TEACH ME is a novella set in the world of the the New Tycoons series. The story was published in weekly installment in my newsletter beginning on October 27. New chapters will be added weekly, as they are released in the newsletter. Once the story is finished, revised, and edited it will be made available through Kindle Unlimited on Amazon.

Chapter 1 - Alessa

“I can’t believe you got into that class! I’m so jealous. He’s so gorgeous,” Rachel gushes as we walk through the main quad on campus.

I nod, my backpack slung over my shoulder. It’s not the first time I’ve heard her say these things, and I don’t dispute anything she’s saying. I can’t believe I got into Entrepreneurial Ventures, either.

It’s Peninsula University’s most famous class, renown here in the heart of Silicon Valley. Taught by billionaire investor Luke Shaw, Entrepreneurial Ventures is the class that launched Custom, the tech company that recently shattered every previous record for most successful IPO. Of course the three partners who founded Custom as undergrads had a lot to do with the company’s success, but it was their teacher Luke Shaw who had the long-term vision from day one.

“Do you think you’re going to win?” Rachel asks. “I think you’re going to win.”

Rachel makes me laugh. We’ve known each other since freshman year. We’re seniors now, but our roles haven’t changed. Rachel is ever the optimist, flinging herself with arms wide open into the promising future. Me? I’m cautious. Restrained. I like to map everything out, consider all risks, have plans and then contingency plans in case things go wrong. In my experience, things frequently go wrong.

Even to get into the class was a long shot. Rumor has it several thousand students—both undergrad and grad—submitted applications, giving their best elevator pitch on their idea for the next big thing. Only 100 of us got selected to enroll. Now, over the next four months, the fortunate few will be competing to become the one and only winner selected to launch a viable, funded startup.

“You need to relax.” Rachel elbows me, reading anxiety all over my face.

“How about coffee?” I offer what I can, and we head into our favorite spot on campus. There’s a line, of course, because it’s Monday morning.

“I’ve got this on lock down.” A hipster guy wearing a sweatshirt boasting an ironic logo stands in front of us.

“You’re not going to you tell me your idea?” The girl by his side in Ugg boots and black leggings looks up at him with flirtatious, pleading eyes. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

“No can do. Those are the rules.”

It appears as if I’ve met one of my 99 competitors. The conversation continues, her trying to tease the answer out of him, him acting like James Bond protecting nuclear codes.

Rachel rolls her eyes. There’s no rule against sharing ideas. She knows mine. It’s a good one, maybe even great. I got it from my mom.

My mother’s always exhausted, a single parent without a built-in family network, desperately trying to work while patching together childcare and afterschool activities for me and my two siblings. On campus, I work 20 hours a week at a daycare and I see it there, too: frantic, stressed-out parents trying to juggle work with childcare. I’ve seen moms with their skirts tucked into their underpants, dads with coffee spilled all down their dress shirts. The pace of everyday life has reached a boiling point. Families need help, fast.

That’s how I thought up Solve It. I want to build an online resource for parents to find quick, reliable, local solutions to childcare problems. I want it to be free and easy to use, giving parents a searchable database of all the options they have nearby for childcare and afterschool activities from age zero to middle school—including costs and drive times—plus connect them to carpools and local babysitters. Solve It can be the support network that modern parents so dearly need.

“I bet your idea’s amazing,” the Ugg boot woman says. Not to me, though.

“It is,” the hipster dude agrees.

“See, this is why you’re going to win,” Rachel whispers to me. “You’re not a dick.”

“I’m not sure that’s what gets you ahead in the business world.”

Coffees in hand, we give each other a fist bump before parting ways to our separate classes.

“Kill it.” Rachel points at me.

“I’ll try.”

“And I want a full report.”

“Of course.” I know I’ll enjoy telling her about everyone who got into the class and the dynamics as we all jostle for position and try to make a positive first impression. Here in Palo Alto, ambition is the oxygen we breathe.

“I mean about him!”

I laugh. She knows me too well and it makes her roll her eyes.

“See, this is why this class is wasted on you. The hottest man on the planet…” She leaves, too disgusted for more words.

I double-strap it, hustling down paths and around buildings so I can arrive a little early. I know the teacher, Luke Shaw, is gorgeous. As a 30-something, wildly successful billionaire investor, he’s been on plenty of talk shows and featured in countless magazines. I have eyes, and anyone with a pair knows he looks like a Greek God. If Greek Gods had a dark, smoldering eyes.

I’m just not the type to get all swoony. I’ve always had a level head.

Serious.

No nonsense.

Growing up with just my mom working two jobs to make ends barely meet, plus helping take care of my younger sister and brother, I haven’t had time for anything else. Even though I’m off in college now, it’s not as if I can kick it and relax. I have to keep my grades up so I maintain my partial scholarship, plus work to cover expenses. I’ll worry about the loans I’m taking after I graduate in June. I won’t have to worry too much if my idea gets chosen in this class.

Ten minutes before eight a.m. on a Monday morning, the lecture hall is already full. This has to be a record. I sit up front, like I always do. I’ve never been too concerned with being one of the cool kids.

Laptop open, Words document already titled and saved in a new folder, I sit up straight in my seat, completely prepared.

I am not prepared for Luke Shaw.

I’ve read about men who exude power. I’d never understood exactly what it meant.

In an instant, I do.

He walks in, striding purposefully yet not hurried to the lectern. No messy pile of papers or old briefcase like most professors, he carries a slim black tablet. Then again, Luke Shaw isn’t a professor. He’s a visiting lecturer, leaving his high-profile Silicon Valley investor life for a few hours each week to pop onto campus and teach one class.

He has to be at least 6’2”, wearing dark jeans on his long legs, a fitted T-shirt and jacket across his broad shoulders, looking effortlessly casual yet professional. His black hair is cut close, his jaw firm and solid, and his deep brown eyes seem to take in everything as his gaze sweeps the classroom.

“Oh, my God,” the girl behind me whispers. No one actually screams or squeals like they’re at a Justin Bieber concert, but the change of energy in the room is palpable. It’s exactly like a celebrity has arrived.

“Mr. Shaw!” An overly-eager girl sitting a few seats over waves her hand in the air like she’s trying to hail a taxi.

“You may choose to call me Mr. Shaw.” His eyes cut into her, sending that hand down before he even has to tell her he’s not taking questions yet. “Or you may call me Luke.” His gaze slides over and rests on me for a heartbeat. I don’t breathe, eyes wide. I don’t think I can call him Luke. I’ve never called teachers by their first names. Looking up at this imposing man, I can’t imagine starting now.

He moves to the center of the room. “Let’s begin.” Wasting no time, he launches into describing the cutthroat competition we have before us. “By next Friday, there will only be 20 of you sitting in these seats. By April 15th, five.”

I take notes, capturing every detail, but it’s only because I’ve had so many years of training. I’m on autopilot, my fingers moving while every wire in my brain short-circuits.

Luke Shaw is hot, insanely hot. He’s more than just an attractive man—and he is that, no doubt. It’s the authority in his voice, his stance, the way he commands our attention.

Maybe this is why I have yet to meet a college guy that’s made me wild. They’re all boys. At the center of the amphitheater, owning the room, stands a man.

When he takes off his jacket the temperature rises about ten degrees. His muscular shoulders and biceps fill out his T-shirt. His back ripples as he turns and gestures. A few audible sighs rise around me, but Mr. Shaw doesn’t miss a beat, informing us about his criteria for excellence. He has high standards and he will maintain strict discipline.

