Undisclosed Desire: An Alpha Billionaire Romance: + bonus novel

  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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  A steamy scene with the protagonists of my other BDSM Romance novel 'I am Yours'.

  Content

  Content

  Undisclosed Desire

  CHAPTER I - Nicky

  CHAPTER II - Evan

  CHAPTER III - Nicky

  CHAPTER IV - Nicky

  CHAPTER V - Nicky

  CHAPTER VI - Nicky

  CHAPTER VII - Evan

  CHAPTER VIII - Nicky

  CHAPTER IX - Nicky

  CHAPTER X - Nicky

  CHAPTER XI - Evan

  CHAPTER XII -Nicky

  CHAPTER XIII - Nicky

  CHAPTER XIV - Nicky

  CHAPTER XV - Nicky

  CHAPTER XVI - Nicky

  CHAPTER XVII - Evan

  CHAPTER XVIII - Nicky

  CHAPTER XIX - Evan

  CHAPTER XX - Nicky

  CHAPTER XXI - Nicky

  CHAPTER XXII - Evan

  CHAPTER XXIII - Nicky

  CHAPTER XXIV - Nicky

  Epilog

  Also by Linnea May

  Bonus Novel: Master Class

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Also by Linnea May

  Undisclosed Desire

  CHAPTER I

  Nicky

  I watch as my friends turn their backs to me and weave through the crowd to head for the exit. This had to be expected, but I still feel disappointed. Yes, they gave it a chance, and yes, they have warned me ahead of time that they would leave if the club turned out to be as underground and "grungy" as they expected it to be.

  But still.

  A not-so-little part of me had hoped that they would like it after all. That they would be positively surprised and not just come here for my sake, but stay and enjoy it, because it was a lot more fun than they had expected.

  Instead, they lasted little more than an hour before all three of them decided that I had indeed bad taste when it comes to music – and when it comes to picking locations that we can spend our Friday nights at.

  It disappoints me, but not enough to spoil my evening. After all, I am having fun. I wanted to visit this little basement club for a long time.

  'A hidden gem' it was called by my equally non-standard roommate Yuka. Too bad she had to work tonight. She would have been the perfect company and much more inclined than my old college friends

  I moved in with her just a few weeks ago, after my last living arrangement with an aged and unsuccessful artist turned out to be a bit too crazy, even for my taste. It was fun for a while and in the beginning, I enjoyed the idea of never knowing what I would come home to. Another spontaneous vernissage, either displaying her own work or that of an artist friend of hers, or a new temporary roommate – human or animal. She has been using her apartment for all kinds of visitors and events, played host to a refugee family, a snake, a bunch of abandoned kittens and someone she introduced as her daughter, but who miraculously disappeared after a few days and was never heard of again.

  It never got boring.

  But things spiraled out of control and at some point it just stopped being fun to come home to a new kind of craziness every single day.

  Especially when part of that craziness was an unannounced gangbang with a bunch of aged kinky guys who were happily frolicking on my living room couch when I came home on a late Friday night, exhausted from work and looking forward to a quiet and relaxed evening in front of the TV.

  So it was time for a change. My new home provides its own kind of folly, but one that I am sure I can handle. Yuka grew up in Japan but has been living in this city since she finished high school. Her father married a Japanese woman and both her parents stayed back in Tokyo while Yuka couldn't wait to cross the ocean as soon as possible.

  Her plan was to obtain an undergraduate degree in business at an American university and then apply for a well paying job while looking for the perfect, American husband. Japanese men – so she says – are just 'not her thing' and neither is her home country in general.

  But similar to me, she never actually finished her degree and dropped out of college when she stopped seeing the point of the whole endeavor. And just like me she has been working several part-time jobs since then, never willing to commit to a full-time position. The fact that both of us value freedom and flexibility above security and a more comfortable living standard made it easy for us to get along instantly. Yuka is an artist as well – a musician – and she is quirky, anything but normal. But I feel that her quirkiness will never reach that uncomfortable level my former roommate exhibited. Or so I hope.

  She works at a bar tonight. Otherwise, she would be here with me, joining me in eye-rolling at my friend's ignorance.

  How could they not see it? This place is great! Yes, it is a bit grungy and underground, but nowhere near as filthy and creepy as my friends made it sound before they couldn't take it anymore and left.

  It was awkward at first, but after just a few minutes I really don't mind being by myself. The place is full, but not overly crowded, leaving enough room for me to own the dancefloor. The best thing about my mainstream friends leaving is that I don't have to be considerate of their embarrassment in regard to my erratic dancing.

  Granted, I don't dance pretty. I'm not cool and I know I'm not a sight as lovely as most girls try to be when they move along with the music. Apparently, I am quite "a spectacle," as one of them called it before. And she didn't mean it as a compliment.

