Paris With The Billionaire: An Instalove Possessive Age Gap Romance Read online

  CONTENTS

  Paris with the Billionaire

  NEWSLETTER

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  NEWSLETTER

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

  BRATVA BEAR SHIFTERS

  LAIRDS & LADIES

  RUSSIAN UNDERWORLD

  IRISH WOLF SHIFTERS

  Collaborations

  About the Author

  PARIS WITH THE BILLIONAIRE

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 235

  FLORA FERRARI

  Copyright © 2021 by Flora Ferrari

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  PARIS WITH THE BILLIONAIRE

  When I win a contest to spend a week in one of Paris’ most luxurious hotels, I leap at the opportunity. It will be the perfect place to work on my novel.

  What I don’t expect is the hotel’s owner, billionaire silver fox Forrest Ford, to be waiting for me in my room. There’s been a mix-up. He didn’t know I was coming.

  I offer to move, but he demands that I stay… with him. I can’t deny how tempting it is. He’s six foot six with hair the color of iron, his eyes are dreamy blue, and his body is so muscular just looking at him in his fashionable suits drives me crazy.

  But I know I have to ignore these desires. There’s no way this forty-two year old billionaire would be interested in a twenty year old virgin… who’s nerdy, curvy, and shy to boot.

  But then Forrest reveals something to me that rocks my world. He lays claim to me in the most possessive way a man can. “I own you,” he tells me in his intense voice. “You belong to me now.”

  Just as I’m trying to come to terms with this, someone from my past comes back to haunt me. Zack Sykes has mob connections and, even if Forrest says he can protect me, I’m not so sure we’re going to get out of this in one piece.

  What started as a dream could all too easily become a nightmare.

  I can only be sure of one thing.

  My life will never be the same after being in Paris with the billionaire.

  *Paris with the Billionaire is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Fiona

  “I still can’t believe I’m here,” I say, holding my cellphone to my ear as the cab driver takes me down the Parisian streets. Everything is so beautiful, the Seine glittering off to my left in the midday sunlight. “I can’t believe I won.”

  “Somebody had to,” Mom says. “I’m so happy it was you.”

  “It’s just a bit crummy they didn’t let you bring a plus-one, though, sis,” Kelly laughs.

  I roll my eyes, my cheeks aching from smiling so much. I can easily imagine them sitting in the living room in Mom’s apartment. Kelly will probably still be in her construction gear, running a hand through her spiky blonde hair. We’re non-identical twins, and we look so different sometimes people don’t believe me when I tell them we are twins.

  Mom will be in her armchair, maybe doing some cross-stitching. Her wild auburn hair probably cascading down to the arms of the chair like it always does.

  “I’m only kidding,” Kelly adds. “It’s just so awesome.”

  I lay my head against the glass.

  It is awesome.

  I write at the same café every weekend back home, and one day when I walked over to my usual table, somebody had left a magazine behind open on the contest page.

  It was like fate.

  Win a luxury trip in one of Paris’ most beautiful hotels.

  There was no way I was going to pass up an offer like that.

  “I’m here to work, remember,” I say.

  Mom makes a huffing noise. “Work, sweetness? Enjoy yourself. Let your hair down. You can write when you get back.”

  I pat my laptop bag on the seat next to me, as though they can see me.

  “Nah uh. If I want to write the most romantic story imaginable, what better place to do it? Apparently, you can see the Eiffel Tower from my room.”

  “Fi,” Kelly says, “you know if you don’t meet a man down there, Mom is going to freak, right? She’s counting on you coming back with a fiancé and plans to have a boatload of kids.”

  “She’s not wrong,” Mom laughs. “So that means no writing, none at all.”

  I shake my head with a smile, but nerves twist in my belly.

  Find a man?

  I’ve never been the outgoing sort when it comes to that type of thing. I don’t see how I’m going to suddenly explode into a new personality because I’m in a new city. Mostly I’m looking forward to seeing the sights and sitting on the balcony with the city laid out beneath me, typing away at my keyboard.

  Even if I did find some hunky Parisian man, he wouldn’t want to sweep me off my feet.

  I’m not exactly the billboard type.

  I don’t voice these thoughts aloud though.

  Kelly and Mom hate it when I put myself down like that. They’re always telling me I should have more confidence, infuse myself with a protective layer of sassiness, let my personality shine through.

  Men don’t care about personality, I want to scream at them. They care about your dress size, and I’m curves all the way.

  “Fiona?” Mom says. “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I murmur. “I was just thinking.”

  “Of book ideas?” Kelly laughs. “Finish the ones you’ve got before you add a thousand more to your pile.”

