TAMED: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance

by May, Linnea

  Copyright © 2016 by Linnea May

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

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  A steamy scene with the protagonists of my other BDSM Romance novel ‘I am Yours’.

  Content

  TAMED

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: MASTER CLASS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  Read More.

  TAMED

  A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance

  Prologue

  Kingston

  She tries to evade my touch, but I’m faster than her – and more resolute.

  There’s no denying it. She can act and pretend all she wants, but I know that she wants me to touch her. Every fiber of her being is calling out to me, begging me to take her.

  I have her cornered and am pushing her back against the wall with just the intensity of my sheer presence, placing my hand right next to her pretty face and thus blocking her escape. We’re alone, she’s at my mercy, and for a few blessed moments, I can do whatever I want to to her, whatever both of us want to happen.

  Her green eyes wander up timidly to meet mine. I can see they’re filled with fear – and lust. She’s afraid of her own desires, because she knows it’s wrong. This isn’t supposed to happen.

  And yet it will.

  “Please let me go,” she pleads, her voice so soft that it’s barely audible.

  Her eye fixate on mine, contradicting her words.

  “I will,” I promise. “After I’ve tasted those pretty lips of yours.”

  Her eyes widen and a somber sigh escapes her lips when I touch them with my thumb.

  “Please,” she whispers. “We can’t…”

  That’s just the thing I want to hear.

  We can’t.

  We shouldn’t.

  This isn’t right.

  I like a good challenge, and that’s why I like girls like her. The more there is to overcome, the more I want them. Her weak attempts at fending me off, combined with those pleading eyes, it’s making it impossible for me to resist.

  She is the most forbidden fruit ever to tease me. I want her, and I always get what I want.

  Her breasts are heaving under her heavy, gaspy breathing. She’s clasping her music sheets against her chest as if they can protect her from me.

  I lean down, moving my face closer to hers, so close until I can feel her breath on my lips.

  “Please,” she pleads.

  “Please, what?” I ask, knowing that she won’t be able to reply.

  My fingers wander along her feminine jawline, barely touching her skin as I travel down to her neck. I want to close my hand around that slim neck and choke her.

  What would she do? Would she enjoy it? Would she faint from the climax that could come with it?

  My cock twitches against my zipper at the thought of it. It will be a while until I get to test her, but the wait will be worth it.

  But for now, I need to be patient. She’s not going to be an easy one to claim.

  And she still hasn’t given me a verbal reply. However, her big green eyes tell me everything I need to know, as my finger tips trail seductively along her collar bone.

  I don’t ask for permission – I never do – but she’s giving it to me anyway.

  There’s no protest. She doesn’t try to fight or stop me when I lean in even closer. A suffocated moan is all I hear when our lips finally meet and my tongue invades her mouth.

  She reciprocates, breathing faster as our tongues intertwine in a wild and hungry dance. Her moaning adds to the symphony of our first kiss, and when she starts squirming towards me, I almost lose it.

  My hand finds its way behind her back and as I pull her body closer to mine, she lets go of the sheets of music. They float down to the floor, spreading around our feet, as her hands fly up to embrace me. She’s too short, but I realize her intentions. She tries to reach the back of my head and grab my hair.

  That’s not going to happen. I’m in control, and the sooner she learns this, the better.

  I want to grab her wrists and push them down, but for now, I prefer to feel her dainty body pressed needily against mine.

  Chapter I

  Elodie

  This is the opportunity of a lifetime.

  For once, Lady Luck has picked me. I still can’t believe it, but as I walk out the doors of the main building of Juilliard to cross over the bridge to my dorm, the realization slowly settles in.

  I got it! I got chosen for one of the best gigs that have been posted since I started applying for paid performances. Of course, I’ve played at various occasions before, and been paid before, too, but never this much. The salary for this job is not only ridiculously high to begin with, but it also comes with a promise for more opportunities like it.

  I have been asked to play at an engagement party being hosted by two old money families on the Upper East Side. If everything goes well and they like my playing, this gig will lead to more – the rehearsal dinner, the wedding and who knows what other associated events might need a piano accompaniment.

  It’s perfect. When two spoiled kids get hitched on a scale like this, their families will makes sure everybody and their brother attends. I will play in front of hundreds of wealthy guests who hold occasions like this on a regular basis. Dinner parties, more weddings, birthdays, reunions. If they like the pianist who performed at the Abrams-Waldorf wedding, it’s the equivalent of a glowing recommendation and they’re likely going to ask the families for the pianist‘s contact information.

