Master Class: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (+ Bonus Book 'Silent Daughter 1') Read online

  Master Class

  A Billionaire BDSM Romance

  Linnea May

  Contents

  Untitled

  Copyright © 2016 by Linnea May

  Master Class

  Also by Linnea May

  Prologue

  1. CHAPTER ONE

  2. CHAPTER TWO

  3. CHAPTER THREE

  4. CHAPTER FOUR

  5. CHAPTER FIVE

  6. CHAPTER SIX

  7. CHAPTER SEVEN

  8. CHAPTER EIGHT

  9. CHAPTER NINE

  10. CHAPTER TEN

  11. CHAPTER ELEVEN

  12. CHAPTER TWELVE

  13. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  15. CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  16. CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  17. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  18. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  19. CHAPTER NINETEEN

  20. CHAPTER TWENTY

  21. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  22. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  23. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  24. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Afterword

  Also by Linnea May

  Untitled

  Copyright © 2016 by Stella Noir & Linnea May

  Untitled

  Short Synopsis

  25. CHAPTER ONE

  26. CHAPTER two

  27. CHAPTER three

  28. CHAPTER four

  29. chapter five

  30. CHAPTER six

  31. CHAPTER seven

  32. CHAPTER eight

  33. CHAPTER nine

  34. CHAPTER ten

  35. CHAPTER eleven

  36. CHAPTER twelve

  Untitled

  MASTER CLASS

  Copyright © 2016 by Linnea May

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

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  Master Class

  Content

  MASTER CLASS1

  PROLOGUE1

  CHAPTER ONE5

  CHAPTER TWO12

  CHAPTER THREE20

  CHAPTER FOUR27

  CHAPTER FIVE35

  CHAPTER SIX41

  CHAPTER SEVEN49

  CHAPTER EIGHT58

  CHAPTER NINE67

  CHAPTER TEN73

  CHAPTER ELEVEN77

  CHAPTER TWELVE87

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN96

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN107

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN113

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN119

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN127

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN135

  CHAPTER NINETEEN142

  CHAPTER TWENTY148

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE156

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO162

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE167

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR172

  Also by Linnea May

  Silent Daughter180

  Short Synopsis183

  Prologue

  “Did you do what I told you to do?”

  His green eyes hold me in place. I find myself unable to move as he angles his sharp gaze down at me, clenching his jaw for control. I can tell that he is holding back. He has had to restrain himself for so long, watching me in the classroom from afar, sitting across the table while we were engaged in our little banter. Taboo was always written all over our intimate relationship, which made it all the more exciting.

  His strong jaw is dappled with black stubble, framing the hint of a smirk as he studies the reaction on my face. I know I’m blushing, fighting to maintain eye contact with him as I try to find the words he’s waiting for. My lips part as I prepare to speak, but no sound comes out.

  “Did you obey?” he asks again.

  Even though he doesn’t move, it feels as if he just took a step closer, closing a hand around my throat and choking me. I feel suffocated and elevated at the same time, swirling with emotion and completely at his mercy.

  “Yes,” I finally reply with a hoarse voice.

  “What did I tell you to do?”

  Oh, please, God, no! Don’t make me say it out loud!

  My face burns with shameful heat, and I have to suppress the strong urge to close my eyes. I can’t look at him when I’m feeling like this. Exposed, vulnerable, confused - and so freaking turned on. I’m ashamed of my arousal, and I know how much he enjoys to see that feeling written all over my face in bright red color.

  “Lana, you know we don’t have a lot of time,” he urges.

  This time he actually takes a step closer to me. We’re standing in the middle of his temporary office, surrounded by everything that reminds me of how wrong all of this is. The shelves are mostly empty, and so is the desk next to me. I’m familiar with the dark, wooden surface. A lot more familiar than any student should be.

  In the background I can hear the murmuring of students walking by outside in the hall. So close, yet so far away.

  “You told me to…,” I whisper. The weirdly low tone of my voice confuses me. I don’t sound like myself. I sound like a distant and faded version of myself. My voice is not only soft, but shaking, as if I was scared.

  I’m not scared. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  You don’t scare me, Mr. Portland.

  But he does.

  I clear my throat.

  “You told me to…,” I begin again, still sighing with that flat voice, but determined to finish the sentence this time. “…Put the toy inside of me.”

  A dark smile graces his handsome face. “And is that toy inside your delicious cunt right now?”

  I nod, pressing my lips together as if I had to keep myself from speaking.

  “Say it,” he demands. Of course.

  I start chewing on my lower lip instead of obeying his command. I’ve said enough, why doesn’t he just let it go?

  Because that’s not how it works.

  “How does it feel?” He asks now, stepping closer. He places his hands on my shoulders, holding me in a secure grip as if I was about to run away or faint in front of him. His touch feels so familiar, so right. My core shivers at the memory of his marvelous hands between my legs.