I may need to take a cold shower after this class.

“Will you give us any feedback before next Friday?” a guy behind me asks, a plaintive note in his voice.

“You can send me an email. I may respond. I’ll send a sign-up for office hours next Tuesday afternoon. Keep an eye out for it, because I will not have enough time for all of you.”

Office hours. The words have never sounded dirty before. Now I flush at the thought of being all alone in a room with this man.

“What’s our reading assignment for next class?” another guy asks.

“You have your list of assigned readings, mainly case studies.”

“And this.” I turn to see a girl holding up a hardback copy of Mr. Shaw’s bestselling book, Reason. It’s quickly become a bible for aspiring entrepreneurs, advising them to focus on the basic rules of supply and demand and remain a rational actor in a sea of impulse and emotion. I’ve read his book. I learned a lot from it and actually have a bunch of questions about the material, but I didn’t bring it to class to earn a gold star. Plus Reason was not on the required reading list. I have to admit, I thought it was kind of cool of him to not assign his own book.

“But what do we read for Wednesday?” the guy persists.

The look Mr. Shaw gives him could freeze a fast-flowing river. “If you need me to hold your hand, you should not be here.” The room collectively holds its breath. Is Mr. Shaw about to kick the guy out?

But he looks away, instead addressing us all. “In this seminar, I will give you the tools to succeed. The rest is up to you. Any good entrepreneur has motivation fueling them from within.”

“In addition, trying to suck up to me will not work.” He doesn’t look directly at little Miss ‘I read your book’, but I see her shrink in her seat. “I’m not interested in flattery. And let me make it clear: I will not choose the final winner. In late May, five of you will be given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to present to some of the most influential venture capitalists in the field. To keep the process objective, I will not be among them.”

He gives us a moment to let this sink in, then asks, “Now tell me, what does it take to launch a successful startup?”

“Hard work!”

“Money!”

“Smart social media marketing!”

This isn’t like any of the strained Q&A sessions I’ve been a part of over my four years. This is a mosh pit with students vying to be heard and gain a moment of attention from their teacher.

“Knowing your customer,” I add into the fray, thinking of my mother and the constant shadows under her eyes.

“It’s said all the time.” Mr. Shaw pivots toward me, seeming to know exactly what I said even in the midst of the chaos. “What do you mean by it?”

My heart beating fast, I keep my voice steady and look him in the eye. “You have to remember why you’re doing it. It’s not to impress investors or turn a profit. It’s to transform people’s lives.”

“That sounds noble.” He takes a step toward me. I swallow. “Are you saying that profit doesn’t matter?” A few people laugh, as if I’ve dug myself into a hole.

“I’m saying a successful startup offers an innovation that people quickly realize they can’t live without. Profit follows.”

He nods, then turns away to continue discussion. I’m shaking and flushed, breathing a bit fast. I want to take off my jacket when only moments ago I was snuggling into it for warmth on the chilly winter morning.

As discussion flows, Mr. Shaw’s gaze rests on me again for a second or two. His eyes are steely, assessing, and honest. I nearly feel stripped naked. It makes me squirm in my seat.

It also makes me wet. What the hell? A Monday morning lecture has never had that effect on me. But I’ve never had a teacher like Mr. Shaw.

Sitting in the lecture hall, I cross my legs, my jeans feeling tight, the seam pressing against me. I bite my lip, wriggling a bit in my seat, my eyes following his every movement.

Just before dismissal, he addresses us one final time. “All but one of you will fail. When you are cut, you will no longer come to class. You will spend the rest of the semester working with a T.A. learning from failure, your own and others’.”

“Cutthroat,” the guy next to me murmurs.

“Yeah.” I have to agree. If we get cut, we don’t even get access to Mr. Shaw anymore, just a teacher’s assistant?

“That’s right.” Mr. Shaw strides before us. He overheard. He’s scowling at me, as if I’ve displeased him. I sit up straight under his stern scrutiny, my pulse racing. “It’s cutthroat. Like life.”

The bell rings. The moment class ends, he’s swamped like a movie star at the Oscars.

I’m caught for a moment in disappointment. The bell got me off the hook, but I almost wanted a confrontation. I almost wanted to go toe-to-toe with Mr. Shaw and find out what happens when I disagree with him. He’s so strict and demanding, what would he do if I defy one of his commandments?

I gather my things with slightly shaking hands. Trying to clear my head, I step outside and drink in long, deep breaths of cool air.

By that evening, I manage to convince myself that there’s nothing different about Luke Shaw. I’m able to answer Rachel’s questions with composure, confirming that he’s gorgeous without betraying any of my personal response.

Because that attraction that flared up in me? No good can come of that.

He’s my teacher.

I’m his student.

End of story.

That tight, hot ball of lust unfurling in my core during class? It’s not going to happen again.

Chapter 2 - Alessa

Wednesday is worse.

First, I make the mistake of dressing up for class. I tell myself I just want to look my best. Professional. I wear a fitted button-down shirt and a pencil skirt. No killer heels, no make up, but it’s a far cry from my usual uniform of jeans and a long sleeve T-shirt.

Once I’m there, sitting in the front row, it makes me feel like I’m on display. I’m nervous and embarrassed, as if Mr. Shaw might see me and realize I’m dressing to impress.

Before he arrives, my cell phone pings with a message. No phones during class, of course, but I have a second to check.

It’s a link, sent from a number I don’t recognize, but it’s local Palo Alto so I click. It opens to an article: Customer Focus. An interview with the CEO of a successful start up, it explores the answer I’d given during our previous class.

Is it from another classmate? The T.A.? I glance around the room, but no one’s watching me.

Mr. Shaw strides in, instantly commanding attention. I guiltily slide my cell phone into my purse, feeling like I’ve been caught reading a note. But could the note be from him?

Laptop open, I take notes, listening and learning. And looking at Mr. Shaw’s full lips. He has some stubble this morning, making him look even more rugged and masculine. I wonder if he had a late night last night and a rushed morning because of it. I also wonder how it would feel to have that scratchy jaw brushing against my cheek. My neck. The inside of my thighs.

When I cross my legs, I let my skirt slide up. My legs are under my desk. It’s not as if I’m wearing nothing but my undies, but I still feel a little naughty. I don’t usually show so much skin.

Mr. Shaw rolls up his sleeves. His forearms are corded with muscle.

It’s hot in the classroom. I open another button on my blouse. It’s not X-rated, but it does reveal the slightest hint of cleavage. Flushed again with embarrassment, I consider closing it, but I don’t want to call any more attention to myself than I already have.

When I look up, Mr. Shaw is gazing directly at me. The dark heat in his eyes makes me reel. I’m dizzy, weak in the knees, grateful to be sitting down.

He looks away and continues his lecture.

I feel like I need a therapist.

After a lifetime of following the rules, I’ve suddenly become the slutty girl in front trying to get the professor’s attention. What’s next, bringing in a lollipop so I can suck it slowly with moans of enjoyment? This behavior is so unlike me it almost makes me laugh.

I should be focusing. I need to be focusing. But it’s like he’s done something to me, flipped a switch deep inside myself and I can’t make it go back to the way it was.

That afternoon, Rachel finds me, expectant. “Give me the update.”

“He’s so hot,” I admit, a blush flaming my cheeks scarlet red.

