended to read the series in order.

One of the best parts about serial storytelling is that you can be a part of it! At the end of the story, there is a link to the official feedback post on my blog where you can share your thoughts. Every week, I’ll pick some of my favorite ideas to be used in an upcoming installment.

A TASTE OF DALTON’S STORY:

Her lips parted, each breath coming out in a little, panting moan. She’d surrendered herself completely, and so easily. So elegantly.
 

“You’re a monster,” she breathed, unable to hide the smile twitching at her lips. She needed a little more practice. “What kind of man wants to brand a woman, like property?”

“A very bad man.” Very carefully, I slid the tip of the knife between the blindfold and the side of her head. “And what kind of
woman
wants to be branded, like property?”

“How could I possibly know that?” She sounded defiant. She was slipping into her role a little better.
 

“Because that’s what you want. That’s all you’ve
ever
wanted. To be owned. Tamed. You’ve always known there was something wild inside you that no man could match. No one could handle you.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Even in the midst of our game, I was hitting too close to the truth.

“You don’t do anything halfway, do you? You’re fire and ice. Everything about you runs so deep that most men are afraid of you.” I tugged at the blindfold with the knife, but not quite enough to cut it. “But not me.”

And then, with a jerk, I sliced through the blindfold. It fell away, revealing her face, her beautiful pale-blue eyes, wet with tears.

Wet with rapture.

“I’m the one
you
should be afraid of,” I whispered, before I captured her mouth with mine.

She kissed me back, frantically, and when we pulled apart, her eyes stayed locked with mine for a moment before she looked down at her chest. A smile spread across her face as she saw nothing but the faint pink line, quickly fading, where I’d drawn the blunt side of knife across her.

“You’re good,” she murmured.
 

“No,” I said. “I’m very bad. That’s why you’re here.”

READ NOW TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT!

***

NIGHT ONE

“Would you like a glass of wine?”

I sucked my lower lip between my teeth, just slightly. Refusing would be the professional thing to do. But I’d been craving a drink ever since I got into the cab on my journey here. Hell, I’d been craving a drink since I agreed to do this in the first place.

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t as tall as I expected - not
short
, but probably not over six feet. In the pictures I’d seen, he looked a lot more imposing than he did now. But handsome, yes. That was certainly the face of a man who could convince a woman to do almost anything.

“This isn’t a test,” he said, in his smooth baritone.
The voice of a man who could convince a woman to do anything
. That would be a good line for one of the stories. I scribbled it quickly on my notepad.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think it was a test. I was just deciding if...” I cleared my throat, lightly. “I was just deciding if it was a good idea.”

“A glass of wine is always a good idea,” he said, pouring as he spoke. He actually doled out the correct amount, leaving room for it to breathe, swirling the glass as he walked it over to me. His gait was smooth and self-assured, and he had the posture of a dancer.
 

Or a soldier
.

When I drank wine at home, it tended to come out of a box, and it tended to end up in a tumbler rather than one of the dusty wine stems in the back of my cabinet. Already, I was out of my depth.

“Thank you,” I said, studiously ignoring the way our fingers brushed when I took the glass from him. The wine was thick and red, almost the same shade as the overstuffed leather chair in the corner.
 

The whole room was permeated with the faintly sweet, vanilla smell of old books. It was the kind of office I’d dreamed of having when I was a girl. Old-world elegance mixed with functionality. It had atmosphere, and as I was quickly learning, Mr. Alexander (his real name, apparently) was all about atmosphere.

I took a sip of the wine.

My eyebrows raised slightly as it slid across my tongue. It was rich, but sweeter than I expected.
 

“Well?” Mr. Alexander said.

“It’s nice,” I said. “It’s just not what I thought it would be.”

He smiled. “You struck me as someone who appreciates the sweeter things in life.”

Laughing, I crossed my legs carefully. My pencil skirt was tight around my thighs, but I couldn’t sit with both feet down for very long - not in these heels. “Do you always talk like that?”

“No,” he said, his smile fading a little. “But the characters in these stories often do.”

“Well,” I said, smiling brightly, putting my pen to paper. “You’re not a character in one of these stories. Not yet, anyway.”

He seemed to consider this for a moment, worrying his lips between his teeth just slightly. Finally, he looked up. “I understand you’re anxious to get to work. But don’t worry - I’m paying you for your time, from the moment you walk in the door. That goes for tonight and every night. Understood?”

I nodded. An anxious tendril was making its way through my chest.
 

His smile returned. “Don’t look so nervous,” he said. “Please. I just want to get to know you a little. How long have you been ghostwriting?”

Oh. An interview. Well, that made sense, though people generally conducted them
before
they hired someone.

“Six years,” I said. “Seven, almost.”

He nodded, taking some notes of his own. “It took me a long time to find someone willing to work on this project,” he said, glancing up at me. “Why do you think that is?”

That one, I had to ponder for a moment. When my former boss came to me with the lead, I’d had the same reaction most other people had -
ugh, no
. Eventually my need to pay my bills prevailed, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on why it seemed like a bad idea.

