Curves He Wrote: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance

  Contents

  Curves, He Wrote

  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

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  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

  Curves, He Wrote

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 248

  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.

  Curves, He Wrote

  LUCY

  What’s better than staring into the eyes of my favorite author from the back of his latest book?

  Having him sign said book for me in person of course.

  Nathan Cartwright is an older man, sure. But he’s a man who knows what he wants.

  A recluse and subject of endless lady boner worship since his book series included a romantic edge, he’s giving his first public talk in years at a national book convention.

  And I’m going!

  The catch?

  My dad won’t let a younger girl like me, even though I’m nineteen now, travel alone.

  Some BS about having to have a chaperone, his friend from work, Marie.

  But the fates have plans thicker and more complex than Nathan Cartwright’s pant bulge.

  There’s a mix up with our rooms and an even bigger mix up when I find myself all alone with the man himself.

  Wondering if the man who knows what he wants has needs, desires, and urges that extend to younger, slightly thick, but very willing girls?

  I can’t wait to find out.

  NATHAN

  It could ruin my career. That’s what my agent said, so I fired him.

  I went out on my own and noticing the growing number of romance lovers as well as my regular readers, I figured why not?

  The main character in my long running series isn’t getting any younger, and neither am I.

  He’s grappling with the one thing I know now that I’ve missed out on for most of my life: Love.

  What’s the point of being rich, famous, and set for life if it’s a one man show?

  No.

  There’s more to life than just success, and I intend to find her. Whoever and wherever she is.

  And I won’t find the one by holing myself up in mansions or first class suites writing books about it.

  I need to get out there and find her.

  It’s my first major public appearance in years, and the last place I expect to find her is in the foyer of the hotel that hasn’t even realized that I booked my room under an assumed name.

  I thought all famous people did that?

  But there she is, and it makes perfect sense the way things have panned out.

  Until she’s gone again.

  I have to find her.

  And more than that, I have to make her mine.

  Before anyone else gets their hands on what I know is rightfully mine.

  Whatever the cost.

  I have to write our happily ever after.

  *Curves, He Wrote is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

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  Chapter One

  Lucy

  Clutching his face with both hands, I feel it pressing into my stiffening chest. A little sound escapes me, something brushing my nipple on one side as I feel a familiar tingle between my legs.

  My jaw tightens and I feel my fingers trace absently over the thick hardness before I’m bouncing all over again.

  I feel like calling his name between my clenched teeth, but it’s my own name echoed back to me from somewhere that sounds far away.

  “Lucy Scarborough! The Plaza Inn hotel is our next stop…”

  Oh, Mr. Cartwright. What you do to me, and I haven’t even seen you in person yet.

  The bus convulses as it slows down, the heavy gears grinding through the floor right up into my seat.

  My hands are reluctant to let go of the stiffness between my fingers, but I turn the cover of the hardback book to see his face just one more time before I get there.

  The coach driver offered to drop me off at my hotel once he saw the book I’m carrying.

  “I’m going to the book convention. Nathan Cartwright is the guest speaker,” I gushed, noting the driver’s eyes widen with envy as he whistled through his teeth.

  “I know where I’d rather be,” he sighed, relating to me how much of a fan he was of the famous author himself.

  “If I get to meet him, up close I mean, I’ll try and get you a signed copy,” I heard myself almost shouting as I boarded the bus, acting as if I’m on first name terms with not only Nathan Cartwright, but anyone who wants his autograph.

  This whole trip has gone to my head, as well as a few other places, and the coach driver has an almost pleading look in his eyes once he stops long enough to let me out and fetch my suitcase from the luggage compartment.

  “If you do get to meet him, Nathan, I mean, I’d be awful glad if you could…” he reminds me. “…get me an autograph, I mean,” he blushes, looking at his feet.

  “I can send it to you through the bus station back home?” I ask, and his face changes as he lifts it, a broad smile showing all his teeth.

  “You certainly can. It’s Jones, Lionel Jones. They’ll pass it on to me if you just leave it at the station. I can pay you anything due if you leave your contact details with them,” he instructs me, still beaming.