She jumps around with excitement. “In all my years…” Hand to her chest, she looks at me with misty eyes like a proud mother. “I never thought I’d see you have a crush.”

“I do not have a crush.”

I so do have a crush. A bad one.

I can’t help it. It’s as if I’ve gone my whole life eating bland, generic vanilla ice cream and now I’ve been introduced to homemade chocolate with rich, thick ribbons of caramel. Of course I’m going to fantasize about licking that delicious, sweet richness, sucking a spoon coated with it in my mouth and rolling it around on my tongue.

I’m 21, so I’m not technically a teenager anymore, but the guys my age don’t seem to know much more than a typical high school kid when it comes to sex. It’s part of why I’ve never done it. I’m busy, sure, but I’d make time if I felt the urge. But why even fool around when it leaves me so bored? With so little chance of reward, why take the risk? Better to keep things simple and stay a virgin. It’s never an issue for me.

Until now.

I know nothing can happen with Mr. Shaw. He’s my teacher. But somehow that makes me even more wet.

I think about him all day.

I think about him at night as I lie in bed unable to sleep.

At midnight, my phone sounds with a message. It’s the same number as this morning, this time with a link to a sign up for Tuesday’s office hours with Luke Shaw.

I set my phone down for a moment, assessing the risks. I’m a cautious and prudent person. If sitting in a lecture hall with this man and 99 other people turns me into a melted, horny mess, I definitely should not go to his office hours.

I grab my phone and sign up for his last slot of the day, 4:40-5:00p.m.

I’ve been a good girl all my life, always taking care of people, working hard. I didn’t go out and drink in high school. I’ve barely gone out and done that in college. No one-night stands, no walks of shame, no dancing on tables until 3a.m. I’ve always done the right thing.

Two classes with Luke Shaw and all that’s changed.

He’s like a fantasy I didn’t even know I had.

He makes me want to be bad.

Chapter 3 - Luke

“No.” I walk briskly through campus, on the phone with my assistant. Usually we’re able to wrap everything up during my morning car ride. Today, she’s going overtime and I don’t like it.

“But I think it might be—”

“The answer is no. I don’t need more publicity.” I am not going to a celebrity golf tournament, even if my partner might be Tom Brady.

“It’s for a great cause.”

“I’ll donate. But I’m not flying out to Florida next week. You have sixty more seconds.”

She flies through her list of requests. I give her a rapid-fire list of “no”s. I do not have time for a pitch. I am not having lunch with a couple of guys at a competitor firm (translation: I am not looking to leave my current company). No, I will not appear at a conference on the global transference of power to Silicon Valley. I don’t need a conference to tell me I’m at the epicenter of the world. I live it every day.

I end the call by pressing a button. Sandra doesn’t require kid glove treatment. Her six-figure salary and annual bonus that doubles it is all the thanks she needs. She’s my kind of person, keeping things simple.

I wrench open the door to the lecture hall just as the bell rings, exactly as planned. I don’t have a second to waste, and that’s what it would be to arrive early. Dead time. Unproductive. The enemy of all that is good.

“Give me the top five reasons startups fail,” I demand of the class. Entrepreneural Ventures has enough clout that every single student is already in his or her seat. They all vied like hell to get in here. Eighty percent of them will be gone a week from today. They’re not going to waste a second of time grabbing a breakfast burrito instead of attending my class.

The hall erupts like the trading floor on Wall Street, everyone trying to yell over everyone else.

Except for Alessandra Kemp.

She sits in the front row, composed, wearing a soft blue sweater the color of her eyes.

That’s not the kind of thing I should notice.

And I definitely shouldn’t notice how the sweater clings to her breasts.

Or picture, vividly, how good she’d look with that sweater on the floor and her tits in my palms as I dive in and fuck her with my tongue until she comes, and then comes again.

“Groups.” I call out, taming them with a word. I’ve separated them into four quadrants. It enables them to have small-group conversations so they don’t all shout themselves to death.

I stand behind the lectern because I have a huge goddamned erection in the middle of the class I’m teaching. Why? Miss Kemp is looking up at me with her big blue eyes as she sucks on the tip of her pen.

This is going to be a problem.

It’s not like me to have this kind of a problem. I’m the author of Reason, the champion of rational thought. Only do what’s in your best interest. All the rest? Scrape it off your plate like useless scraps.

Is it in my best interest to fixate on a student? No, it is not.

This is the ninth year that I’ve taught this class. Every year, an appealing array of young women make it clearly known that they’d be interested in more. I’m a 36-year-old billionaire who has been on the cover of GQ. It’s not hard for me to attract attention.

This is the first time I want it.

I let my students share their answers, then feed them another question. “When should a company change its product?” This time I call on raised hands. Alessandra sits there like a good girl, hand up in the air. I like making her wait. I like how her eyes widen when I finally look her way. She licks her lips, her arm straining up.

“Yes.” I nod to her.

“I don’t think you’ve asked the right question.”

A few nervous giggles rise around her. “Is that so?” I take a step closer, adopting a broad stance anyone who has ever negotiated a successful deal would recognize as dominant. “Enlighten us with the right question.”

“A company has to constantly be changing. It can never stop figuring out its customer, never stop questioning how to improve its products.”

“What about New Coke?” If there’s ever a case against changing a product, that’s it.

“That proves my point.”

“Explain.”

“New Coke was on the market for 77 days until Coca-Cola reintroduced Classic Coke.”

She’s done her reading. But does she understand it? “It’s considered an epic failure.”

“It created a PR frenzy. People went crazy, launching campaigns to bring back Classic Coke. The company never could have inspired that kind of fandom without taking a product away. And they learned quick, reintroducing it in just over two months. Constantly changing. ”

I want to keep talking to her, push her thinking, see how far she takes it. That’s why I don’t.

I walk away, back toward the center of the room, recapping the highlights of her point. “Quick feedback cycles, inspiring customer loyalty—who wants to tell me more about making changes to a product?”

After class, she lingers. I’m surrounded by students, but I see Alessa out of the corner of my eye. She’s taking her time, glancing at the sea around me as if wondering if she should attempt to part it. I want to send them all away.

I won’t, of course. She’s 16 years younger than me. It would violate all kinds of rules of conduct.

Worst of all, it’s irrational.

I’ve built my fortune, my name, my brand on Reason. I stay calm and cool even in the highest-pressure settings. I make wild money by objectively evaluating situations and making the smart move. And then I make even more money giving people advice about how to do it themselves.

Wanting to haul this delicious girl over my shoulder and drag her off into a dark cave where I can fuck her senseless? Not rational.

That night I get a text. It’s a link, without any other words. My phone recognizes it as a number I’ve contacted before, but doesn’t provide a name.

I click and an article opens. “What we can learn from New Coke: the value of brand.”

Alessandra Kemp. Texting me after midnight.

I never should have sent her a text from my personal cell phone. I have all of my students’ numbers. They had to submit them along with a lot of other information when they made their pitch to get into my class.

But I never give out my number. Texting Alessandra from my personal cell phone was an honest mistake.

Except I never make mistakes

I wanted her to have my number. I wanted her to text me late at night. And now I want to text her.

Luke: You’re up late, Alessandra.

Ali: Call me Alessa.

Luke: You should go to bed, Miss Kemp.

Ali: I would but I have a very demanding teacher.

She has no idea how demanding I can be.

