Master Class: A Billionaire Romance

by Linnea May

  Master Class

  A Billionaire Romance

  Content

  Copyright © 2017 by Linnea May

  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

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  Also by Linnea May

  Sneak Peek: TAMED

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  End of Preview.

  Copyright © 2017 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

  A Billionaire Romance

  PROLOGUE

  LANA

  “Did you do as you were told?”

  His mesmerizing green eyes paralyze me. I’m unable to move as he angles his sharp gaze down at me, clenching his jaw to retain 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 to hear. My lips part as I prepare to speak, but no sound comes out.

  “Did you obey my orders?” he asks again.

  Even though he hasn’t moved 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, my insides swirling with deep-seated emotion and completely at his mercy.

  “Yes,” I finally reply in 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 heightened arousal, and I know how much he enjoys seeing that vulnerable 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 does take 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 voices 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 it’s 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, so 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 the skirt he ordered me to wear today, despite the cold weather.

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

  He pinches my flesh through the pantyhose, signaling for me to spread my legs apart. I obey, widening 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 more than two inches long and about as wide as two fingers. I know he has a remote control for it, but he didn’t give 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 tremble 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 and prepare myself to get the first taste of what it feels like. 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 to his full height, 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 you know about our little secret. Do you understand?”

  I nod. “Yes, Sir.”

  The smile that charms his handsome fa
ce 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 too closely resembles my mother’s voice. I hate it when I sound like her, but sometimes it is unavoidable. Times like today. 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 scattered all over the room, cluttering up pretty much all of the space except for the tiny area around my bed and 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 peeks 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 browsing 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’s not teaching applied economics, is he?”

  “No, 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 back up under her covers.

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

  “No!” she yells back, her answer 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 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 act of revenge is the same as always: I slam the door as loudly as possible to disturb her 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 into 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 of the other students because I always take my emergency ten minutes into account when planning my way to class. Nothing has ever happened that I needed those extra ten minutes, but I always prefer to be on the safe side.

  Usually, I am one of the 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 making 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 in front; very close, but not too close to be overlooked by the teacher, as students in 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 middle rows of the auditorium.

  The very few students who like to sit here appear to share my view of education. There is no whispering, passing notes, people falling asleep, or staring at their phones during the lecture. No talking, no distractions, and no irritation by other people’s lack of interest.

  But today, everything is different.

  The first few rows seem to be suspiciously popular, 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 of my bag, the auditorium quickly fills up around me. I keep looking back over my shoulder to browse the hall to check whether I am misinterpreting things, but no, this class really is a lot more crowded than it’s known to be.

  Did I make a mistake? Maybe I’m 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 blonde 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 to face me, 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 other 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 even here if it’s not because of him?”

  “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 highly of himself.”

  The girl rolls her eyes at me.

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

  “Sure, whatever,” the girl says, and then 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.

  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, including the girl next to me who was so keen on fixing her makeup.

  Minutes go by and Mr. Portland doesn’t show up. Apparently being on time does not count for someone like him. His tardiness aggravates me. It annoys me that men like him can just act however they please. He knows his place in this world. He must be aware of all the lovestruck girls in here, waiting for him, ready to make puppy-dog eyes at him, before he even shows his face.

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

  I did my research when I heard that he would be teaching this class, the only eligible Econ class that I could take this semester to complete my credits to earn my minor. His story reads like the perfect little fairytale, the one that people who fail at school can tell to convince each other that they can still amount to something.

  He’s not even thirty years old, and Mr. Portland has already hired 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 myself - has read his success story. Granted, it is an unusual story, and it’s easy to see why so many people could relate to someone like Mr. Portland.

  He started out at the bottom, and up until just a few years ago, he was a nobody. Born to poor and neglectful parents, the father a drunk and the mother an unloving egomaniac who deserted her family when her son was still very young, he had anything but an easy start in life. I think that Mr. Portland is pulling at the reader’s heartstrings a little too much as the book continued to delve into the hardships he endured during junior high and high school, when he claimed to have been a victim of severe bullying by his peers. A chubby, nonathletic boy who did poorly in school. His grades were less than mediocre in all classes except for one: math. Of course, that didn’t really help his popularity.

  I have my doubts about the accuracy of this depiction, but it sure makes for a great story, especially considering where he finds himself now. According to his memoir, it was not until his first year of college - community college, that is - before he managed to break out of his cycle of misfortune. He met a mentor, an old professor who was about to retire and who, for some reason, saw it as his duty to help out this poor little bastard.