  “Oh, and Ms. Scarborough?” he asks, reaching for my arm but thinking better of it as I turn to go. “Thank you,” he says, the responsibility of my promise weighing heavy on me already, but today I feel like I can do anything.

  “Thanks for the ride, Lionel,” I call over my shoulder, flapping one hand as the other struggles to keep my suitcase off the ground.

  The weight of it feeling like it wants to drag me around in circles, but I’m determined to head straight for the reception area.

  The same author’s portrait from his books flutters in the light breeze on either side of the hotel entra
nce.

  Huge printed banners announcing him as the guest speaker at the book convention.

  I feel the familiar shiver at the sight of him, and having him towering over me with those piercing dark eyes from two Nathan’s no less. It’s like he’s watching me, waiting for me.

  He’s an older man, but for me, most people are older.

  Plus, his age has nothing to do with his level of handsome but I’m sure it contributes to his level of smooth style and certainly plays a part in his knowing look.

  Truly a man who knows what he really wants, and from what I can tell he’s used to getting it too.

  Being just barely nineteen, I had to convince my dad it was safe enough for me to go to the convention alone but he still insisted I have a chaperone.

  Some woman he works with, Marie who’s also a Nathan Cartwright fan. She jumped at the offer and even offered to pay the extra for a meet n’ greet for us both, as well as a better room.

  It’s supposed to be my first time alone apart from college, out in the big bad world. I guess it kinda still is, and dad’s promised that Marie is just there as a family friend, not to spy on me.

  She was supposed to call me before I got here and meet me out front, but so far she’s a no show.

  But Marie’s the last thing on my mind once I feel my chest stiffen and a sudden rush of heat to my sex for the second time today.

  Walking up to the entrance, I feel lightheaded as I stare into his eyes like it really is a pair of twenty foot Nathan’s drawing me in closer, like a moth helplessly magnetized by that light in his eyes.

  He could pass for thirty-five, but I know for a fact he’s forty-seven, forty-eight in November.

  For someone who’s never met the man, I know an awful lot about him. Height: six four. Weight: two hundred and thirty pounds. Eyes: Hazel. Hair: Brown with gray flecks.

  But those are just stats, and they barely cover the angle of his chiseled jaw or the dimensions of his biceps.

  He played college football before dropping out to pursue his writing career once his first novel was published. Since then he has become one of the best known and widely published authors of our time.

  Single and deliberately aloof with the press as well as fans, he lives a solitary life and until recently has shunned all publicity.

  It was only when his latest series of crime thrillers drew criticism for the lead character feeling lonely, looking for love that he publicly hit back at the press with an open letter on his website.

  It hasn’t harmed his book sales either, in fact, it’s only now I actually read his books instead of just drooling over the photos of him on the back cover.

  More people than ever it seems are reading and enjoying Nathan Cartwright’s books. But it begs the question: Is it just for sales, or is there an element of art imitating life in his latest works?

  That’s one thing he’s requested the press not to ask him, but he’s hinted he might cover the topic in this weekend’s book convention where he’s a guest speaker.

  I could stand and look at him all day, but the surge of people towards the entrance is nudging me naturally forward, his smoldering come hitcher look only adding to the effect of being drawn closer to him as I step inside.

  There are a couple of friendly but serious-looking guys in suits looking ready to keep order should anyone get out of hand.

  Not the flashiest hotel in the world, a quaint relic from days gone by when sweeping wooden staircases and domed ceiling ballrooms were the standard fare.

  Today it’s conventions and events like this weekend that keep this one going, I’m assuming.

  It’s certainly not the wallpaper or carpet bringing the clients in.

  I figure Nathan Cartwright wouldn’t stay here either, just gonna drop in do his bit and leave, I guess.

  There’s a huge notice board with a ton of events, most of which start tomorrow but there are loads of stuff happening already, with the author or event listed next to the location in the huge, ancient hotel.

  I make my way to the reception, choosing the left side of the two available at the tall polished counter. There’s another guy already being seen to my right, murmuring in a strained but low voice to the clerk.

  I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but there’s something about the tone of his voice that’s arresting, not to mention his cologne.

  Glancing over at first, my heart skips, and then I find myself plain old staring at the man.