  I want more. I’ve been begging for more for weeks, which is why I’m in this predicament. I’m not doing this for him, but for me.

  “Tell me Lana, how does it feel?” He repeats his question, leaning forward and so close that our lips almost touch.

  I instinctively stretch and get up on my toes, hoping for a kiss, but he evades me.

  “Answer me,” he insists. “How does it feel?”

  “Good,” I reply.

  Obviously, that answer is not good enough for him.

  “Tell me,” he says, letting go of my left shoulder. His right hand travels down to my core, caressing the fabric of my skirt above my mound. “Can you feel it inside of you?”

  I nod. “Yes, Sir.”

  He casts me that dark and up-to-no-good smile I’ve come to love and fear so much during the past few months we’ve spent together. His hand moves further down my skirt, the one he ordered me to wear today, despite the cold weather.

  “Show me what a good girl you are,” he whispers, while his hand mov
es further, lifting my skirt up and traveling along the inside of my thigh.

  He pinches my flesh through the pantyhose, signaling for me to move my legs apart. I obey and widen my stance enough to grant him access to my center.

  A moan escapes my quivering lips when he presses against my labia, his palm covering my most sensitive area.

  “Can you feel it inside?” He asks, his voice hoarse and husky.

  I nod. “Yes.”

  He called it a vibrating egg, but it looks more like a thick, pink thumb, not longer than two inches and about as wide as two fingers. I know he has a remote control for it, but he never gave it to me. When I agreed to do what he wanted me to, he just handed me the little pink toy and told me to place it inside myself for the last class of this semester.

  His hand is still at my entrance, applying pressure on it through two layers of fabric. Even this subtle touch is enough for me to vibrate with lust. I can’t wait for this upcoming class to be over.

  “Just imagine what it feels like when I turn it on,” he adds.

  I blush at the thought of it and prepare myself for a first taste. I expect him to turn it on right this moment, to show me. But he doesn’t.

  Instead, he removes his hand from beneath my skirt and straightens up, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “You will go to class now,” he commands. “And you will sit through my last lecture like a good girl, without letting anyone around us know about our little secret. Do you understand?”

  I nod. “Yes, Sir.”

  The smile that graces his handsome face is enough of an acknowledgment, but I eagerly welcome his lips when he leans forward to kiss me.

  My last class with Mr. Jackson Portland will prove to be one of a kind - and I intend to end the semester with a bang. Literally.

  CHAPTER ONE

  LANA

  “Where is my calculator?!”

  My voice has that shrill tone again. The tone that resembles my mother’s voice all too much. I hate it when I sound like her, but sometimes it is unavoidable. Such as right now. I am late for class, the first class of a new semester, my last semester. I am just a handful of classes, and that dreaded thesis, away from finishing my Master’s degree, and my lazy roommate isn’t making things any easier.

  Celia has been sharing a room with me for almost a year now. Her bed is just a few feet away from mine, but her stuff is cluttered all over the room, taking up pretty much all of the space except for the tiny area around my bed and my desk. I have fought for those areas to remain free of her mess, but she still manages to make my belongings disappear whenever I need them most.

  Right now, I need my calculator. At least I think I need it. Who knows what this guest lecturer has in store for us, but since he is teaching a class in economics, I should be prepared to do some on the spot math.

  “Wha-is it?” I hear my sleepy roommate grumble, as she peaks out from under her covers.

  “My calculator!” I repeat. “Where is it? I’m late for class!”

  She squints at me with confusion. “What time is it?”

  I roll my eyes and sigh audibly. “Celia, please!”

  “I dunno,” she mumbles, adding a hearty yawn. “Why do you need it?”

  “It may have escaped your attention, but the semester has started,” I explain as I continue to browse through our small room in search of my calculator. “And I have my economics class this morning, for which I-”

  “Uh!” Celia exclaims. “The one with that hot lecturer, right? Jackson something… Jackson Pollock?”

  I roll my eyes at her ignorance.

  “Jackson Pollock was an expressionist painter, you imbecile,” I lecture her. “Jackson Portland. That’s the guy’s name.”

  Celia frowns at me and sticks out her tongue.

  “Whatever,” she says. “What do you need a calculator for? He is not teaching applied econometrics, is he?”

  “Not, but-”

  “If I was you, I’d rather worry about getting a seat in the front row,” she interrupts. “That man is so hot! Man, I wish I was taking his class.”

  I raise my eyebrows at her. “His class is on a Monday morning at ten. You wouldn’t even be awake yet if I hadn’t yelled at you just now.”

  “Whatever,” she repeats, turning her face away from me and curling up in her sheets once again.

  “You really don’t know where my calculator is?” I ask, one last time.

