Master Class: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (+ Bonus Book 'Silent Daughter 1') (10 page)

I obey and reluctantly place my hand at the edge of table, turning my back to him.

"You can look prettier than that," he says. "Arch your back. Show me that pretty ass."

I blush as I follow his command.

"Good girl."

His praise sends another wave of lust through my core and I flinch with arousal when I feel his strong hands on my bare behind. He caresses the pale skin on my ass cheeks, and just as I'm beginning to relax and lean into his gentle touch, he withdraws his hands and uses one of them to land a painful sting on my behind.

I yelp, biting my tongue a moment later. I can't be loud in here.

"Hush!" He warns. "You deserve this."

His hand lands on my ass again, and again, sending hot stings of pain through my entire body. It hurts more with every strike against my flesh, the fiery song of ache drowning out every other thought and sound. Yet, I find myself hollowing my back between every blow, my entrance wet with desire, begging for him to touch me again. To be inside me.

I have never been spanked before, and especially not like this. It hurts a lot more than I thought it would, and it feels a lot better than I ever imagined.

I'm panting and sweating by the time he stops. My body is processing the pain, while my mind tries to cope with the fact that I'm more aroused than I've ever been in my entire life before.

I'm burning, desire throbbing through my entire being. I feel as if I could come instantly, with just the touch of the tip of his finger.

But he has other plans.

"Get dressed," he whispers from behind. "We're done for today."

A shock wave of horror unfolds through my body.

What? He's sending me home like this? After all he did?

"I thought we were just getting started...," I whisper helplessly as I stand up and turn around to him, ready to get down on my knees and beg him to finish me off. I'd do just about anything for a proper climax right now. He can't leave things like this!

"We are," he concurs. "You've a lot to learn, Lana. The first lesson being that you get punishments for bad behavior."

I'm suddenly aware of my own nakedness and quickly fix my skirt to cover myself as best as I can, lowering my eyes in the process.

"And this is how you punish me?" I want to know. "By leading me on and then humiliating me by not stopping when..."

My voice breaks off. I feel so utterly ashamed. I never knew how crushing it could feel to be denied a climax when it was already within reach.

I flinch when his hand touches my cheek, softly caressing the skin along my jawline before he puts his index finger beneath my chin and lifts my head up to look at him.

"I did not lead you on," he says. "But yes, this is how I'm punishing you for being such a condescending brat during our first encounter. For rolling your eyes at me and for failing to show me the respect I deserve."

Asshole.

Tears are threatening to make their appearance. My vision blurs while I fight them. I'm not going to cry. How pathetic would that be? To cry like a baby, because I wasn't allowed to come.

But it's so much more than that.

Mr. Portland observes me with a smile. There's nothing cunning or mean about it, no spitefulness. Yet, I can't help hating him in this moment.

"You sweet, sweet girl," he whispers. "You'll learn. And you'll be better next time, right?"

Next time? Is he going to do this again? Knock down my walls of protection just to humiliate me in the long run? So I could learn? Learn what?

To obey. To submit.

"Excuse me," I say, evading his touch as I turn to the pile of clothes on the chair to my left. "I have to go."

"Yes, you do," he agrees.

M
y heart sinks
every time the bell rings to end our math class and we're released back into the dreaded hallways. I know this feeling is exclusive to me, as everyone else jumps up with relief and can't wait to get out of the classroom.

For me, math class may not be fun either, but it is the only time of the day during which I feel safe and somewhat happy while I'm at school. It's the time when I can bathe in Aileen's presence and admire her from afar, watching her play with her hair or carefully lay out her pens and paper to take notes for class. She's so organized, so controlled and calm. Everything she says is smart and polite. I've never heard her give a wrong answer or conduct in nasty gossip in or outside of class.

Unlike me, she's not an outcast either. She's not one of the cool girls, the really popular ones, but she's not shunned either. I see her casually talking to other students, sometimes laughing with them, but never laughing about the misfortune of someone else. Her laughter is deeper and more restrained than those of other girls. It seems as if she never lets go, never loses control over herself in any way. I wonder what that would look like. What Aileen would look like if she completely lost it, if she broke down in an overwhelming laughing fit, her eyes tearing up, her cheeks turning red and her hair flying wild, losing its silky straight structure.

I wish I could make her look like that. I wish I could see her in a state that no one else has ever seen her in. The thought of her losing control because of something I'm doing to her feels like the most intimate thing I can imagine.

I'm in no hurry to pack my things after class and glance at her while she collects her things with her usual stoic motions.

When she throws her bag over her shoulder and walks out of class, I'm right behind, getting so close for a moment that I catch a waft of her scent, her hair.

