Master Class: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (+ Bonus Book 'Silent Daughter 1') by Linnea May Page A
Authors: Linnea May
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jacket as his eyes lock on me. His scent, masculine and woodsy, is radiating from his jacket and it is intoxicating. I want to close my eyes and inhale it more thoroughly, but of course, I do nothing of the sort.
"You're soaked," he states, ignoring the fact that he's completely drenched himself. "Let's get you into something dry."
He says that as if it's the most natural thing to say. As if he has to take care of me like a father. Or a boyfriend.
I want to clarify what he's talking about, but he doesn't wait for any kind of reply from my side. He just turns around and walks down the hall, clearly expecting that I will follow him without further questions.
So I do.
I try to ignore the looks I'm getting left and right, walking through a crowd that contains many of my fellow students who are very familiar with the jacket that is wrapped around my shoulders. Yes, this is weird to me, too.
Mr. Portland strides down the hall in hasty steps, not checking once if I'm following him or not. I hasten my pace in an attempt to catch up with him.
"I'm okay, I don't have any-"
"You're soaked," he repeats without looking at me. "And the way your blouse has taken the rain is not appropriate for running around campus."
"What do you you-" I stop as I look down on myself. My white and thin summer blouse is drenched and has turned into a see through nothing due to the heavy rain.
Oh God, he can totally see my bra!
I quickly close his jacket around myself, turning crimson red in the process and falling behind a few steps so that I'm not walking directly next to him. Now, instead, I'm confronted with the view of his ripped back hugged by an equally wet and see through shirt.
"Where are we going?" I ask, even though the direction he's taking should be pretty obvious.
"My office," he says.
My heart literally skips a beat at the thought of being alone with him. What the hell is wrong with my head right now? How did I end up here? All I wanted to do was to face him, because of that unnecessary blame game during class. I was furious, humiliated.
But I was also angry at myself for acting the way I did after his first lecture. I found myself flicking through his book again and again during the past week, reading passages I had read before I met the man behind them and was now seeing them in a different light. Every time Celia caught me with his book in my hands, she made sure to make fun of me, adding silly wooing sounds to her amusement.
The fact that she was not altogether wrong about her assumptions made it all the worse for me. I can't deny that Mr. Portland fascinates me in a way that's caught me off guard. It would have been so much easier to elevate myself above the swooning fangirls if he were the arrogant beguiler I assumed he would be.
But instead, he has me unraveled like no one ever has before. I feel weak beneath his eyes, but feel a strangely encouraging strength at the same time. He intimidates me, makes nervous, angry, and still curious.
My mind and body are actors in a bewildering play, and he is the puppet master.
I keep my distance when he unlocks his office door and steps inside, waiting for me to follow. Our eyes meet for a split second, as if we're assuring each other that we're well aware of what's happening right now.
There's absolutely no reason for me to be here. There's no reason that I should follow him to his office to change into something dry. It's not like I'll catch a deadly cold within the few minutes it would take me to wait for the rain to stop and walk back to my dorm. We both know that this is just an excuse to be alone.
Or am I imagining things?
Maybe he really is worried about my health. But what could I even change into? I have no other clothes with me and he certainly doesn't have a stack of women's clothing stored in his office.
Or so I hope.
He closes the door as soon as I step inside, and while I remain in the middle of the room with nowhere to go, he whirls around to a dark wooden
"You're soaked," he states, ignoring the fact that he's completely drenched himself. "Let's get you into something dry."
He says that as if it's the most natural thing to say. As if he has to take care of me like a father. Or a boyfriend.
I want to clarify what he's talking about, but he doesn't wait for any kind of reply from my side. He just turns around and walks down the hall, clearly expecting that I will follow him without further questions.
So I do.
I try to ignore the looks I'm getting left and right, walking through a crowd that contains many of my fellow students who are very familiar with the jacket that is wrapped around my shoulders. Yes, this is weird to me, too.
Mr. Portland strides down the hall in hasty steps, not checking once if I'm following him or not. I hasten my pace in an attempt to catch up with him.
"I'm okay, I don't have any-"
"You're soaked," he repeats without looking at me. "And the way your blouse has taken the rain is not appropriate for running around campus."
"What do you you-" I stop as I look down on myself. My white and thin summer blouse is drenched and has turned into a see through nothing due to the heavy rain.
Oh God, he can totally see my bra!
I quickly close his jacket around myself, turning crimson red in the process and falling behind a few steps so that I'm not walking directly next to him. Now, instead, I'm confronted with the view of his ripped back hugged by an equally wet and see through shirt.
"Where are we going?" I ask, even though the direction he's taking should be pretty obvious.
"My office," he says.
My heart literally skips a beat at the thought of being alone with him. What the hell is wrong with my head right now? How did I end up here? All I wanted to do was to face him, because of that unnecessary blame game during class. I was furious, humiliated.
But I was also angry at myself for acting the way I did after his first lecture. I found myself flicking through his book again and again during the past week, reading passages I had read before I met the man behind them and was now seeing them in a different light. Every time Celia caught me with his book in my hands, she made sure to make fun of me, adding silly wooing sounds to her amusement.
The fact that she was not altogether wrong about her assumptions made it all the worse for me. I can't deny that Mr. Portland fascinates me in a way that's caught me off guard. It would have been so much easier to elevate myself above the swooning fangirls if he were the arrogant beguiler I assumed he would be.
But instead, he has me unraveled like no one ever has before. I feel weak beneath his eyes, but feel a strangely encouraging strength at the same time. He intimidates me, makes nervous, angry, and still curious.
My mind and body are actors in a bewildering play, and he is the puppet master.
I keep my distance when he unlocks his office door and steps inside, waiting for me to follow. Our eyes meet for a split second, as if we're assuring each other that we're well aware of what's happening right now.
There's absolutely no reason for me to be here. There's no reason that I should follow him to his office to change into something dry. It's not like I'll catch a deadly cold within the few minutes it would take me to wait for the rain to stop and walk back to my dorm. We both know that this is just an excuse to be alone.
Or am I imagining things?
Maybe he really is worried about my health. But what could I even change into? I have no other clothes with me and he certainly doesn't have a stack of women's clothing stored in his office.
Or so I hope.
He closes the door as soon as I step inside, and while I remain in the middle of the room with nowhere to go, he whirls around to a dark wooden
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