A Dom and His Artist

By: Xenia Melzer

Sometimes the perfect man can be found in the most unexpected place….

Martin Carmichael owns a security firm and is part owner of Club Whisper. He’s a Dom in search of the right guy, and when his car breaks down on a lonely stretch of road, he thinks he might have found him.

Artist Collin Malloy is talented, easygoing, but somewhat insecure. Still, he has a big heart and is quick to offer help when he sees Martin in need. To thank him, Martin invites Collin to dinner, where the attraction between them becomes harder to resist.

But what will become of their budding relationship when Martin reveals that he likes his men bound, submissive, and in pain? Is it something Collin can accept… and possibly enjoy exploring? Even if he can, Collin has a secret of his own—a secret he doesn’t even realize he’s keeping.

To all the people who post funny pictures, quotes, comics, and clips on FB—without you, I’d surely be able to write twice the number of books I’m doing now….


THERE ARE so many people I have to thank for getting my books out, I’m always afraid to forget somebody. As always, I have to thank my family, who puts up with my strange moods when the story isn’t going the way I want it to. My cat for sitting next to me, purring and snoring, kindly reminding me there is at least one family member that doesn’t do anything productive at all and doesn’t feel bad about it. My horse for not being productive either but keeping me from work. My editors, Anne Regan, Kelly, Liv, and Anastasia for patiently correcting my logical and grammatical mistakes and for attaching nice comments to the MS that keep me from getting depressed. And, of course, my readers. You are the reason I’m doing this. Thank you!

Chapter 1

“FUCKING SON of a bitch!” Martin Carmichael flipped off yet another car that simply drove by, ignoring his desperate attempts to flag somebody down. A sense of dread had begun when his car started making funny noises on this street in the middle of nowhere, and he knew he was in deep shit when all the lights on the console lit up like a Christmas tree before winking out like dying stars. The engine of his brand-new, very expensive Cadillac Escalade had made a sad, hiccupping sound, and then the car rolled to a halt. To add insult to injury, whatever had caused the spaceship electrics essentially driving the car to quit their service had also fried his cell that had been plugged into the car’s sound system. Damn modern gadgets and their tendency to blow up in your face.

Martin had faced some dire situations in his life before, but he would have never thought getting stranded on a lonely street in the vicinity of Miami would actually be one of them. As ex-military, the owner of a security firm that operated nationwide—and on occasion even internationally—and as a Dom, Martin made a living at being intimidating. It was part of his very being, and given that he was six foot five with the heavy build of a tank and the kind of muscle only obtained from working his body, he had intimidating mastered. Unfortunately, when stranded at the side of a road and in need of the help of strangers, being intimidating wasn’t helpful. In the last two hours since his car had broken down, about thirty other cars had come this way, and their drivers all ignored him, some of them even accelerating once they got a look at him.

Martin cursed again. He was wearing a suit, for fuck’s sake! Though, to be honest, said suit, although custom-made and perfectly tailored, gave him the air of a sophisticated mobster. Something he needed when dealing with the kind of customer he had just come from, but nothing that helped him get help. If he couldn’t stop a car in the next thirty minutes, he would have to start walking back home. The idea alone made him shudder in the very expensive designer shoes that were made for many things, but definitely not a long walk in the dust.

He heard the rumbling of a car and looked up just in time to see what had to be the oldest pickup truck in the States signal and then pull up next to his car. The first thing Martin noticed about the truck, besides its age, was the paintings. The thing was covered in them: snakes, lizards, geckos, salamanders. Some of them were so lifelike, it seemed as if they would crawl away any moment; others looked more like the paintings one expected to find on the walls of a cave. They all were done in brilliant colors, and Martin had to admit the truck looked stunning.

The driver’s door opened, and Martin’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t know what he had expected; he only knew it wasn’t this. The man jumping down from the truck was five foot four and on the skinny side, but with lightly defined muscles under a shabby, dirty white muscle shirt. His shoulder-length black hair was partly held by a leather strap, though some loose strands were caressing his high cheekbones. Martin wondered if the man didn’t care about the wayward bangs or had given up on taming them. Either way, he looked cute, in an unkempt sort of way.