I distance myself as soon as we walk out into the hall and watch her from afar as she strides over to her locker that is way too far away from mine. Talking to her would be so much easier if our lockers were right next to each other, but fate has never treated me well.

None of my mean classmates are around, so I enjoy the luxury of walking down the hall without nasty words being thrown at me.

But I'm walking in the wrong direction. Instead of heading to my own locker at the other side of the hall, I find myself walking toward her.

She probably doesn't even know that I exist, and I want to change that. I can't think what came over me, but my body decides it's time to approach her before my brain can agree on a strategy.

Before I know it, I'm standing next to her, trying to casually lean against the neighboring lockers as I smile at her. With how inexperienced and nervous I am, I know that there's nothing casual about my movements or my facial expression, but I hope that she doesn't sense these things right away - or at least doesn't point them out or pick on me.

Aileen shoves her math books inside the locker and casts me curious look from the side.

"Hi?"

I know it's my time to speak, but I'm lost for words. I've never been so close to her and I've never seen her eyes directly focus on me. Their color is the deepest blue I've ever seen, so dark, that I almost mistook them for dark brown or black.

She raises one of her eyebrows and tilts her head to the side, looking at me with her eyes wide with expectation.

I have to say something.

"Hi, I'm... I'm Jackson."

I secretly cringe inside. Where am I going with this? I should thought about a topic. Anything. Anything we could talk about. Or a purpose for me coming to her.

"Yes, I know," she says, her voice soft and friendly. "You're in my math class."

She knows my name! She knows who I am!

"Yes, right," I say, helplessly lowering my eyes. I stare at the tips of her shoes. She's wearing ballerina flats, but still surpasses my height by about an inch or so. I have to look up when I talk to her, which I find appropriate.

"Can I help you somehow?" She asks. There's nothing mean or impatient in her voice. In fact, I can't remember the last time anyone has ever spoken to me in such a nice tone.

While I'm still struggling to find my words, I notice Kendrick and his awful little gang walking down the hall from the corner of my eye. I pray to God that they don't notice me, but of course, that attempt is futile.

"Hey, Jackson Fatson!" Kendrick bellows in my direction. "Got a new girlfriend?"

Humiliation clenches around my heart like a stone cold fist, but what is even worse is the look on Aileen's face.

She blushes and turns around to the boys, her mouth partly opened.

She looks horrified.

"Dumb and fat. You got yourself quite a winner there!" Kendrick yells directly at her.

He doesn't even know her. Aileen has never caught his attention - until I pushed her in the limelight of my daily humiliation.

Her eyes go back and forth between me and Kendrick, her face expressing nothing but horror and fear.

"Yeah, I'd be ashamed, too!" Kendrick adds, and his entourage roars with laughter.

That's it.

I let my bag drop to the floor and lunge at him, fiery rage burning through my insides as I strike out for him. He takes a step back and easily evades my attack, causing me to tumble to the floor.

I almost land flat on my face and barely manage to cushion my fall with my hands. The impact still hurts like a motherfucker, and I let out a pathetically girlish shriek on impact.

The laughter that erupts around me hurts even more than the fall.

"Jackson Fatson!" The chorus chimes, fingers pointing at me, kids dying with laughter.

I stare on the ground in front of me, incapable of moving. For years, I have endured their ridicule, hurtful words and chants, seclusion and loneliness. But this tops everything. I've never found myself on the floor.

In front of her eyes.

I slowly turn around, holding back tears as I search for her beautiful face.

Aileen is standing exactly where she was standing when I lost sight of her. She is holding a bunch of books in her arms, pressed against her chest as if she was trying to protect herself from the gruesome sight in front of her.

Kendrick turns to her.

"Don't you wanna help your loser boyfriend?" He asks, pointing down at me.

Aileen huffs and shakes her head.

"He's not my boyfriend!" She protests.

She lays her eyes on me. I reciprocate her gaze, silently pleading for forgiveness.

And then I see it. Aileen's face has lost all its beauty, her eyes narrowed to slits, her eyebrows furled and her mouth distorted with disgust. Her expression reflects the same condemnation I've seen on so many faces before.

"I don't even know him!" She spits out, her words firing at me like hot daggers. I've never been so hurt in my life before. "He just wanted to copy my homework, because he can't do it himself."

Her hurtful lie is more than I can bear. Tears of anger and deprivation are threatening to roll down my face.

I can't let that happen. I can't cry in front of them. The humiliation would be too devastating.

I hurry to get up from the ground and run away, the students who have gathered to witness my degradation are parting to the side, letting me pass without another comment as I flee to the next boy's restroom.