  As I am throwing my arms up in the air, waving and swinging uncontrollably while closing my eyes, I am beginning to wonder why I even bother to go out with them anymore. This is so much more fun than the nights I have spent with them when we went to places that one of them had picked.

  It has been more than an hour since they left and I am sweating and breathing heavily when I finally decide to take a break. I wipe off the sweat from my forehead and hope that my strong make-up really is as waterproof as it claims to be while I stumble over to the bar.

  "Beer!" I yell at the bartender, who miraculously can hear me even over the loud bass of the music. Delicate as a flower, that's me.

  I lean against the counter, sipping on a cheap – but wonderfully cool – beer when I notice him for the first time. A guy, standing a few feet away from me, leaning over the counter to place a drink order. He is ridiculously handsome, with dark hair that flies from his head in a rumpled, yet organized and thoughtfully styled manner and a three-day s
tubble on his well-defined face. He is tall, a lot taller than most guys and he looks to be about my age, maybe a bit older.

  But all of that – despite his very appealing features – is not why he caught my eyes. It's the way he is dressed. He is wearing a business shirt and what appear to be suit pants. The shirt is dark and rather low-key, but he still stands out. He is too clean, too well dressed for this location.

  No one else is donning a look like this. This is a place for worn-out jeans, old, crappy band shirts, and even punk or goth-inspired get ups. Handsome or not, he looks like the perfect business yuppie who got lost and found himself in a place he doesn't belong.

  He looks like he literally owns the place, like he knows more about making money than choosing the playlist for tonight. Instead of asking for a drink, he might just be checking up on his business. Or he really is lost and is asking for directions.

  All these assumptions are cast aside when I see the bartender placing a beer in front of him. The same cheap bottle that I am drinking. Our eyes meet for a split second when he grabs it and looks over to me. I think, he may even be about to raise his drink to me – but I quickly turn away as he catches me staring.

  My heart is beating inexplicably fast as I lift my own beer and take an unnaturally big sip from it. What the hell was that? Since when do stuck-up yuppie guys draw my attention? It could only be worse if he was actually wearing a suit and a tie.

  I despise people like him. Corporate slaves, narrow-minded workaholics. People who have nothing else on their minds than their career and fitting in. People who follow the boring mainstream path that forces them to get up at six in the morning, dress up in their corporate uniforms, spent eight to ten hours in an office with equally uninspiring people and fall sleep in front of their TVs in the evening – just to repeat the same procedure on the next day again. The only thing that drives the worst kind of them is money and power. It’s disgusting.

  I will never understand why the majority of human beings still acquire this as a goal in life. Sure, they may live in nicer places than Yuka and me, they may get to eat at fancy restaurants and spend more money on clothes and other accessories that are supposed to make their life shine and sparkle.

  But when do they have time to think? To create? To enjoy life? There is so little room for creativity in their lives, so little room to think outside the box. I almost feel sorry for them.

  And even worse, he might be one of their tyrants. The boss, the CEO – a leading figure. Not a slave himself but a slave driver.

  Then again, right now this guy is at the same club, doing the same thing as I am. For whatever reason.

  I feel as if he is still looking at me, but I don't dare to check. Instead, I decide to distance myself from him and the bar counter and to finish my beer somewhere else. There is a strong urge to turn around and look back at him to see whether my intuition is right, but I am able to withstand it and continue my way through the crowd next to the dance floor.

  Let's see who else is here.

  I lean against a weirdly located stone pillar in the middle of the room that marks the edge of the dance area and scan my surroundings. A lot of interesting and alternative characters are shaking their limbs in front of my eyes, more wildly than one might see at other locations, but still – as far as I am aware – a lot better looking than the spectacle I turn out to be every time the music hits me.

  Lots of pretty boys, too. With wild clothes and hair, tattoos and spikes, rough facial hair, and tattered jeans. But none of them really manages to draw my interest. In an environment like this, they are the ones who fit it – and it appears that my weird brain always looks for the one who stands out from his surroundings, no matter what that entails.

  So I catch myself looking for him. The out of place yuppie who does not adhere to the dress code that is expected at this particular club. But he is nowhere to be found.

  It might be for the better. With my luck, his story is just as boring as his looks would be to me if we had met somewhere out on the streets.

  A good song comes up and I decide that my break has been long enough. I quickly finish my beer and get back on the dancefloor.

  As usual, my moves cause confusion and irritation for the people around me, even in this crowd. But I don't care. This is how I dance, this is how I enjoy myself. I am not dancing for others, but for myself.

  My eyes are closed as I cherish the music in my own way, deeply immersed in my little universe of otherness. Even though I am not drunk, not even tipsy, I feel as if I am floating, all alone, dizzy with devotion. Intoxication is so overrated – who needs drugs and alcohol if you have music.