This is how trouble starts. I set down my phone, turn it off for the night and take a long, hot shower.

During Monday morning’s class, I keep my attention focused elsewhere. This attraction is not going to progress.

I have a strict policy of never mixing business with pleasure. I learned it from a boss when I was just starting out as a summer intern at an investment bank. I was 18 and hungry. Temptations were everywhere. “Make it simple,” my boss told me. “There’s work and there’s play. Don’t mix the two.”

It’s never been hard for me. It’s like flipping a switch. In the office or lecturing at Penninsula University, that switch is off. Heading to Vegas for the weekend? It’s on. I’ve been labeled a playboy, and it’s true I never get serious with anyone. I date models or socialites, women who keep it lite. I don’t even like kissing on the mouth. It’s too intimate. Kissing everywhere else? Not a problem.

I’m not going to throw that all away based on some fleeting attraction to an undergrad.

On Tuesday, Alessa comes to my office hours. When I saw her name on the sign-up sheet, goddamn it if my cock didn’t stir.

“You have ten minutes.” I greet her, staying firmly seated behind my large desk.

“I thought I had twenty?”

“I have to leave early.” And not spend a full twenty minutes in a small, windowless room with you. What was that drinking game about making out in a closet? Seven minutes in heaven.

Inappropriate thought.

“Well, thanks for meeting with me.” She reaches into her backpack. As she bends down, I can see right down her shirt. It’s tight and white and she has one button undone that she shouldn’t. Her breasts look full and ripe. I shift my weight in my seat, adjusting myself. I will not be standing up.

“Can you take a look at this?” She places a document on my desk.

“What is it?” I don’t move to pick it up.

“It’s a rough draft of my business plan.” They’ve all got them due Friday.

“No.” I push the stapled papers back to her. “I need to read them without bias. If I read this, I’ll know which one is written by you.”

“Would that make you more or less likely to choose it?” Is she flirting with me? Bad girl. I should take her over my knee and show her what naughty girls get.

Bad Luke.

“I’ll choose the 20 best business plans. That’s it.”

She takes the paper back. Her fingernails are unpainted, but filed and polished. Her whole appearance is a bit prissy, her hair up in a neat ponytail, her crisp dress shirt tucked into her skirt. She’s begging to be messed up.

“One paragraph?” She pushes it back toward me, then does the unthinkable. She scoots around to the other side of the desk, right next to where I’m sitting. Turning over the top page, she scans her draft, nibbling on the eraser of her pencil with her plump lips. I can smell her, like clean, sweet lavender.

“Here.” She pushes it toward me, pointing to the paragraph.

Then she drops her pencil on the floor. She turns away and bends over. Her tight little skirt rides up, showing me her creamy thighs.

Is she fucking kidding?

“Sit back down,” I bark, pointing to the chair on the other side of the desk. Her eyes widen and she hurries over to it. I like the sight of her obeying my order almost as much as her round ass.

I skim the paragraph. When I look up, she’s blushing, embarrassed. Had she been trying to turn me on, bending down like that? Is she ashamed about it?

Aw fuck, the things I could do to this girl.

I toss back the paper. “There’s nothing I would change.”

“Does that mean you like it?” So eager for my praise. I don’t give it easily. She’d have to work for it.

“It means there’s nothing I would change.”

She nods and looks down, crestfallen. I could talk with her for the next hour, easy, asking her more about the case studies we’re reading, more about her business idea. I don’t know what it is but I bet it’s a good one.

That’s why I say, “Time’s up.”

“Right. You have to leave early.” She stands, bringing the strap of her backpack over her slim shoulder. She shouldn’t be trying to carry so many books all at once. I fight the urge to take it from her.

She hesitates at the door, then shyly asks, “What did you think of the article I sent?”

“I think you were up too late.”

“It was only a little past midnight.”

“Too late.”

“I’m 21.”

“That’s so young.”

“Only in years.”

“Is there another way of counting age?”

“Experience.”

I arch my eyebrow. I hadn’t intended to get drawn into a match of wits with this young temptress, but here I am and now I want to know. Just what kind of experience is she talking about?

“Not that kind.” Her cheeks turn a bright shade of pink.

“No experience, then?” Why does that make me even harder? I’ve got to stay away from this girl. I look away and bark, “Close the door after you.”

She leaves.

I stay hard for hours.

I can’t say exactly what it is about her. I’ve had gorgeous women flirt with me before.

There’s the fact that she’s smart. She’s quick and not afraid to challenge me. It has a unique appeal.

But I think it’s her awkwardness that gets me the most. It’s like she’s trying to flirt, but she’s never done it before. As if she’s been a good girl all her life, and only now is curious about discovering what happens if she’s not. She’s wondering if she’d like it.

I could show her how much.

Thursday night I make my selections. I only spend a couple of minutes per business plan, sometimes significantly less. I’ve always had strong instincts, and that’s coupled now with almost two decades of experience. I know which ideas have legs and which one’s don’t.

My T.A. connects the student IDs with names, then sends out the emails. Eighty percent of students will no longer be coming to class. That means there’s a good chance whatever this is with Alessa is over. That’s for the best.

Monday morning, she’s sitting up front in the classroom with a smile on her face. She’s in the top 20. Of course she is.

I teach class, my eyes only skimming over her, keeping our interactions curt and to the point.

She needs to keep away from me. If she doesn’t? I might have to teach her a lesson.

Chapter 4 - Alessa

I’ve made it into the top 20. I have two months until I present a storyboard pitch.

I’ve never been more motivated, more focused on a goal.

And I’ve never felt more reckless.

“You are not sleeping.” Rachel chastises me as we go get our morning coffee.

“I know. This is such a huge opportunity. I feel like I can’t blow it.”

“Don’t push yourself too hard. I know you’re kind-of superhuman when it comes to working, but we all have our limits.”

Limits. Boundaries. Why can’t I stop thinking about pushing them?

I haven’t confided in Rachel. It feels wrong. We usually share everything.

But what I’m feeling for Mr. Shaw is so wrong.

He has office hours tomorrow afternoon. The last time I went, he sent me away. It was embarrassing.

I’d tried my best to play the part of seductress. I’d shown a little skin, the neckline of my blouse unbuttoned. I’d even tried the oldest trick in the book, dropping a pencil and bending over to pick it up.

It only made him scowl and tell me to go sit back down like I’d been a bad girl.

His discipline only made me more wet.

Following his order gave me a perverse thrill. I want him to give me more orders, so I can show him how well I can follow them. I want to bring out the strict, harsh disciplinarian in him.

This is so fucked up.

I shouldn’t sign up for his upcoming office hours.

I sign up.

That night, like every night since I’ve started Mr. Shaw’s class, I think about him when I’m in bed. Rachel’s right, I’m not sleeping enough, and part of it is because I’m doing my schoolwork. But most of it is because I can’t stop thinking about Mr. Shaw. It’s like he’s a drug in my system disrupting my equilibrium. I’ve never met a guy before who troubled my sleep. I’ve barely met a guy who I thought much about during the day.

Now, it’s like I’m possessed. Driven. I’m obsessed with thinking about Mr. Shaw and it’s taking over my whole personality, morphing me from a good, rule-following girl to one who wants to take all kinds of chances.

Lying in bed, I picture being back in his office. He’s sitting behind that large, imposing desk. I’ve done something to displease him, something naughty. He has to take me under his hand.