I took another sip of wine.

“It’s very personal,” I said. “And very, uh...” I took a deep breath. “Intimate.”

Mr. Alexander considered this. “Surely this job is often intimate, isn’t it?” he asked, interlacing his fingers and resting his hands on the polished desk. “Don’t you often hear about the details of people’s lives, and their feelings, and the stories that are near and dear to their hearts? How is sex any different?”

I raised my eyebrows a little. “I don’t know,” I said. “But it is different, isn’t it?”

“
Is
it?”

My mouth quirked. “I think you’re messing with me, Mr. Alexander.”

He chuckled. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “It’s different. There’s always the possibility that someone might hire you because telling you their story turns them on. I’m sure that occurred to you.”

“It did,” I said, praying that I wouldn’t blush. “But I don’t get that feeling from you.”

He raised his palms. “I swear to you, I’ve been honest about my intentions. If I just wanted to hire a woman to listen to me talk, I could have gotten that for a lot less.”

“I’m sure you could have gotten that for free,” I said, before I could stop myself.

This time, his chuckle had a slightly different quality - one that made a warm feeling spread through my body. “You’re probably right,” he said. “I’ve never tried.”

“Can I ask you a question?” I hazarded, taking another sip of wine as I waited for his response.

Mr. Alexander leaned back in his leather captain’s chair. “Of course,” he said. “I might choose not to answer.”

“What made you want to do this?” I held his gaze. “What made you want to turn your life into erotica?”

He drummed the tips of his fingers together for a moment. “Because I can,” he said. “I’ve never needed any other reason to do the things I want to do.”

A slight shiver went through my body.

That wasn’t the real answer. I could tell, just by watching his face, this wasn’t a whim. His chiseled features were drawn slightly, and he ran one hand through his jet-black hair before he continued.

“I got the idea when I saw how popular these stories had become. They’re everywhere. The internet makes it possible to disseminate these kinds of stories to anyone who wants them, at a reasonable price, and privately. That’s fascinating to me. A female friend clued me in to their existence, and when I started researching it, and found that many of my own life experiences could easily turn into stories for other people’s entertainment.” He took a deep breath, and let it out. “And that’s all you need to know about my motivations. I’ll be more than happy to answer any questions that will service your writing.”

That was a clear boundary. And, oddly, I found that comforting. So there
were
boundaries, even if they didn’t necessarily make sense to me.

Still, though, he had to understand where I was coming from.

“With respect, Mr. Alexander,” I said, “knowing a little bit out about
you,
as a person, is definitely going to serve my writing. It’s like I said earlier - you’re not a character in one of these stories. Not yet. But I’m going to turn you into one. I can’t do that, if I don’t know who you are.”

That smile came back, wicked and knowing. “Trust me, Ms. Reynolds,” he said. “By the time this night is over, you’ll know exactly who I am.”

Oh, boy. I polished off my wine, and set the empty glass down. Almost before it touched the end table, Mr. Alexander was on his feet, gliding over to refill it. He wore his slate-gray suit like a second skin. Now that he was lingering close by, I could smell something distinctive on him. It wasn’t anything I could describe, but it put me in mind of sunsets and the open sea, of digging my toes into the sand as a girl.

In real life, my toes ached from the ridiculous shoes I’d worn. To impress him? Why? He’d already hired me.
 

“What’s that cologne?” I asked him, innocently, holding my pen as if this were an important detail for the stories.

“It’s a custom blend,” he said, smiling down at me. “Do you like it?”

I nodded. “The readers will like it, too.”

“The readers won’t be able to smell it.” He returned to his desk and sat down, his eyes silently challenging me.

Smiling, I made a note of my impressions on the scent. This was one thing I was confident about, even if the rest of this experience was completely new to me.
 

“They’ll be able to smell it,” I said. “It’ll be different for everyone, but it’ll always be perfect. That’s the advantage of written fiction.”

Mr. Alexander leaned forward. “You’re confident in your work,” he said. “I like that.”

“Good,” I said. “Should we get started?”

He nodded. “Momentarily. There’s just one more thing I’m curious about. Why ghostwrite? Why not write for yourself, under your own name? You’re obviously talented enough.”

I shook my head, without even looking up from my notes. “No, Mr. Alexander. The concept of talent is overrated. I write well, because I’ve been writing since I was a little girl. But I don’t have much in the way of ideas. Other people are better at that. Nothing particularly interesting has ever happened in my life. So I borrow other people’s, and I help them tell their stories. It’s what I’m good at.”

“Don’t take that the wrong way,” Mr. Alexander said. “I’m very glad there are people like you. I can tell these stories, but I can’t write them down. Put me in front of a blank piece of paper, and my mind goes even blanker. But talking - face to face - it flows like water.” He grinned a little, shrugging his shoulders. “Isn’t it funny, how people can be so different?”

“Keeps life interesting,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me your best story?”