  And that pianist would be me.

  Never in my wildest dreams have I dreamt of performing at such a large-scale event with so much potential. After all, I’m still a student, and it’s unusual for students to be hired for an event like this. But the Abrams family specifically requested a student, for whatever reason. There are not that many second-year graduate students in the piano program at Juilliard, but I was still dumbfounded when our instructor, Mrs. Bellamy, approached me with the proposal.

  “They asked specifically for a classical repertoire with some contemporary interpretations,” she said. “And I believe you’re the best choice.”

  I just stared at her, sitting on my hands and trying to process the magnitude of the winning lottery ticket that had just been handed to me.


  “What do they mean by contemporary interpretations?” I asked her.

  Mrs. Bellamy just shrugged. “You’ll have to ask them yourself when you meet them.”

  That was about a week ago, and I’m scheduled to meet up with the family tonight. Mrs. Bellamy let them know that she had found someone, and they asked to meet me with me as soon as possible. I’ve been nervous ever since, and subsequently made sure to add a few extra hours to my already full practice schedule. My scholarship only covers school tuition, and since I’m not as privileged as most of my fellow students, I had to take on a part-time job at one of the school’s cafés to cover my living expenses. Having to work in addition to going to school and doing homework cuts down tremendously on the amount of time I have available to practice, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I knew it wouldn’t be easy.

  I hate being poor. Who wouldn’t? Poverty has always been a constant part of my life. One would think that I would have grown accustomed to it, since I don’t know any different. But it’s one thing to be poor when you’re still living in your little microcosm across the river in Brooklyn, and it’s something else entirely when you‘re plopped down in the middle of privileged society. Everybody was poor were I grew up, we were all the same, even though the degree of poverty varied. I grew up in an area that most people from Manhattan would not dare step foot in, let alone take a stroll at night, and I never liked it there. I wanted to get out as soon as possible, and I had a dream of how I was going to do it. I’ve had that dream ever since I was seven years old and found a tutor who was willing to take me under his wing, even though my father couldn’t afford to pay the full amount he charged for piano lessons. Having that dream made me an outlier in school, but I was never treated any differently for it. We were all in the same boat, and I’m sure there were quite a few others who secretly dreamed of moving on to a life in Manhattan.

  Only my dream wasn’t to live in Manhattan, per se. My dream was and is to become a solo pianist. A solo pianist who can make a living with just her art. I know how farfetched that dream is, but I also knew that Juilliard would bring me closer to achieving that dream, a lot closer. Getting accepted at Juilliard was my number one goal all through junior high and high school.

  And I made it.

  But here at Juilliard, I’m an anomaly. I couldn’t even attend this school if I hadn’t been awarded enough scholarships to cover the cost of my tuition, but even with that and the part time jobs I’ve been taking, I can barely keep my head above water. New York is too expensive. I’m one of the very few graduate students who still live in the dorms. Most students choose to live off-campus once they finish their undergraduate studies. Graduate students, especially those in their second year, are a rarity here in campus housing.

  Unfortunately, one of them is my roommate and regrettable three-night-stand Benjamin. Our paths cross as often as one would expect with two people living right next to each other, and even though it’s been weeks since our last interlude, it doesn’t get any less awkward. He’s waiting to take the elevator up to our floor when I enter the building. We make eye contact before I can turn around and hide from him until he’s gone to avoid an unpleasant encounter.

  I come to a halt next to him and cast a smile his way. “Hi.”

  “Hello,” he replies, his tone revealing how little he thinks of me.

  I stare ahead at the elevator door and roll my eyes, oblivious to him. He’s studying at the Juilliard School of Drama and the career path suits him so well.

  There are eight people living in our simple suite on the 27th floor, and Benjamin’s single room is right next to my double room. People warned me that hooking up with one of your roommates is probably one of the worst ideas ever. Of course it is. But it’s easy to forget these things when you’re drunk and just looking for some fun and a distracting hook-up.

  I didn‘t think much of it at the time. I thought Benjamin of all people would understand that dating comes secondary in our current situation, especially when you’re me. I simply don’t have the time to build and maintain a relationship between all of my classes, hours of practice and part-time jobs, but I’m not frigid. It’s only human to seek this kind of intimacy once in a while, even when the sex isn’t really all that great or special.