It would feel so wrong. I’d be so mortified.

But late at night, when I can lose myself to fantasy, I know what I want. I want him to bend me over that desk and give me a thorough spanking.

Sometimes I sense that he feels the attraction, too. In his office, even though he sent me away, his nostrils had flared, his teeth clenched. It seemed like I affected him.

But he has a lot of restraint, an iron will. He’s written a book about it, for God’s sake. It’s going to take a lot to break through his walls.

I’m going to have to provoke him. I’m going to have to do more to get a rise out of him. This next time in his office hours, I’m going to have to be very, very naughty.

Tuesday afternoon, Rachel’s not in our dorm room. I’m glad, because the outfit I have planned would definitely make her raise her eyebrows. She knows me and my typical uniform of jeans and T-shirts. But that’s not what I want to wear to go see Mr. Shaw.

Inside Rachel’s closet, she’s got a tiny little pleated plaid skirt. She wore it for Halloween one year when she was a naughty schoolgirl. That seems to fit my mood.

I have a tight white tank top I only wear underneath sweaters. The material is thin and the neckline is low. The bra I choose gives me lots of cleavage, and I make sure the lace teases at the neckline just a little bit. I put a cardigan over it, buttoning the top two buttons. They’ll come undone at the right moment.

I brush my hair until its gleaming and then pull it up into a high, sassy ponytail. I want to feel his hand on that ponytail, yanking me back against him. Or bringing me down between his legs.

Walking over to his office in the crisp afternoon air, I feel a little ashamed. The bare air on my legs reminds me of what I’m trying to do. But it also makes me aroused, my thighs brushing together as the breeze threatens to lift up my tiny skirt.

“How you doing?” Some guy I’ve never seen before gives me a once-over and I scurry away like a mouse. I know this kind of outfit screams for attention, but I don’t want it in general. I only want attention from one man, a man who has shut me down thus far. Is he about to do it again?

I sit on the hard wooden bench outside Mr. Shaw’s office feeling like I’m going straight to hell. I still have time to turn around and head back to my dorm room. He’d never know. He’s been so reserved and restrained around me, I bet he’d never move to cross the teacher/student boundary. I could retreat back into my good girl life.

But I don’t want to.

The door opens and he summons me in. I enter and close the door behind me.

His eyes darken as he takes me in, looking at my short skirt and my bare legs. He grumbles and shifts in his seat behind the desk.

“What do you want?” He sounds gruff.

“Um…” I lick my lips, my confidence faltering in his intimidating presence. I set my backpack on the floor and take a seat. “I started work on my storyboard.”

“You know you can’t show it to me.” He’s stern and unyielding. It only makes me want to seek his approval more.

“I know, Mr. Shaw. I wanted to ask your opinion about a couple of failed start-ups I looked into.”

“Are they from the assigned case studies?”

“No, I’ve read all of those, and they’re interesting. But I’ve been searching for examples of companies more similar to my own idea that have failed so I can learn from their mistakes.”

He nods, and I can see he likes what I’ve done. I flush with pleasure. Launching into the topic I feel about so passionately, I lose some of my self-consciousness. I speak with animation, recalling details from my reading, asking him for his opinion. He fires right back at me, a question for each of my questions, giving me information while also forcing me to come to my own conclusions.

It’s so much fun, such a rush engage with him like this. I’m flushed and heated and unbutton my cardigan without even thinking about it.

He stops talking. His eyes narrow as he takes in my cleavage. I look down, suddenly aware, knowing I should put the cardigan back on. But the urge to see where this takes us is too strong.

“You need to put on more clothing, not take some off.” His voice is strained.

“What’s wrong with wearing a tank top? All girls on campus walk around in them.”

“You shouldn’t dress like that.”

“Like what?” I’ve been innocent my whole life, so now playing innocent comes easy.

“Like some kind of naughty schoolgirl fantasy.”

Our eyes lock.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to tease me, Miss Kemp. But a smart girl like you would know better than to do that.”

“Why?” My voice sounds breathy, my breathing coming faster. He’s so close, just a few feet away across the desk. What would he do if I walked around and sat in his lap, wrapped my arms around his neck looked up into his eyes?

I can feel tension rolling off him in waves. “You have no idea what kind of fire you’re playing with.” He stands up, jaw clenched. Is he going to tell me to leave again? I don’t want to push him so far that he sends me away.

“I’m sorry.” I stand and fumble for my cardigan, tucking my arms into the sleeves. “I’m not thinking straight. I haven’t been sleeping much lately.”

“And why is that?” He’s standing next to me now, his chest rising and falling, his hands balled into fists.

“I’ve got a lot on my mind. I’m up thinking about things.”

“What kind of things?”

“It’s nothing.”

“If you’re in some kind of trouble, you need to let me know. I could help.”

I look up at him, startled. Why would he offer that? He’s pushed me away every time I’ve tried to engage with him.

“You can tell me,” he adds in a quieter voice, closing more distance between us.

I’ve dug myself into a hole. He probably thinks I owe someone money or someone’s harassing me. “It’s not a big deal. I shouldn’t talk about it with you.” I try to look away.

His piercing gaze doesn’t let me. “You should tell me what’s on your mind, Alessandra.” I swallow, caught. “You’re clearly very worked up,” he continues. “You’re breathing fast. Your heart is beating a mile a minute.”

He brings two fingers to the side of my neck, right where he can feel my pulse. I catch my breath at his touch. I’m sure my pulse skitters under his assessment.

My nipples are hard and my cardigan’s unbuttoned so he can see everything. I chose this tank top because it’s revealing, but now I feel so exposed. There’s no hiding the way my body responds to him. He looks down and I know he can see my nipples poking through, letting him know in no uncertain terms exactly how much I need him to touch me.

“What’s keeping you up at night?” His fingers move, ever so slightly, giving my neck a slight caress. I want to melt into him, but my embarrassment keeps me stiff. His fingers travel up, behind my ear, teasing at my lobe. He leans down and speaks quietly, as if it’s a secret just between the two of us. “You can tell me.”

I tremble, my eyes flitting to the doorknob. Maybe I should run away? This is all suddenly getting so real. Do I really want this fantasy to turn into reality?

His breath is against my ear. He’s so close, yet he’s dropped his fingers, not touching me at all. I can feel his heat, smell his masculine scent. My eyes flutter closed. I want to melt into him.

“Are you thinking about me at night?” he whispers, so quiet, dark and wicked.

“Yes,” I whisper my confession. It feels so good to tell him.

“What do you think about?”

He’s still not touching me. I want to close the space between us, but my shyness holds me still. “I think about…” I bite my lip, speaking so softly. “Doing things in your office.”

“What kind of things?”

“Things we shouldn’t.”

Quick, he spins me around so I’m facing the wall. His hand covers one of mine, pressing it over my head. The other one cups mine at my hip. “What do you do when you have these thoughts?” he whispers in my ear.

This is so wrong. He’s so strong and he’s pinning me against the wall, but I know I could break away. He’s not forcing me. I still have time to put an end to this.

He’s a solid wall behind me. Trembling, tentative, I push my ass back against him. I can feel the outline of his huge cock. He’s rock hard. A soft moan escapes my lips.

“I asked you a question, Alessandra.” His voice is stern, demanding, like a strict teacher. I’m so wet and I want to tell him, but I’ve never said things like this before. I don’t know how.