  Once again, I cannot help but lose myself in it. I spin and turn, shaking my body without regard to others – until I brutally bump into someone and almost knock them over.

  "Oh, sorry I –" I hurry to yell, opening my eyes to see who I stumbled into.

  It's him.

  The smug yuppie from the bar is standing next to me, smiling and holding onto my arm as if he was trying to keep me from running away. I stare back at him in surprise and form the word "sorry" with my lips again before I free myself of his grip.

  He is standing so close that I can sense his smell – and he smells good, too yummy. Damn.

  I hastily turn around and flee.

  There is something about this guy that irritates me – or appeals to me. I don't know what it is, but it frightens me. He is so different to the guys I have fallen for before. Completely different. And he looks like someone I should hate. Why is he rattling me so much?

  I need some fresh air and head for the door. The bored bouncer hardly glances at me as I squeeze out through the narrow exit next to him. It is getting late and by now more people are leaving the club then entering it. I have my mini shoulder bag with me and could go home if I wanted to. But I am not ready for that yet. I feel that there is at least one more song in me.

  It is still early summer and the temperatures drop quite a lot during the night. But as I flee out of the club, covered in sweat and my body burning with the heat of exhaustion, the cool breeze outside feels fantastic.

  There are a bunch of other people who are seeking refreshment outside, gathering in little groups in front of the club's entrance, often spoiling the fresh summer air with cigarettes. I distance myself from them, but not without casting somewhat longing looks in their direction.

  I could need a smoke right now – but I left mine at home as I am trying to cut down on my unhealthy habit. I have just turned twenty-five and haven't been smoking for that long or even that much, but I feel like I am already feeling the bad effects from it – or at least imagining it. That might be Yuka's influence, though. She's the biggest anti-smoker I know.

  I sigh and try to relax on my own, just me and the summer night's breeze, no cigarette, no friends, no weirdly appealing yuppies.

  Except, I am wrong about that last part.

  CHAPTER II

  Evan

  She looks just like her. The resemblance is so strong that I almost believe it to be her, until the girl lifts her arms into the air and I see that there are no tattoos on them. The ink is missing.

  When she turns around and shows her face to me for the first time, I can be sure of her being someone else. Someone pretty nonetheless.

  She’s dancing wildly, throwing her arms up in the air, her body moving like a flag waving in a heavy storm. Her eyes are closed and she’s completely lost in the song that’s playing. She has no idea that I’m watching her – and she doesn’t care if anyone is.

  That’s one of the major differences between the people in here and the guests at the gathering I just fled from. Money feeds the shallow traits in most people, it seems. There was dancing, but it didn’t compare to this club. The girls were busy holding their hair in place, only moving their starved bodies in delicate motions as to not break a sweat or lose control of their gazelle-like frames. Dancing is nothing they enjoy; it’s something they do because it’s expecte
d of them. It only serves to lure in a random guy, loaded of course, who will take their hand and drag them off to the side to treat them to an expensive drink. Champagne, preferably.

  I’ve done it. Several times. If you’re a man like me, it’s beyond easy to get laid in a world like that, especially if you are an industry name like me. They come to you like moths to the flame. The girls are pretty, there’s no doubt about that. But they are all pretty in the same way, and they lack personality to a degree that is almost painful.

  Besides, they couldn’t give me what I needed. There was no challenge, no joy in breaking them, because there was nothing to break. Most of them got scared and whiny when they realized what I am into. Scared in a bad way, the real kind of fright. It’s the biggest turn off imaginable.

  Sheila was different. She looked like she was one of them, but I knew she wasn’t. She was fierce, strong and opinionated. She was a constant challenge.

  A challenge I lost.

  The long brown waves of that eccentric girl on the dancefloor keep reminding me of Sheila. I certainly do have a type – and this is it.

  Streams of sweat are running down the girl’s face and when the song is over, she finally opens her painted eyes and absentmindedly brushes the hair that’s sticking to her face away. She’s breathing heavily, as if she just finished a workout.

  It’s so fucking sexy. I can only imagine what she would look like under my touch.

  I want to see that face drenched in sweat because of me. I want tears ruining that heavy make-up of hers. I want to hear her scream.

  My cock rises to attention. Has it really been that long?

  It has. I’ve been busy as hell, and the last fuck I had was anything but satisfactory. Like I said, getting laid is easy, but getting what I need is incredibly hard.

  The girl walks away. I’m right on her heels as she staggers over to the bar. She collapses onto the counter and yells something at the bar tender. He places a bottle of cheap beer in front of her and she greedily grabs it, downing half of the bottle in one gulp.

  I love everything about it.