by May, Linnea
I can’t believe he put this much work into this. For me.
The roses are covering the floor, just leaving a small path that leads to the center of the stage, illuminated by the light. I follow the path and just as I reach the center of the spotlight, Kingston looks up from the keys, finishing a few more tunes before he lets the song fade away in melancholic chords.
He gets up and walks toward me, displaying a smile on his face that I’ve never seen before.
He seems nervous, shy even.
I stare at him, dumbfounded as my heart is about to jump out of my breast and the last chord of the Nocturne is still resonating through my heart.
“Kingston,” I breathe. “How did you…”
He places his index finger on his lips, beckoning me to hush.
“I wanted to know what it’s like,” he says. “This way of expression, to share your feelings with music. And I wanted you to know what it’s like to be on the receiving end. You deserve to be serenaded, even if it’s by a philistine like me.”
I shake my head, the lump in my throat threatening to choke me, as Kingston steps closer until he’s standing right in front of me.
“About half a year ago, I was meant to be tamed,” he says. “And even though they picked the wrong woman to make me a man, I’m glad I was forced to go through with it as far as we did. Because otherwise, I would never have met you, Elodie.”
He pauses, his eyes fixated on mine while I try my best not to choke on the tears that are threatening to make an appearance.
“You never tried to tame me,” he continues. “And yet, you did. You made me chase you. You were the forbidden fruit I couldn’t taste enough. And you taste just as delicious now that I no longer have to hide you. And I’m ready for more, for a new kind of taste.”
My heart skips a beat at his words.
That’s when he does it. Kingston Abrams goes down on his knee in front of me, producing a small jewelry box from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
“I want to taste you when you’re legally mine. Every single day. Forever,” he says, opening the jewelry box, presenting a beautiful diamond ring with an elegant yet simple cathedral setting.
“Elodie Hill, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
I know I’m not the first woman to be too choked up for a proper reply to this question, but I still find it necessary to shower him with kisses after I sink down on my knees, falling right into his strong arms, just to make sure that he knows how much I love him, and how much I want him.
Because, how could I not?
THE END
About the Author
Linnea May loves to read and write about strong alpha men with loaded bank accounts and skeletons in their closets. Her heroes are as sexy and beautiful as they are broken - only to be fixed by the smart & captivating heroines who cross their paths.
Subscribe for her Newsletter HERE and get two Freebies!
Other books by Linnea (selection)
Undisclosed Desire
Master Class
For my Master(‘s)
Dark Romance with Stella Noir
Silent Daughter 1: Taken
Silent Daughter 2: Bound
Silent Daughter 3: Owned
… Curious to read more? Turn the page to read a little sneak peek for MASTER CLASSfor free!
Sneak Peek:
MASTER CLASS
PROLOGUE
LANA
“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 moves 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 drop
out 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.
At not even thirty years old, Mr. Portland already found it adequate to hire a ghostwriter to write his memoirs. The book just came out a few weeks ago and was an instant bestseller. If he hadn’t already been wealthy before, I’m sure he would be by now. Everybody - including me - has read about his story of success. Granted, it is an unusual story, but it is also easy to see why so many people could relate to someone like Mr. Portland.