  I giggle. There’s nothing I can say in response. She’s right. The main thing holding me back in my writing is that I’m always flitting between ideas, grabbing hold of one with the certainty that this is the idea flurrying through me.

  But then something else will pop up in my mind and I’ll become captivated with that instead.

  Maybe Paris will help me focus. At least I won’t have to spend hours waiting tables and dealing with self-righteous douches who want me to fall at their feet and beg for their forgiveness for bringing their water a few minutes too late because we’re understaffed and overfull.

  “Seriously,” Kelly goes on. “Don’t stress yourself out about writing. I know you’ve got it in you to write a bestseller. Take Paris as an experience, Fi
. Aren’t you always saying how writers need to live if they’re ever going to write realistically?”

  “Do you know how annoying it is when you use my own logic against me?” I laugh. “Yes, Kelly, I say that. But saying it and living it are two very different things.”

  “We should’ve stolen her laptop from her bag,” Mom laughs.

  “Maybe we’ll hire someone to throw it in the Seine,” Kelly jokes.

  “I’m so not listening,” I giggle. “Listen, I think we’re nearly there. I should get going. I’ll call you later.”

  “You will not,” Mom says, laughing. “You’ll be too busy meeting the man of your dreams and making plans to give me dozens of grandkids.”

  “Dozens?” I chuckle. “I don’t know about that, Mom. Maybe I’ll adopt a stray cat over here. You’ll have to be content with that.”

  “Talk to you later, Fi,” Kelly says.

  “Yes, bye, dear,” Mom says. “We love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I say.

  I gaze up in wonder as we get closer and closer to the hotel.

  It’s called Le Palais, which means The Palace in French. It fits the part perfectly, eschewing a modern look from something straight out of a fairytale. It’s built of the sort of bricks they use in castles, with towers at the corners and large flowing banners.

  It sits apart from the surrounding, more modern buildings, standing out proudly.

  The contrast only highlights how special it is.

  It’s the perfect place to get some real work done on my novel.

  The driver pulls up outside the entrance, a luscious red carpet leading through glittering glass doors, the handles glinting in the light. I couldn’t afford to stay here if I saved up for six months, and definitely not in the presidential suite.

  My five-day stay would cost me over twenty thousand dollars if I hadn’t won the contest.

  “Please let me help with your bags, mademoiselle,” the driver says.

  “Oh, thank you. I mean—merci.”

  He chuckles. “Very good, mademoiselle.”

  I smile, feeling my cheeks turn red.

  I’m here. I’m really here.

  It didn’t feel real on the flight over, but now that I’m standing beneath this fairy tale castle in Paris, I just can’t wait to go inside.

  I spend a long time just walking around my room, but the phrase room doesn’t really do it justice.

  It’s more like I’ve rented a luxury penthouse at the top of a fairytale tower. The walls are brick and everything is medieval-chic, making me feel as though I’m staying in a Paris of a time long passed. And yet there are all the modern conveniences, too.

  There’s a sauna and a massive TV, hidden within the wall and appearing when I flick a switch. The bathrooms – two bathrooms all to myself – have heated floors, and the master bathroom has a sauna, a Jacuzzi, and a steam room. The kitchen is built so that the appliances are hidden within the stone structure, appearing like the TV, when I flick a switch.

  There is a four poster bed in the master bedroom, a library, two other bedrooms, and a living room twice the size of my apartment back home.

  The best area is the balcony though.

  I sit outside as the sun sets, watching it glitter against the Eiffel tower, seeming so close I could reach out and touch it. I lay a blanket over my knees and lean back in a chair, my laptop nearby on the glittering table should inspiration strike me.

  But for now, just sitting here is enough to cause waves and waves of satisfaction to roll over me.

  I leap to my feet when I hear somebody open the door behind me.

  Shock runs through me.

  Somebody is in the room.

  I spin and grab my laptop, holding it like a weapon, ready to give this intruder my best shot.

  I pause when I see him looming in the doorway, the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my whole life.

  He’s well over six feet tall, easily, with iron-colored hair. His eyes are blue and bright and glimmer with something like amusement. He wears a shirt tucked into his pants, his sleeves rolled up to show his bulging forearms.

  I can see his muscles through the fabric of the shirt, bulging in the setting sunlight. His silver watch glints, the same way his eyes seem to sparkle.

  “Death by laptop would be quite the way to go,” he says, his voice smooth and American. “Relax, firecracker. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  I lower my laptop slowly, a shaky smile on my face.

  Something deep inside of me shivers when he calls me firecracker, warping and sending silly ideas into my head.

  “You’re in my room,” I murmur.

  “Yeah,” he says, walking onto the balcony. He stands to his full height once he’s past the door, staring down at me with those near-silver eyes. “It’s quite the turns of events, isn’t it?”