  I regret my hook-up with Benjamin on more than one level. It’s not only the repercussions that annoy me, it’s also the fact that the sex was so vanilla. Again and again I tell myself that I’d rather have no sex than bad sex. But how was I supposed to know that beforehand? Benjamin appears tough and masculine in public. How could I know that he turns into an awkward little puppy in the bedroom?

  My biggest mistake was to repeat our drunken adventure again and again. For whatever reason, having sex more than twice made him believe that we went from being roommates to becoming a couple. I have no idea why he would think that, we weren’t even that close before we slept together and we never grew any closer after we started hooking up.

  The ice cold silence that surrounds us as we share the elevator upstairs is almost unbearable, so I decide to replace it with idle conversation.

  “How is your play going?” I ask, knowing that he’s currently working on a major part in an upcoming performance

  “Good,” he says, his voice stern. “Heard things are going quite well for you, too?”

  I turn to look at him, but he evades my eyes.

  “You heard about the Abrams-Waldorf engagement?” I ask him, thoroughly surprised.

  He nods, and glances at me from the side. “Yes. Kim told me. Congratulations.”

  I know that his congratulations are not sincere, but I don’t waste much thought on it.

  “Thank you,” I say, nonetheless. “I’m meeting up with them tonight. I really hope they’ll hire me for the wedding, too.”

  We reach our floor and the elevator doors open, freeing us from our unpleasant confinement.

  “Well, good for you,” Benjamin snorts, as he strides through the door of our suite.

  Chapter II

  Kingston

  I watch as Gloria twists a strand of her platinum blond hair between her fingers, absentmindedly staring at her phone through her thick fake eyelashes. She’s sitting across the drawing room from me with her legs crossed, dressed in a sharp beige new women’s suit that I’ve never seen on her before. I wouldn’t be surprised if she bought it just for this meeting. Her earrings and matching necklace, both in that heavy gold tone I hate so much, also look new to me. Her thin lips are painted a deep red, matching her strong eye makeup and the rouge on her young cheeks, making her look so much older than she is.

  Gloria is only 25 years old, but today her hair is styled like that of a middle-aged high society lady. Too similar to our mother’s hair. It looks fucking ridiculous, and I know she only does it to please our stuck-up families.

  She’s playing a game. We both are. But she’s so much better at this than I am.

  “Don’t you think we should be sitting next to each other?” she says, without looking up from her phone.

  I huff. “I doubt it’ll make a difference.”

  She looks up, piercing me with her steel blue eyes.

  “I think it does,” she hisses. “Fiancé.”

  She pats on the cushions next to her, inviting me to sit beside her as if I was a trained puppy.

  I glare at her without moving an inch from my armchair on the other side of the seating area. This whole arrangement is ridiculous enough as it is, I won’t make it any more believable by sitting next to the woman I’m supposed to marry per my parents’ wishes. They both know that I don’t care for Gloria the way a man should care for his wife-to-be – and it doesn’t matter to them.

  “It worked for us,” they keep saying. Marriage is not much more than a business agreement in their eyes, and in the eyes of the circles in which my family socializes. This is all the more true for firstborns like me. My younger brother fled to the West Coast when he started college, that lucky bastard. The respon
sibility is not his to take on, and he pretty much gets to do whatever he pleases over there.

  It’s all on me. The main heir, my father’s successor to the family empire.

  I wouldn’t be doing this if my parents hadn’t threatened to take this position away from me. They’ve been pestering me to settle down and lose my promiscuous ways ever since I graduated from college and became CEO of one of our family’s shipping companies. I’m good at what I do, and I enjoy being the boss. The way I see it, I’m not only able to continue the company’s success, but make it even greater, because unlike my aging father, I’m capable of changing with the times. Things have changed, even in our traditional and century-old business, but he doesn‘t understand most of these changes. It‘s hurtful to the company, but every time I bring it up in front of him, he gets enraged.

  I can‘t have our fortune destroyed by old man failures, but he refused to give me full control unless I‘m willing to get married, settle down, and produce family heirs.

  So, here we are. Gloria Waldorf and me. We’ve known each other since childhood, and she’s one of the few women in my social circle who I’ve never hooked up with. That’s how much I loathe that woman. She’s superficial, manipulative, and there’s not a single likable thing about her personality. She’s shallow, and her snootiness and nosiness leads her to get involved in other people’s business. Everything she says is either gossip, spiteful comments, or commands, because she’s used to being served and treated like a princess. She always gets what she wants, and that includes a number of men. That may be the only thing we have in common, the promiscuity.