Mr. Shaw hisses in my ear, “I can smell your arousal.” I squirm against him, pressing my thighs together. I bet I’m dripping down my leg.

The hand on my hip starts to slide lower, bringing my hand with it. His fingers are partially entwined with mine as they graze my upper thigh, then down and around, resting on the inside, inches away from where I’m throbbing for him.

“I asked what do you do when you think about me?”

I’m panting, eyes closed, desperate for release. Compelled from deep within, I tell him the truth. “I touch myself.”

“That’s good.” He praises me and I feel giddy from it. “It’s good to get some release when you’re all worked up.” He leaves my hand on my inner thigh, and returns his up to my hip. I feel almost dizzy from his heat, his smell. “Show me,” he coaxes in my ear.

I shouldn’t. I want to and it makes me whimper. All I’m aware of is his body pressing against mine, the domination of his touch. The low demand of his voice, “Show me how you touch that pretty little pussy at night, when no one knows.”

I slip a finger down my panties. I’m so wet I slide right in. My lips part in a sigh it feels so good. I tilt my hips into my fingers and start massaging, circling my clit.

He lifts up my skirt. I keep my eyes closed, but feel the cool air as he arches my hips away from the wall. He’s watching me.

“Pull your panties down more.”

I inch them down, leaving them around my thighs. I look down and see I’ve soaked through the silk.

He sees it, too. “Naughty girl. Do you get wet like that in class?”

I nod. “I can’t help it.”

“Get your fingers back where they belong,” he reprimands like a stern professor. “I didn’t tell you to stop.”

I jump to his command, bringing my fingers back to my soaking wet pussy. “You’re a bad girl, getting wet in class. Fingering yourself in your teacher’s office. Thinking about me at night.” He releases my hand from the wall, grabs my ponytail and pulls me against him, just like I fantasized about him doing. It arches my breasts up, my aroused nipples standing out stiff and erotic. But still he doesn’t touch. It’s just me touching myself, showing how crazy he makes me.

“What do I do to you when you come?”

I can’t suppress a moan at his dirty question, and at my even dirtier answer. I should be too embarrassed to tell the truth, but I’m too far gone, too close to orgasm to hold back. “You discipline me.”

“How?”

My fingers working fast, frantic, my breathing coming quick, I tell him. “You bend me over the desk. You push up my skirt, pull down my panties and spank me.”

“You want to be spanked?” he growls, his fist tight in my hair.

“Oh, yes,” I shiver, on the brink as my fingers work fast.

“You’re so close.” He’s watching my every move, drinking it in. “Slow down,” he instructs, grasping my wrist, forcing me to delay my release. “Good girl,” he whispers as I slow my pace, just like he told me. I moan, eyes closed, mouth open.

He brings a large, rough hand up to my neck and holds me at my throat, tilting my head back against his shoulder. “Show me how wet your fingers are.”

Without hesitation, I take my fingers out and bring them up like I’m presenting an assignment. They’re dripping, covered with my slick arousal.

“They’re soaked,” he growls his approval. “You’re going to come for me now, Alessandra. But you’ll have to keep it quiet. No one can hear you.”

Knowing we can’t get caught makes it feel even more illicit, more hot. My legs are trembling and I need his strength, holding my hip, my throat. I close my eyes and start working myself again, showing him everything.

He whispers in my ear “Naughty girl.” Tightening his grip, he commands, “Now come for me.”

I shudder and come so hard I feel like I’m going to blackout. I can’t stifle the cry from my lips, so he brings his large hand over my mouth, fastening it there to muffle my screams of pleasure.

“That’s it,” he whispers in my ear, coaxing me, as I come for him on my fingers. “That’s my dirty little girl.”

A knock sounds on the door.

“Mr. Shaw?”

His hand jets out to the doorknob, holding it closed. “In a minute.”

I pull up my panties, grab my backpack and race out of his office without a single glance up. I don’t want to meet anyone’s eyes, not Mr. Shaw’s, not the person waiting in the hallway who almost caught me.

I speed campus back to my dorm room, flushed, glowing, ashamed and thrilled all at once.

What the hell did I just do?

Chapter 5 - Luke

“It starts at five?”

“Yup, from five to seven.”

Two of my company’s event planners are bustling around our largest conference room, re-arranging tables and chairs. Tonight we’re hosting a happy hour for the twenty finalists from my Entrepreneurial Ventures class.

“Oh, Mr. Shaw!” One of the planners sees me at the entryway. Her hand flies up to her heart as if it nearly stopped at the sight of me. “I didn’t know you were there!”

“Don’t let me disturb you. Just checking on how things are coming along.”

“Yes, of course.” The other planner stands like a soldier at inspection. I half expect her to salute.

“At ease.” Neither of them get my joke, or if they do they’re too afraid to relax.

I tend to have that effect on people. I’ve always been a leader, the kid on the playground who organized the kickball games, the team captain who called all the shots. Now that I’ve made it big, the cowering and sucking up from those around me has only gotten worse.

Maybe that’s part of why Alessa is so sweet? She matches my wit, challenges me, isn’t afraid to show her intellect and opinion. It’s refreshing and I want more of her in so many ways.

Hand in my pocket, I proceed to my office, nodding to acknowledge to those who dare to meet my eye. I’m not an asshole, at least in my definition, but I realize that might not match up with everyone else’s. I have high expectations and demand nothing less than 100%. Making it in the Silicon Valley culture requires complete and utter obsession with success.

For those who display those traits, my workplace is a good fit. For those who don’t? I consider it a favor to weed them out early. They’ll be happier elsewhere with a more relaxed pace and less competition. This path isn’t for everyone.

I close the door to my office, and close my eyes for a moment.

Alessa. The sound of her breathing when she touched herself. How her pussy glistened, her juices coating her naughty fingers. The way she responded when I wrapped my hand around her throat and tipped her back against my shoulder. She liked being held that way, restrained, possessed.

There’s a lot more where that came from.

It was three days ago, and I’m still reliving it. I’ve never seen anything as sweet as Alessa coming on her hand at my command. I didn’t even touch her, not really, not the way I want to. And yet it was hotter than anything I’ve ever experienced.

Tonight I want to claim her.

Right where the planners were positioning that table, I could bend Alessa over and sink into her sweet, slick pussy. She’d gasp and grab the wood, positioning herself, giving me purchase so I could ram into her again and again.

A knock sounds at my door. “Mr. Shaw?”

I growl in response.

“Your two o’clock has arrived. I’ll show him in in five minutes.”

Enough fantasies. I’ll keep my distance from young Alessa Kemp, because it’s what’s best for her. She’s an innocent. I can read it on her every move, every sigh. I won’t be the one to corrupt her. I’ll restrain myself, hold myself back.

Don’t mix business with pleasure. It’s worked for me up until now, and it will keep on working for me. I have an iron will and I will exercise it.

She’s wearing a little black silk dress.

I don’t arrive at the happy hour until about twenty past five. A call went long, and this is a casual event designed for these young up-and-comers to meet and greet those already working in the field. My colleagues know this isn’t just a handout to them; many of these students will be working in this space in the years to come. It’s a small world. Everyone has come out in droves to suss out who are our next best of the best.

Alessa’s standing by the wall surrounded by a small semi-circle of men. It’s on the other side of the room, but I see her instantly. She’s wearing heels. Her dress drapes against her delicious body, ending above the knee, showing off every curve without explicitly violating any workplace standards.