  He’s tall, well-built but nondescript, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. His overcoat seems out of place on a warm day but it’s that cologne that has me.

  Or is it something else?

  There’s just something about the man.

  A presence. An aura I guess some people would call it.

  Whatever it is, I like it. A lot, and I chide myself for feeling this way about another older man on the same day.

  What about Nathan Cartwright? I tease myself. He might get jealous.

  Before I can form a second thought, the other clerk is facing me, forcing a smile as he glances over at the stranger and asks me if I’d like to move down the counter a little. “This computer is better,” he lies, motioning towards the screen in front of him.

  I shrug and shimmy down, but damn if there isn’t something about that guy.

  “I’m Lucy Scarborough,” I announce, not able to hide my excitement at being here now.

  “I have a room booked. A double, with-” I start to tell him and he glances over at the stranger again before his face falls further.

  “Uh, sorry. Did you say, Scarborough?” he asks swallowing, looking like he’s just pulled the short straw on a double-dare challenge.

  “Yep, that’s me,” I chime, already sensing something is wrong. Horribly wrong too. Like ruining everything wrong.

  “Ms. Baxter. Uh, Marie? She left this for you,” the clerk clips, sliding a plain envelope towards me, and without a second glance, he moves swiftly over to the next person.

  It’s a dismissive move and one I sense has a tone of finality about it.

  The stranger raises his voice as I feel my hands start to tremble as I tear open the envelope.

  There’s thick paper, almost card-like inside, and a crisp pair of hundred dollar bills flutter out, resting between my feet on the floor.

  But it’s the words written on the note, not the money that has my full attention, even as the man next to me grows louder.

  Lucy,

  Sorry, but long story short, I’ve met someone. Eduardo. And we’ve really hit it off.

  I’ll take a raincheck on the shared room/book convention (if you know what I mean) and hope this is enough for you to get your own room someplace else. I hear the hotel’s full now.

  Sorry, kiddo.

  Have a great weekend I know I will!

  P.S Don’t tell your dad.

  Marie XXX

  I feel sick to my stomach. Like she’s reached right out of the card and punched me square in the gut.

  Bitch.

  Eduardo, eh?

  I groan, bending down to pick up the money before trying to read the note again, hoping I read it wrong, but no.

  It’s official.

  I’ve been dumped for Eduardo and now I don’t have a room for the weekend.

  Before I can fully panic, there’s something more pressing happening right next to me.

  The stranger? He’s looking like he’s gonna grab the hotel clerk and wipe the floor with him.

  When I hear what he’s been growling a little clearer, I feel my heart stop.

  My mouth falls open and I feel my knees give out as a whining, buzzing sound in my ears finally pops.

  “…look I am Nathan Cartwright you moron, now stop fingering your asshole for just one minute and get me a god damned room before I make you and your friend here conjoined twins in a way you don’t even want to begin to imagine…”

  Holy freaking shit. It’s him.

  It’s Nathan Cartwright.

  Chapter Tw
o

  Nathan

  Book conventions and public appearances have never been my thing, but since firing my agent and running things the way I want to, things have just felt better.

  Even though they’ve rarely gone to plan lately.

  Like booking a hotel room under another name to avoid being detected? I thought all famous people did that.

  Turns out they do, but this hotel isn’t used to being full, let alone having famous guests so they’ve overbooked and too bad for anyone arriving after the fact.

  I’m Nathan Cartwright, guest speaker at the convention the hotel is hosting and they’ve given my room out to someone else already.

  Someone else who happens to be more important or maybe even more intimidating than the guest of honor for this weekend.

  I’m in the middle of politely explaining the situation to a young and possibly slow clerk when I feel her coming up on my left.

  Yeah, I’m a hermit. I like to keep my life private, but I know what people are like and how to interact with ‘em.

  I also know girls like what they see in me. Just never found one that clicked with me.

  A lot of one-way clicking from their side, but if I don’t feel someone, I don’t feel ‘em. Plain and simple.

  And this girl who just walked in? I’m not just feeling her, I’m feeling her.

  I’m trying to stay mad with this hotel clerk, trying to sort out the mess that’s me trying to get a room at my own convention.