Read Online Master Class: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (+ Bonus Book 'Silent Daughter 1') by Linnea May - Free Book Online
Authors: Linnea May
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this storage cupboard.
I use one of them to hang my blouse and turn around to ask him where I should place it - only to find him standing in front of me with his shirt unbuttoned and about to take it off.
Another rush of blazing embarrassment streams through me, and I hardly manage to free my eyes from his ripped torso before I whirl around to turn my back to him.
"I'm sorry!" I yelp. "I didn't know you were-"
I hear him chuckle behind my back and take off his wet shirt. Two commanding steps announce him approaching behind me, while I turn into a pillar of salt. I don't even flinch when I can feel him breathing down my neck and his right arm reaches into the cabinet, passing my side closely, but without actually touching any part of me. I can feel the warmth of his masculine body wrapping me like the sweater he gave me.
He grabs another hanger from the cabinet and uses it for his own shirt, completely ignoring my discomfort.
"You can hang it here," he says from somewhere behind me.
He didn't take a sweater for himself, so he must still be half naked. If I turn around now, I'll be confronted with those insane abs again. I will stare, I know I will. I've never seen a man this ripped in my life before. For real, I mean. Pictures, yes. But standing face to face with a body like his has a stronger effect than I could ever imagine.
"Turn around," he orders. "Don't make such a fuss."
The impatient and pervasive tone of his voice causes me to lose my stiffness and turn around in an instant. Of course, my eyes travel down his exposed torso right away, vanquishing one tan hill after another before they leisurely slide along the low v-lines above his pelvis.
I've heard girls calling men 'delicious' and visa-versa and always thought that only a very shallow person would come up with an description as such.
Call me shallow, then.
Mr. Portland notices my gaze, standing tall and strong in front of me while I consume him with my eyes. He likes me looking at him. Of course he does. Maintaining a body like this must be a shitload of work, hours of training, most likely hitting the gym every single day. If he puts this much effort in his looks, it's understandable that he wants to be seen, especially by women.
But why by his student?
"Give me that," he says, stretching his right hand out for the hanger with my damp blouse.
I give it to him and watch as he turns around and hangs it on a little hook on top of the bookcase, next to his own shirt.
"You should put on a sweater," I say, finally diverting my eyes from his gorgeous physique. "You'll catch a cold."
I try to sound sassy, but my voice doesn't cooperate. Instead my words come out weak and hoarse, breaking at the last word, so that I can't even be sure that he heard me correctly.
He casts me an impish smile as he walks past me, his hand softly touching my shoulder as he beckons me to move aside and make room for him to grab another sweater from the cabinet behind me.
The urge to lean forward and lick along his perfectly smooth skin is crushing. This man is the epitome of sexy, and he knows it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JACKSON
S eeing her like this is driving me mad. Her soaked blouse emphasizing every little detail of her fragile physique, her hair hanging in wet strands down her face while she tries to maintain composure. Other girls would be complaining, cursing about their makeup and hair being ruined or just unloading a bundle of irrational hateful slurs toward the heavens.
But she hardly acknowledges the rain and the fact that she is completely drenched. She was shivering before I made her change into one of my cashmere sweaters, but she didn't complain that she was freezing or say anything about her physical discomfort at all.
Her strangely dark blue eyes look up at me, filled with questions I won't answer. She knows just as well as I do that there is no reason for us to be here. I'm sure she's living in one of the nearby dorms and it wouldn't have killed her to run over
I use one of them to hang my blouse and turn around to ask him where I should place it - only to find him standing in front of me with his shirt unbuttoned and about to take it off.
Another rush of blazing embarrassment streams through me, and I hardly manage to free my eyes from his ripped torso before I whirl around to turn my back to him.
"I'm sorry!" I yelp. "I didn't know you were-"
I hear him chuckle behind my back and take off his wet shirt. Two commanding steps announce him approaching behind me, while I turn into a pillar of salt. I don't even flinch when I can feel him breathing down my neck and his right arm reaches into the cabinet, passing my side closely, but without actually touching any part of me. I can feel the warmth of his masculine body wrapping me like the sweater he gave me.
He grabs another hanger from the cabinet and uses it for his own shirt, completely ignoring my discomfort.
"You can hang it here," he says from somewhere behind me.
He didn't take a sweater for himself, so he must still be half naked. If I turn around now, I'll be confronted with those insane abs again. I will stare, I know I will. I've never seen a man this ripped in my life before. For real, I mean. Pictures, yes. But standing face to face with a body like his has a stronger effect than I could ever imagine.
"Turn around," he orders. "Don't make such a fuss."
The impatient and pervasive tone of his voice causes me to lose my stiffness and turn around in an instant. Of course, my eyes travel down his exposed torso right away, vanquishing one tan hill after another before they leisurely slide along the low v-lines above his pelvis.
I've heard girls calling men 'delicious' and visa-versa and always thought that only a very shallow person would come up with an description as such.
Call me shallow, then.
Mr. Portland notices my gaze, standing tall and strong in front of me while I consume him with my eyes. He likes me looking at him. Of course he does. Maintaining a body like this must be a shitload of work, hours of training, most likely hitting the gym every single day. If he puts this much effort in his looks, it's understandable that he wants to be seen, especially by women.
But why by his student?
"Give me that," he says, stretching his right hand out for the hanger with my damp blouse.
I give it to him and watch as he turns around and hangs it on a little hook on top of the bookcase, next to his own shirt.
"You should put on a sweater," I say, finally diverting my eyes from his gorgeous physique. "You'll catch a cold."
I try to sound sassy, but my voice doesn't cooperate. Instead my words come out weak and hoarse, breaking at the last word, so that I can't even be sure that he heard me correctly.
He casts me an impish smile as he walks past me, his hand softly touching my shoulder as he beckons me to move aside and make room for him to grab another sweater from the cabinet behind me.
The urge to lean forward and lick along his perfectly smooth skin is crushing. This man is the epitome of sexy, and he knows it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JACKSON
S eeing her like this is driving me mad. Her soaked blouse emphasizing every little detail of her fragile physique, her hair hanging in wet strands down her face while she tries to maintain composure. Other girls would be complaining, cursing about their makeup and hair being ruined or just unloading a bundle of irrational hateful slurs toward the heavens.
But she hardly acknowledges the rain and the fact that she is completely drenched. She was shivering before I made her change into one of my cashmere sweaters, but she didn't complain that she was freezing or say anything about her physical discomfort at all.
Her strangely dark blue eyes look up at me, filled with questions I won't answer. She knows just as well as I do that there is no reason for us to be here. I'm sure she's living in one of the nearby dorms and it wouldn't have killed her to run over
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