Nothing about her outfit is inappropriate, but my blood boils with rage. They can’t see her. No one is allowed to look at her but me.

“Mr. Shaw, great place you have here.” One of the more intrepid students approaches me, despite my scowl. I engage, listen, ask questions, basically adopt outward appearances appropriate to a meet and greet.

But inside, I have one goal. I want to pounce on Alessa and bring her back to my lair. I see it on the other partners, too. They’re eyeing her like wolves. I want to fight them off and make them all know she’s mine.

She glances over at me once, twice. She looks delicious, her lips plump and glossy, her hair up in a twist ready to come down all around her loose and wild.

I make it a little over an hour, always near but never touching, close enough to hear the music of her laughter but not so close that I can smell her sweet scent.

It’s when Harvey corners her that I lose all pretense of playing it cool. Harvey’s 42, a billionaire, and getting ready to ditch his second wife. He openly discusses his view that wives have a shelf-life of seven years. After that, it’s time to trade them in for a younger model. The first one got ditched when he turned 35. The next one’s running up close to her expiration date.

The way he’s grinning at Alessa? I know what’s going through that rat bastard’s mind. He’s picturing her lithe, ripe little body on his arm at functions. Underneath him in bed afterwards.

Over my dead body.

I stand between them, my stance open, my arms folded against my broad chest. “How’s it going here?” My eyes shoot daggers. Harvey glances toward Alessa, then toward me. He knows I’m telling him to back off, but he’s used to being a kingpin, like me. Neither one of us likes being told no.

“Alessa here was telling me about her idea. It’s a good one.” He slips a hand around her lower back.

Hell, no.

“I need to speak to you in my office,” I bark at her, turning on my heel. I don’t care what eyebrows I raise. Fuck them. Harvey is not taking Alessa home, tonight or any other night, and that’s final.

I hear her heels behind me, following. My cock surges at the sound as I stride forward, purposeful. I hold the door open to her, close it once we’re both inside.

Her eyes flash with indignation. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?”

“If you won’t talk to me, why can’t I talk to someone else?”

“Who said I won’t talk to you?” We take steps as we spar, her backing up toward my desk, my pushing forward, closer.

“You didn’t talk to me all night.” Is that a pout I see on those luscious lips? Naughty girl.

“You sound pouty.” My thumb grazes her lower lip. She looks up, eyes wide. I know she, too, can feel the electricity in our touch.

“Why wouldn’t you let me talk to him?” She backs up against the desk, steadying herself with her palms on either side of her hips. There are many things I could do to her on that desk.

She’s protesting, telling me she’s angry, but she’s aroused. I see it in her dilated pupils, her accelerated breathing. The hardness of her nipples through her dress. Is she not wearing a bra?

“Do you want to be back in there talking with Harvey?” I’m so close now, towering over her. I’m much larger, much stronger.

“Well.” She looks to the side, not meeting my eyes. That’s not going to fly. I grasp her face in my large hand, cupping it under her chin and tilt her up to meet my gaze.

“Do you?” I demand.

She looks up into my eyes and I can tell she likes being held that way, being forced to respond. “Maybe,” she taunts me still. “Maybe I want to hear what he has to say about the most recently priced IPOs.”

“He might talk to you about that. But he won’t be thinking about it.”

“What will he be thinking about?” Her voice is a little shaky, the breathiness revealing her arousal.

I move my hand to her throat, cupping it, reminding her with my touch how I’d held her when she same to my office earlier that week. Her eyelids flutter closed, her mouth parting. She remembers.

I move my hands lower, cupping her breasts through her dress. The silk is smooth and fine, hugging every curve.

I was right, no bra.

“He’ll be thinking about this.” I squeeze her breasts, brushing my thumbs along her erect nipples. Her breath hisses between her teeth. Her back arches, pushing into my hands, asking with her body for more. I close my fingers on them and pinch. Her mouth opens into a perfect O, a moan escaping as she clutches the desk.

“He’ll be thinking how your lips would look wrapped around his cock.”

She opens her eyes and looks up at me, her eyes glaze with desire. She swallows. “Is that what you think about when you talk to me?”

“I think about much more than that.”

“Mr. Shaw.” She reaches her hands up to my shoulders, wanting to kiss me. As much as her nearness, her eagerness, hell, even the way she calls me Mr. Shaw, has me hard as a fucking rock, that can’t happen. More boundaries have been crossed already than they ever should have. This stops now.

I push her away, back toward the door. “You need to be more careful. Men are predatory animals. You can’t trust a man like Harvey.”

She looks sad that I pushed her away, her lower lip wobbling again. “Can I trust you?” she asks in a breathy whisper.

“Definitely not,” I assure her as I place a hand on her lower back and escort her to the door. “Not when you look like this.” I graze my hand down the curve of her ass, so perfectly plump, the silk revealing everything, offering it up to me like a present.

“Do you want me in a tent dress?” Her eyes flash again with defiance. I like the way she talks back to me almost as much as I like her obedience.

“You know what I’m talking about,” I reprimand her, the stern schoolmaster. Finger up, I point and scold. “Don’t dress sexy. Don’t wear silk dresses with no bra, or the naughty school girl outfit like you did earlier this week.”

“Why not?” Her back is against the door now, her breasts straining against the silk. I want them in my mouth.

A hand on either side of her, I pin her without touching. Leaning down, I demand, “Don’t test me.”

She looks up, so close. We’re inches away. I bet she’s wet. It would take seconds to check, run my fingers up between her legs and swipe them across whatever lace scrap she’s wearing under this dress. And if she is wet? I’d bend her over my desk and make her admit it, show me how wet she is. Show her how much wetter I can get her.

Instead, I take her arm and lead her out of my office and down to the front entrance. Drivers are waiting. I lead her to a car, help her into it and tell the driver, “Take her to her dorm.”

“You’re sending me home?” She looks up at me, disappointed, with that delectable pout.

“It’s seven o’clock. Happy hour is over. You need to get home where you’ll be safe.”

She looks up at me in frustration, as if I’ve spoiled her evening out. Good. If it’s me she wants, she needs to get used to disappointment.

Chapter 6 - Alessa

No sexy outfits? We’ll see about that.

Saturday, I have no classes. I usually try to get a workout in, then study most of the rest of the day. Sometimes I babysit.

Today? I go shopping. I head right for the high-end Palo Alto boutiques I know cater to career professionals. I’m getting the most tailored, form-fitting, molded to my curves outfit Mr. Shaw has ever seen. It’s going to balance right on that knife’s edge of right and wrong, just like we’ve been doing. Nothing about it will blatantly violate workplace attire. But it’ll make his blood boil.

At least I hope it will. He’s too damn good at resisting. The way he looked at me in his office, I could have sworn he was about to kiss me and more. But then he sent me packing, like I’m a little girl he can dismiss.

I’ve been a good girl all my life. I’m done with that now. When I look at myself in the boutique mirror dressed to kill, I feel powerful. I’m sexy as hell but I’ve never taken it out for a walk. It’s time to cut the leash.

We have another event at his office on Tuesday. In lieu of his typical office hours, we’re invited to sit in on a weekly staff meeting, half of us this week, half of us next.

I’ll sit in, all right, but I’m not going to hide like a wallflower. My invisible days are done.