There, fate is on my side for the first time that day, as I find the restroom completely deserted. I haste over to the sink and turn on the water, leaning over to wash my face. I'm weeping uncontrollably, trying to hide the massive shedding of tears with warm water, in case anyone should walk in and see me.

I've lost her.

I've lost Aileen - or rather the idea I had of her. I never really knew who she was until she saw herself and her reputation threatened and acted just as mean as all the kids who've made my life hell until now. She was afraid to be linked to me in any way, to be degraded from her position of irrelevancy to that of an outcast who gets actively dissed by the cool kids.

No one wants to be at my level, but the way Aileen distanced herself from me, that ugly face of disgust on her. There are no words to describe how disappointed and disillusioned I felt.

The most fucked up thing is: I still want to be close to her. I still want to glimpse behind that stiff and controlled exterior of her and see what lies behind. I want to see her lose control, let go of her tense demeanor and lose herself because of something I'm doing to her.

But I don't want this loss of control to be a laughing fit.

I want to expose her, humiliate her, drive her mad, make her dependent on me for pleasure.

This is the first day I imagine a woman crawling on all fours in front of me. A woman like Aileen Watson.

This is also the day I understand that I cannot stay the person I am if I ever want something like that to happen. Women like Aileen don't get broken by a fat kid who lets himself be dragged down by bad grades and a hostile environment.

I have to change.

And I will, because I have a goal now.

I
can't see
her anywhere. This is the second time I can't find Lana in her regular seat when class begins. It has become my ritual to spot her, acknowledge her presence and nod toward her, sitting in the third row, straight and attentive, her blue eyes glued to me and her shoulders tense.

Today, this ritual is disrupted by her absence, and I find myself scanning the auditorium. The last time this happened, she just showed up late for class, which was strange enough for someone like her. Today, it seems, she didn't show up at all.

I start my lecture, checking the rows again and again to make sure that I didn't miss her. Even fifteen minutes into my class, the doors in the back spill open to let in another student who couldn't manage to get out of bed on time on a Monday morning.

But none of them are her.

Lana has been avoiding me ever since our little session in my office. I don't know where she lives and have nothing but an e-mail address for her, because those were listed on the attendance sheet I received for my class at the beginning of this semester. It has been a full week and I've not seen nor heard anything of her, which would not have been unusual before, as we never interacted outside of class, but it is now.

I expected her to come to me again, or at least show her face in my proximity, so I could come to her. She knows where I am. I'm not on campus every day, because it's neither necessary nor possible, but I have to be there for consultation hours and faculty meetings that have relevance to me.

Lana knows that. She knows when I'll be around and she knows where to find me. Yet, she keeps her distance, after leaving my office with teary eyes and that hauntingly beautiful look of humiliation.

It's exactly what I wanted to see. Her, wax in my hands and hazy with lust, just to let her go without that release she so desperately craved.

It wasn't easy for me either. I wanted her to come, I wanted to see her explode on my desk, to lose her inhibitions completely even if it was just for a few seconds. The beauty of it is unimaginable as long as I haven't seen it.

I thought she was just being careful and smart about this. To be seen with me outside of class could still pose a risk, even if we were just talking to each other. Gossip is strong and uncontrollable, and it would be all the more notable because I'm never seen with anyone else.

I'm aware of all the eyes that are constantly on me when I walk across campus. While the initial excitement among the swooning crowd of ludicrous admirers has subsided, there are still plenty who take note of me.

Enough time has passed for me to become accustomed to their attention. While I still carry that young boy with the broken heart inside of me, he had to make way for the person I have become today a long time ago. The boy who fell to the ground, accompanied by laughter and disgust, is long gone. He passed that very moment when my gaze locked onto Aileen Watson and her ugly grimace.

Nonetheless, it still aches. The pain of losing something that beautiful - my innocent infatuation with a girl who was nothing but an idea of something - will never leave me completely.

However, breaking the Aileen Watson's of this world helps a lot in dealing with that pain.

In a way, she made me the man I am today, and I never thanked her for that.

It started with a physical change to my exterior. There was no Jackson Fatson left by the time I entered my senior year of high school. In that regard, I had turned into the exact opposite.

It took me years and it was as hard as they say, especially for someone with as little money as I had and a mother who couldn't care less about her own, let alone her son's, nutrition. I ran in secret and I ate less of what was provided at home, but learned to fill my stomach with less harmful fuel. I added push ups and crunches on my runs, but I couldn't afford to join a gym until after financial success became a part of my life.

Once that crippling exterior was left behind, I had to get past my inability to follow a regime that wasn't for me. The way they teach you at school is not the way I learn and thrive, but I had to meet the right teacher at said school to be made aware of what could be
my
way.