  “No!” she yells back, muffled by her sheets. “Go!”

  I sigh and risk one last scan through our little room before I decide that there is no point in searching any longer. I have to leave now if I want to be on time for class. The economics department is on the other side of the campus, a walk that will take me at least fifteen minutes, maybe twelve if I hurry.

  It may be silly and childish, but I still blame Celia for the disappearance of my calculator and my little way of revenge is the same as always: I slam the door as loudly as possible to disturb her excessive sleep. It is my passive aggressive way of showing her how I feel about her lazy and irresponsible way of life. How someone like her ever got accepted for a graduate program at this university is beyond me. She must be a lot smarter than it seems at first glance, to make up for her unbelievable laziness. As far as I know, she has never failed a class, even though I hardly ever see her studying. I am almost jealous. Almost.

  Today, the walk to the economics building takes me about thirteen minutes. Decent, but not super rushed. I am still there ahead of most other students, because I always take my emergency ten minutes into account when planning my way to class. There has never been an occurrence that called for these extra ten minutes, but I always prefer to be on the safe side.

  Usually, I am one of the very first few students to show up for class, but today the auditorium is surprisingly full, even though the class won’t start for another fifteen minutes. I look around in surprise for a few moments, before I make my way down to the front. Middle of the third row, slightly to the right, that is where I usually sit. It is the perfect spot to see the board and the lecturer at front, very close, but not too close to be overlooked by the teacher, as the first two rows often are. Also, it has shown to be an area where hardly anyone wants to sit, as most students prefer to hide in the back or in the middle rows of the auditorium. The very few people who like to sit here, appear to share my view of education. There is no whispering, handing notes, people falling asleep or staring at their smart phones during the lecture. No talking, no distraction and no irritation by other people’s lack of interest.

  But today, everything is different.

  The first few rows seem to be suspiciously sought after and I have to sit further out to the right than I am comfortable with. As I take my seat and get my notebook and pens out, the auditorium quickly fills up around me. I keep looking back over my shoulder and browse the hall to check whether I am misinterpreting things, but no, it really is a lot more crowded than a class like this should be.

  Did I make a mistake? Maybe I am sitting in the wrong hall.

  I turn around to my left. The seat right next to me is empty, but the one next to it is occupied by a blond girl, who is holding a little makeup mirror up to her face while she is reapplying some deep red lipstick.

  “Excuse me,” I say, leaning over to her. “This is Econ 357, an Introduction to Entrepreneurship, right?”

  The girl pauses for a moment before she turns around, casting me a look as if I was a clueless freshman.

  “Uhm, yeah,” she retorts, not even trying to hide her annoyance. “Jackson Portland, the hot self-made gazillionaire. Don’t tell me you don’t know he is teaching this class?”

  “Sure, sure I do,” I say. “I was just surprised. It’s never been this crowded in any of my Econ classes.”

  Especially on a Monday morning, I want to add, but I keep that part to myself.

  The girl raises her eyebrows and scans me briefly before she asks: “Have you been living under a rock?”

>   I frown at her. “No. I know very well who Mr. Jackson Portland is.”

  “Then why are you so surprised?” she asks. “Why are you here if not because of him?”

  “I am here, because I need this class to graduate,” I explain, trying to sound just as condescending as she does. “Not to drool all over this college dropout who thinks a little too much of himself.”

  The girl rolls her eyes at me.

  “I’d prefer if this class was taught by a real professor,” I add, raising my chin defiantly.

  “Sure, whatever,” the girl says, and turns back to her mirror, making sure that she sports the perfect look for the oh-so-hot Mr. Portland.

  The auditorium continues to be flooded with people, and unlike any other class I have attended before, the first rows are the ones that fill up the fastest.

  It is ridiculous. I always had a feeling that most students don’t take their studies as seriously as they should and scholarly achievement has very little value among them. This just proves me right.

  The lecture hall is packed by the time the class is supposed to start. It is louder than usual, too. People are chatting and giggling around me, including the girl next to me who was so keen on fixing her makeup.

  Minutes go by and Mr. Portland doesn’t care to show up. Apparently, being on time does not count much for someone like him. I begin to dislike him more and more with every minute that goes by. His tardiness aggravates me. It annoys me that men like him can just act whichever way they please. He knows his place in his world. He knows about all these stupid sheep in here, waiting to drool all over him, the admiration he already receives before even showing his face.

  I glance over to the blond girl, who now produces something other than makeup from her bag. A book. A book about him, Jackson Portland. I’m familiar with it.

  Of course, I did my research on him when I heard that he would be teaching the only Econ class this semester that was eligible for me to collect my last credits for my minor. His story reads like the perfect little fairytale that people who fail at school can tell themselves to convince each other that they can still amount to something.