Possessive Parisian Pilot: An Older Man Younger Woman Romance (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 90) Read online

  I feel like I’ve got seven g’s of force in my pants right now, and we haven’t even taken off. The horizontal loop that the U.S. Navy’s Blue Angels pull is seven g’s, during their minimum radius turn. I can relate because my cock has nowhere to turn right now but straight through the fabric and to free itself right here in the cockpit.

  My balls ache for release as my fingertips wish they weren’t wrapped around all these levers and pressing all these buttons right now.

  I’d much rather have my hands right back on her soft, smooth skin, and there’s no question that she’s pushed every button inside me with just our brief minute or two encounter.

  And she can count on one thing, that’s for sure. When we land in Paris, she’s mine. Hell, she’s going to be mine before we even get there if I have anything to say about it, and boy do I have a lot to say about it.

  If any of those rich guys in first class even think they can try and make a move on her I’ll throw them off the flight. “Here ya go,” I imagine myself saying as I hand them a parachute and kick them out of the emergency exit.

  I can’t help but smirk as I look forward preparing for take off.

  “You okay over there, captain?” my co-pilot asks.

  I nod.

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  “Captain! For the tenth time…you…are…clear…for…takeoff. Let’s go! We’re backed up behind you.”

  Fuck ‘em. They can wait. I’ve waited my whole life for this woman, and a few extra seconds to enjoy it isn’t going to hurt anybody.

  Anybody but me that is, because I can’t wait any more.

  CHAPTER 3

  Marie

  I turn on my monitor and stretch out my legs.

  Wow.

  Now I see how the words “first class” became such an ingrained part of the English vocabulary.

  At this time I was expecting to be in the air on the first leg of my L.A. To New York to London to Paris flight…the same flight that’s grounded back at L.A.X. for another hour and a half, minimum.

  Instead, the monitor shows me this flight is a direct flight from L.A. to Paris, not to mention instead of being on the aisle in the last row of economy, where everyone is going to stand as they open and close the bathroom door for hours on end, I’ve been upgrade to the best seat in the house, if you can even call it a seat.

  Technically it’s a lie flat bed, so when we get to Paris I won’t be all groggy and out of it. I’ll actually get a good night’s sleep to start the first day of my vacation off right.

  I just started my job last spring when I graduated college, so I don’t get any time off until the following spring. But I was able to cash in some frequent flyer miles I got from signing up for a credit card and here I am, on my way to Paris, using my holiday time off strategically to take a vacation without actually taking time off.

  I scroll through the menu on the monitor trying to find out more about the flight.

  Looking back it’s kind of crazy that I just got on a flight with a random stranger. Sure, he was an extremely masculine older man in uniform and I was completely out of options at that moment, but still…how did I know he wasn’t going to fly us to Timbuktu?

  I keep scrolling until finally I get some information about the flight.

  There it is.

  Your captain today will be Monsieur Gabriel Gaultier. Even his name is sexy. It reminds me of a cross between Gabriel Allon, in Daniel Silva’s literary series about an older man who’s an art restorer and spy, and Halle Berry’s baby daddy, the French-Canadian model Gabriel Aubry who was beaten up by Halle’s new man, Frenchman Olivier Martinez, when Olivier got protective over their child.

  Wow, I know way too much about famous French guys, and now I know a little bit more about him. I’m not a Francophile or anything, but these older Frenchman, whether real or literary, are pretty darn sexy.

  And one Mr. Gabriel Gaultier takes the cake.

  I can’t stop dreaming about how possessive he was when he came to my rescue on multiple occasions. I thought French guys were known to be lovers and not fighters, but it sure seems he’s the kind of guy who will fight to win my love.

  My love? How silly.

  I open up my in-flight magazine and before I even realize it’s the duty free magazine, I open it right to an advertisement for Jean-Paul Gaultier’s cologne “Le Male.” It’s the one Kim Kardashian supposedly copied for her female line, but I must say the male version looks way better, not to mention the very obvious bulge in the groin area of the bottle.

  I run my hand across the advert, imagining it’s Gabriel before my hand jerks back.

  What in the world is up with my imagination today?

  It must be that I’m just giddy that I get to go on a vacation over the holidays to the most romantic city in the world, albeit alone.

