Master Class: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (+ Bonus Book 'Silent Daughter 1') by Linnea May Page B
Authors: Linnea May
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cabinet and opens it, the door blocking my view as he starts rummaging around in it.
The office is small and rather empty. All of the furniture displays the same dark wood as the cabinet. There's a heavy and comically large desk that takes up almost one third of the room, a comfortable looking black leather office chair, and a book case next to the cabinet. Unlike I've seen in many other faculty offices, this bookcase is almost empty, only stocked with a handful of books and - to my surprise - a bottle of expensive looking Whiskey with two glasses next to it.
"Here," he says, closing the cabinet door and handing me a soft looking sweater.
I stare blankly at his outstretched hand.
"Take it," he urges, coming closer. "You'll catch a cold if you don't change."
I look up at him. "I can't-"
"You will," he interrupts. He furls his eyebrows.
I reluctantly let go of the jacket that is still hanging over my shoulders and reach for the sweater he's offering me. It feels softer than anything I've ever worn before. The dark gray fabric feels so insanely luxurious in my hands that I have to suppress the urge to press it against my cheek to test its touch.
"Let me take that," Mr. Portland says, lifting his jacket from my shoulder.
Knowing how see-through my white blouse has become, I feel painfully exposed and awkwardly try to cover myself by crossing my arms in front of my chest while still holding the sweater.
Mr. Portland puts the drenched jacket over the backrest of his office chair and turns around to me.
"What are you waiting for?" He asks.
"I.... err, I'll be right back," I utter, making an effort to turn around and walk toward the door.
"You can change here," he says, chuckling. "I won't look."
Heat rushes up to my cheeks with such force that I'm sure he must see me glowing like a red beacon.
"Unless you want me to," he adds, now casting me a dark grin.
I huff with indignation. "Excuse me?"
Mr. Portland is standing about four feet away from me, his back facing the window. For some reason, the blinds are pulled down so that no one can look inside, as if he anticipated this weird little getaway with me.
I put my satchel on the ground next to me and step forward to the desk, placing the sweater on top of it so that my hands are free. Contrary to what I expected, he does not turn around when I'm about to unbutton my blouse. Instead, he locks me down with his gaze, not scanning my exposed upper body but contenting himself with my face. The green of his eyes is such a surprise in contrast with his black hair and dark complexion. It gives him a mysterious look, adding to his enigmatic demeanor.
"I didn't say I want you to look," I say. My voice is oddly soft, so girlish and humble. I never hear myself speak like this.
"I think you did," he says, enlightening a fire behind my chest that feels hot enough to dry that damn blouse right away.
What the hell is he saying? What is this? Is he flirting with me? He can't be serious.
"But I'll leave you to it anyway," he adds, turning his back to me. "Hurry."
"Thanks," I whisper helplessly.
I quickly get out of my drenched blouse and place it next to the sweater on the large and empty desk. For a moment, I consider taking off my bra as well, because it's equally soaked. but the thought of my boobs touching his sweater is too much for me to handle.
I pull the sweater over my head, suppressing a sigh of ecstasy as the soft, warm, fabric slides over my skin. It feels like a enveloping hug.
And it smells like him.
Just as I am about to announce that I'm done and decent, he turns back to me, nodding toward the cabinet.
"I think there's a hanger in there," he says. "You can put your blouse on it so it can dry."
I nod and walk over to the cabinet, opening the door that he was rummaging behind before. Just like the rest of his office, the cabinet is almost empty. All I find is more sweaters, a few pens and notebooks, bags of instant coffee and two hangers that appear misplaced in
The office is small and rather empty. All of the furniture displays the same dark wood as the cabinet. There's a heavy and comically large desk that takes up almost one third of the room, a comfortable looking black leather office chair, and a book case next to the cabinet. Unlike I've seen in many other faculty offices, this bookcase is almost empty, only stocked with a handful of books and - to my surprise - a bottle of expensive looking Whiskey with two glasses next to it.
"Here," he says, closing the cabinet door and handing me a soft looking sweater.
I stare blankly at his outstretched hand.
"Take it," he urges, coming closer. "You'll catch a cold if you don't change."
I look up at him. "I can't-"
"You will," he interrupts. He furls his eyebrows.
I reluctantly let go of the jacket that is still hanging over my shoulders and reach for the sweater he's offering me. It feels softer than anything I've ever worn before. The dark gray fabric feels so insanely luxurious in my hands that I have to suppress the urge to press it against my cheek to test its touch.
"Let me take that," Mr. Portland says, lifting his jacket from my shoulder.
Knowing how see-through my white blouse has become, I feel painfully exposed and awkwardly try to cover myself by crossing my arms in front of my chest while still holding the sweater.
Mr. Portland puts the drenched jacket over the backrest of his office chair and turns around to me.
"What are you waiting for?" He asks.
"I.... err, I'll be right back," I utter, making an effort to turn around and walk toward the door.
"You can change here," he says, chuckling. "I won't look."
Heat rushes up to my cheeks with such force that I'm sure he must see me glowing like a red beacon.
"Unless you want me to," he adds, now casting me a dark grin.
I huff with indignation. "Excuse me?"
Mr. Portland is standing about four feet away from me, his back facing the window. For some reason, the blinds are pulled down so that no one can look inside, as if he anticipated this weird little getaway with me.
I put my satchel on the ground next to me and step forward to the desk, placing the sweater on top of it so that my hands are free. Contrary to what I expected, he does not turn around when I'm about to unbutton my blouse. Instead, he locks me down with his gaze, not scanning my exposed upper body but contenting himself with my face. The green of his eyes is such a surprise in contrast with his black hair and dark complexion. It gives him a mysterious look, adding to his enigmatic demeanor.
"I didn't say I want you to look," I say. My voice is oddly soft, so girlish and humble. I never hear myself speak like this.
"I think you did," he says, enlightening a fire behind my chest that feels hot enough to dry that damn blouse right away.
What the hell is he saying? What is this? Is he flirting with me? He can't be serious.
"But I'll leave you to it anyway," he adds, turning his back to me. "Hurry."
"Thanks," I whisper helplessly.
I quickly get out of my drenched blouse and place it next to the sweater on the large and empty desk. For a moment, I consider taking off my bra as well, because it's equally soaked. but the thought of my boobs touching his sweater is too much for me to handle.
I pull the sweater over my head, suppressing a sigh of ecstasy as the soft, warm, fabric slides over my skin. It feels like a enveloping hug.
And it smells like him.
Just as I am about to announce that I'm done and decent, he turns back to me, nodding toward the cabinet.
"I think there's a hanger in there," he says. "You can put your blouse on it so it can dry."
I nod and walk over to the cabinet, opening the door that he was rummaging behind before. Just like the rest of his office, the cabinet is almost empty. All I find is more sweaters, a few pens and notebooks, bags of instant coffee and two hangers that appear misplaced in
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