  I laugh, even if laughing is the last thing I should be doing right now. It’s like there’s something inside of him calling out to a deep part of me, buried down below my belly and my anxiety, sizzling with need for him.

  I’ve never felt this way before, but it doesn’t matter. I won’t let myself act on it.

  This man, whoever the heck he is, would laugh in my face if I told him how I was feeling.

  “I normally stay here when I’m in Paris for business,” he goes on. “I wasn’t aware the suite was already taken.”

  “I won a contest,” I explain. “I’m here for the next five days. I think it’s this room, anyway. I mean, this is the one they led me to, and …”

  “Relax,” he says, his lips twitching into a smirk.

  It’s like he’s enjoying my discomfort.

  I wonder what else this man enjoys.

  No—I should be yelling at him to leave.

  And yet I can’t muster that up inside of me.

  I have to keep reminding myself not to stare at his muscles throbbing in the thin fabric of his shirt.

  “I’m sure this is the right room,” he says. “My staff is very thorough.”

  “Wait a second … your staff?”

  He shrugs. “I own this hotel. That’s why I didn’t bother checking if this room was booked. It rarely is and, when it is, I normally hear about it. It seems I’ve let you slip through the cracks …”

  He stares at me, his blue eyes seeming to swirl, as though drawing me deeper and deeper into his gaze. My nipples prick and tingles move over my body, dancing over my skin, teasing me.

  “This is where you tell me your name,” he smirks.

  “Oh,” I giggle, placing my laptop down. “I’m Fiona. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Do you say that to everyone who breaks into your room, Fiona?” he chuckles, his voice husky as he offers me his hand. “I’m Forrest.”

  I take his hand and we shake. Tingles sizzle up my arm and into my chest, taunting.

  “Well, you had a key,” I smile. “So it’s not really breaking in, is it?”

  This should feel so wrong, and yet I can’t wipe this naïve smile off my face. I need to remind myself that he’s only being friendly.

  If I told him about the crazy thoughts rioting in my mind – about grabbing onto his boulder-like muscles and squeezing to feel the firmness of them – he’d laugh in my face.

  “The thing is, Fiona,” he says, holding my hand for a moment longer than is necessary.

  Or am I imagining that, wishing for it?

  “I don’t want to stay in any other room,” he growls.

  My mouth falls open as that enigmatic smirk dances across his clean shaven face. He steps forward, washing me in the musky scent of his cologne.

  “What do you mean?” I whisper, my lips feeling dry, my body becoming tense with need. “Do you want me to move rooms?”

  “No,” he says. “I mean we should stay here together.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Forrest

  She gazes up at me with those wide gorgeous eyes of hers.

  They’re a sparkling shade of green, br
imming with naivety and causing tension to flood into my manhood. They’re the sort of eyes that say, I’ll do whatever you want, just show me how, and that gets my balls swelling and bursting with my need to unleash myself upon her.

  Her hair is messy and wavy down to her shoulders, a perfect shade of oak. Her lips are full, practically begging to be used in a thousand different ways.

  I can almost feel how they’d part for me as I drive my throbbing length inside of her, those innocent eyes widening as she whimpered around my girth.

  She’s wearing a blouse with a little black bow at the throat, hiding her cleavage from my sight. But she can’t hide the shape of her body beneath her clothes, curves that make me want to bend her over the balcony railing and claim every inch of her voluptuousness for myself.

  “You want us both to stay here?” she whimpers.

  The poor naïve thing, she has no idea how much I need her. Her voice swells with skepticism, as though she can’t believe that I’d want her.

  How could she ever doubt it?

  My seed roars and riots, demanding that I drag her into the bedroom and throw her down on the silk sheets right now.

  Primal instincts yell at me to claim her, to tear off her clothes and expose the shiny pinkness of her hole, to ram deep inside of her until she’s begging and raw and unsure if she can take anymore … and then I’ll give it to her even harder.

  I smirk, masking this bubbling need.

  I can’t afford to scare her away.

  The second I laid eyes on her, I knew I had to have her. I knew she was going to give me the family I never even thought about before her.

  “There’s more than one bedroom, Fiona,” I say, even as I burn with the urge to suggest that we share rooms.

  She bites her lip for a moment, making her look like she wants to be drilled and toyed with right now. A flush creeps across her cheeks and down her neck.

  She knows that the right thing to do is to tell me to get the hell out of here.

  But she wants this just as badly as I do.

  Doesn’t she?

  I’m not misreading this, am I?

  I’ve never felt the need to learn the quirks of a woman, content to spend my long days conquering the world of business, dominating it, only learning about women as much as I need to bend them to my will in the boardroom.