I was hoping to become that teacher for some of these kids here, but so far Lana appears to be the only one who wants to listen. What attracted me about her was her resemblance to Aileen and my strong urge to break women like her, but what keeps me hooked on her now is so much more.

I wonder if Lana would have reacted the same way Aileen did back then? I want to believe that she would not have. I really want to believe that.

I dismiss the students a few minutes earlier, too distressed about Lana's absence to conclude class the way I had planned. Of course, they don't care. They flee out of the auditorium without any further questions, except for the usual group who tends to hang around and pester me with small talk before I'm allowed to leave.

Just like every Monday after class, I check my phone for any urgent messages that might demand my immediate attention. My affiliates know that I'd be less present for the duration of this semester, but I couldn't assign all of my responsibilities to my co-founders and Mondays are still the worst days when it comes to catastrophes and developments that call for me.

However, not today.

I browse through the few e-mails I received and decide that none of them ask for an instant reply or even another thought.

Good. I have other things to take care of right now.

I head for the faculty lounge, because I need to drop off some papers. My plan is to get in and out as quickly as possible, but when I walk in and find Lilia Esquin sitting in one of the lounge chairs, casting me a bright smile as I walk through the door, I'm surprised with by idea, a plan of action that could help me solve the Lana-dilemma sooner than later.

"Hello," Miss Esquin sing-songs in my direction as I walk past her to the shelf that awaits my papers. I drop them off in the assigned box and turn to her.

"Hello, there," I say, applying the nicest voice possible. "Miss Esquin, if I remember correctly?"

She nods excitedly, sitting erect within a second as she beams at me.

"Yes, exactly," she says. "I'm surprised you remember..."

"From the sociology department, right?" I add, smiling at her as I approach. "May I sit with you for a moment?"

She nods, slightly confused but seemingly happy as I take a seat next to her.

I have a goal, information that I want to try to retrieve from her, but as is always the case in these situations, I won't be able to get to my goal without a little chit chat first.

So, I engage her in a little small talk about the school, about how long she has been working here, how she ended up here, how she decided on teaching sociology and so on. Like most people, Lilia Esquin is more than happy to talk about herself and flattered by my sudden interest in her and her life. She talks without interruption, and makes it easy for me to lead the conversation to where I want it to be: her students.

I test the water by trying to educe as much as possible using her talkativeness in regard to her students to my benefit. Soon, I find her dropping names left and right, about kids who annoy her, kids who impressed her, kids who surprised her.

To my disappointment, Lana Harlington isn't one of them. It would've been so much easier to talk about her without having to bring her name up myself. I don't want to raise suspicion in any way, but I want to know if there's anything Miss Esquin can tell me about Lana's whereabouts. It's a slim chance, because I don't even know if Lana is among her students at all, but I'm willing to take the risk of wasting a few minutes of my time with her in the faculty lounge if it could help me to locate Lana. I'd hate to wait another week for a chance to see her, and I'd hate it even more if she decided not to show up for class again. If she misses another one, she's jeopardizing her chance of passing the class at all, due to the standard attendance rule that - ironically - she caused me to introduce.

The longer Lilia talks, the more I find myself zoning out, but just as I'm beginning to lose hope on retrieving anything helpful from her, I'm drawn back by her mentioning a party that left most of her students hungover in her classes the following day.

"Those sociology majors sure know how to make the best of their dorms for throwing the best parties," she says, giggling as if she was a freshman attending said party. "Well, I should know. I still remember when-"

"It was a dorm party?" I interrupt.

Miss Esquin looks at me, a hint of surprise on her undoubtedly pretty face. I'm sure she's never run short of admirers, which only proves how very little she's my type.

"Yes," she says. "Most of the Sociology majors live in Cleveland hall. They try to keep students with the same major close to each when they assign housing and-"

"Is it just the undergraduates?" I want to know. "Or the graduates as well?"

"Oh, graduates are more scattered around other houses, or live off campus, but-"

"But some of them live in Cleveland hall?" I follow up.

She nods. "Yes, sure. Some, if not most."

"I see," I murmur.

Some, if not most
. That's not a definite answer, but it’s a start. Together with what Lana told me about her Monday schedule, I now have two pieces of information that could possibly lead me to her.

I endure a few more minutes of small talk with Miss Esquin, quickly diverting the topic away from her students and their living arrangements. She was casting me weird looks for asking in the first place and I certainly don't want to give any impression that I’m showing a little too much interest in that regard.

When I manage to excuse myself, leaving behind a visibly disappointed Lilia Esquin, I decide that I’ll pay a quick visit to Cleveland hall this evening. I’ll be sure to be there, shortly after six, which is when Lana’s last class of the day ends.