Monday morning’s class comes and goes uneventfully. True to Mr. Shaw’s famous rational resolve, he barely looks my way. No one observing us would see anything other than classic teacher/student dynamics. No one could tell that I’m wet just from sitting and looking up at him as he strides powerfully around the classroom.

I’m so curious, my need for him growing with each day. If he made me feel so good just by watching me touch myself, what would it be like if it were his hands on me? With the naughty, illicit thrill of it combined with his mastery, I’d probably lose my mind. I need to find out.

Tuesday afternoon finally rolls around. With a black fitted jacket over my outfit, it looks classic and professional. But with the jacket off and one button on my blouse undone, I think I’ve aced the look: sexy secretary. High heels, tight pencil skirt, fitted blouse with my bra peeking out. I can’t wait to suck on the end of my pen and look up at him from my seat.

We file in and I take my place, along the side with the other nine students. No one missed this opportunity. And why would they? A chance to see Luke Shaw in action, running his company? It’s like a golden ticket into Willie Wonka’s chocolate factory. Minus the Oompa Loompas.

“Do you have a pen? Mine’s not working.” A girl on my left is in a panic, so afraid to seem unprepared.

I hand her one, then take out my small notepad and pen and wait. Usually I have my laptop, but we’re not at the table and I don’t want to try to balance it. Plus, it would obstruct Mr. Shaw’s view.

Everyone’s seated before he comes into the room. He always makes an entrance, but it doesn’t feel theatrical or planned. It feels like the world waits for Luke Shaw, holding its breath until he deigns to acknowledge it. That’s how much power he holds.

He’s wearing a gray button-down shirt tucked into a belted pair of fitted dark blue jeans. I want to unzip them. Ever since he gave me the image of my lips wrapped around a cock, I’ve wanted it to be his. We could do it at his desk. I’d kneel down between his legs and suck him and no one would know.

He starts the session effortlessly yet with impeccable command. His gaze slides past me, not revealing any particular attachment. It drives me crazy. I crave this man.

Casually, I slide my jacket off and rest it along the back of my chair. There’s nothing inappropriate about it, no call to attention. Lots of other people have jackets around the backs of their chairs. I stretch, then fiddle with my necklace and deftly unbutton the top of my blouse.

No one notices. The girl with my pen is writing down everything he says, verbatim. Everyone else hangs on his every word, too, only asking clarifying questions, rapt by his presence.

Suddenly, I get it. This man must be bored. He’s isolated at top of his kingdom. No one questions him. Everyone worships him and says yes. He needs someone he can get a little playful with, someone who can ruffle his feathers, let him cut loose.

I think I know who that person can be.

Pen in my mouth, I close my lips around the tip and suck, then look up at Mr. Shaw. His eyes are on me. They’re on fire, watching my every move as I leisurely trail a finger down my neckline, sucking on my pen. He can read it in my eyes. I’m not thinking about it being a pen.

He’s in such command, most observers wouldn’t notice a thing. But I do. I see how his jaw tenses and his nostrils flare. I notice his hand by his side ball into a fist, and how when he turns his back to me it’s deliberate, as if he can’t stand to watch me a second longer.

Looking down, I smile like a wicked seductress. I’ve never felt more womanly, more in touch with my own needs. He may not want to see me this way, but it’s who I really am.

When the meeting ends, he’s at the doorway as I exit.

“Come into my office,” he commands quietly into my ear. A thrill runs down my spine.

I take my time. I get a glass of water and use the restroom. Partially it’s because I want to keep this under wraps. Heading directly to his office in view of all of my classmates might draw some unwanted attention. But it’s also because I love making him wait. Mr. Shaw, the man who waits for no one, is pacing in his office waiting for me. It must be driving him wild. Wild enough to break the barrier between us and finally do what we both need.

When I finally get to his office, the door is closed, the shades drawn. I knock, my heart beating wildly in my chest.

“Who is it?” His voice is dark and gruff.

“Alessa.”

“Come in.”

I get wet at even that command. As I enter, he’s standing looking out of his window. He turns and doesn’t say a word as he strides toward me, then past me to the door. He closes and locks it. We’re all alone. I squeeze my thighs together in anticipation.

He strides back to his large desk, then rests against it, arms folded across his chest as he gazes down at me. “What did you think of the meeting today?”

“It was all right,” I respond automatically, placing my jacket and purse down on a chair to my side.

“What did you really think?”

“Everyone kisses your ass all the time,” I tell him honestly, crossing my arms against my chest. Only with me, it gives a different effect, enhancing my cleavage. He notices, his strong jaw shut tight. “I think you miss out on good ideas because everyone’s afraid of you. And I think you’re bored because of it.”

“Me?” He asks, arching an eyebrow, studying me with his dark, assessing eyes. “You think Luke Shaw is bored? I’m the man who has everything. I can do anything I want.”

I step forward, hand on my hip. “Boring.”

“So this theory of yours, is that why you’re behaving like this?” He’s got that tone again, like I’m a poorly behaved child and he’s reprimanding me. It makes me mad. It also makes me wet.

“Behaving like what?”

He looks down and shakes his head as if he disapproves. “I explicitly told you not to dress like that.”

“I wanted to.” My eyes flash with defiance. “Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?”

“I know more than you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know what’s best for you. More than you know.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Swiftly, he stands up, away from the desk, just a foot away from me. He’s so much larger and stronger, every inch of him a display of power. I want to kiss him at the base of his neck, right where his collar is undone. I want to take off his belt and kneel before him. My nipples tingle and my pussy throbs as I look up at him and lick my lips.

“You’re asking to get into something way over your head.” His hands ball into fists on either side of his body.

“So you say,” I can’t resist pushing, naughty and disobedient, just a little bit more.

“So I know,” he warns.

“Prove it.”

“You have disobeyed my orders,” he whispers, brushing my hair behind my shoulder and caressing his fingers down my bare neck. “This is your last chance to walk away. If you stay, you will get punished.”

I shiver at his words, my nipples as hard as pebbles. I want this so much. I stay exactly where I am.

“Unbutton your top.” He steps back, arms crossed, watching me. He makes no move to help. He wants me to do all the work.

As much as I asked for this, I’m shaking and nervous. I love the feel of him having all the power, but it leaves me completely vulnerable. I bring my fingers to the top button and undo it, slowly making my way down, not meeting his eye. My bravado has fled.

I lay my shirt across a chair, then stand there in my lacy bra for him to see everything. It’s a demi-cup, sheer, and my nipples tease at the top. He feasts on me with his eyes, but makes no move to touch.

“Take off your bra.” His command makes me quiver, my pussy clench, slick. With shaking hands, I reach around and unclasp it, then lay it next to my shirt. Standing there in his office half naked is so wrong, it fills me with an illicit thrill. The stiff tips of my breasts advertise my intense arousal, asking for his attentions. He walks around me, inspecting me from every angle.

“Over to the desk.” Gruff, he points. I’m a bit unsteady on my heels as I make my way over, my back to him.

When I feel his broad, warm hand on my back I gasp even though all he does is place it at the center. Then he starts to push me down, so I’m bent over his desk. Submitting under his hand makes me moan, but I bite it back, knowing we can’t get caught. People are right outside. I can’t let them hear.

He pushes me down over his desk until my bare breasts are against the hard, smooth wooden surface. It’s cold on my skin. His hand keeps me there, and I turn my face to the side, resting my cheek against the wood, wondering what’s going to come next.

Whatever it is, I want it.