  Right now life is pretty good. The economy is good. I got the job I wanted at an ad firm fresh out of college. I’m able to afford a place all of my own. Sure, it’s a four hundred and eighty square foot cracker box that one of those super cheapie squirt guns could spray water all the way across with one squirt…and I’m not talking a super soaker here, I’m talking about the most basic plastic ones ever that you see at the ninety-nine cent store, but still I’m happy.

  Or at least I thought I was until I saw Gabriel, or more accurately he saw me.

  But why is he helping me out like this?

  Guys don’t generally do stuff like this to be nice, and the steely looks I’ve seen him give on more than one occasion and the firm and dominant, yet not too tight, grasp he had on my arm tells me he’s not exactly what I’d call a “nice guy.”

  He’s a real man. He’s “nice” in the way I really want…the kind of guy who takes charge without asking for permission and doesn’t expect or ask for a thank you in return.

  The kind of guy who I can learn about life from, an older man whose shoes have been “working” longer than I’ve been employed. And I did notice his shoes, and judging from what the boys my age are always talking about at the office, they sure looked like J.M. Weston’s, the French luxury shoe company.

  It’s crazy how much the guys my age at work talk about clothes and things like that. Sometimes I wonder how many of them even actually like girls, considering they use words like “salmon pink” and “robin egg blue” to talk about their latest dress shirt purchases that are going to help them “crush it, bro” with their clients.

  In one way they’re sticking their chests out like they’re a bunch of young lions fighting for superiority on the savannahs of the Serengeti. But when those chests are covered in salmon pink and robin egg blue it makes me think they’re less interested in looking at a women’s chest than other guy’s. It’s not that that’s a problem at all, but it is a huge problem when it comes to picking a guy to go out with from this group, and by group I mean all guys my age I’ve ever met.

  Maybe that’s why I’ve never been interested in guys my own age, or why I almost never go out on dates and worse yet being the girl who’s never been kissed.

  Twenty-two going on twenty-three and I don’t even know what it feels like to get butterflies or to have a lip lock with a man, although I do, very unfortunately, know what it means to “hang out” with a guy, which I found means go for Taco Tuesday, when everything is on discount, while he asks me things about sports and tries relentlessly to get me to go back to his place so we can “Netflix and chill.”

  That pretty much consists of the two dates I’ve been on in my entire life.

  But I think my luck is really starting to change, for example the type of plane I’m on…a Boeing 777. When you pull the slot lever in Vegas don’t you win if you get all sevens?

  I think so, and I think the way it works is you pull that big, steel, phallic rod and it shoots out everything it’s got on you.

  Oh my god, where is my mind right now?

  “More champagne?” Pierre says, arriving out of nowhere, yet just in time.

&nbs
p; “Yes, please,” I say as I stick out my flute, but he just hands me a fresh one in return.

  I really have no idea how this whole high lifestyle stuff works, nor do I know how things are going to “work out” with Gabriel when we land.

  But right now all I know is my head is in the clouds both literally and figuratively as I tip my seat back a bit, sip on my champagne, and close my eyes as I think about this possessive Parisian pilot with the hot name, body, career, and well…everything.

  CHAPTER 4

  Gabriel

  “Parisian Airlines flight 777, do you read? Over.”

  “This is Parisian Airlines flight 777, tower. We read. Over,” I say into my headset.

  “You’re deviating off course by twenty-seven degrees. Is there some reason you’re headed towards Morocco and not Paris, over?”

  I look down at the controls and realize the tower is right. We’re still over the U.S. right now, but one of the towers we just passed must have picked us up on the radar and looked into our route. Damn, I’m making all kinds of mistakes right now.

  “Just some turbulence. Getting back on track right now, tower. Thanks.”

  Turbulence as in the kind going on in my mind since I saw that girl.

  “Marie,” I say under my breath and my cock twitches. Even her name has a French feel to it, but there’s no way she’s French. She doesn’t have the look or the accent. She looks more like someone who’s on their way for a romantic rendezvous in Paris than an actual Parisian. I know, I am one.

  And I also know I’m going to crash this damn plane if I don’t do something about this throbbing erection soon.

  There’s a knock on the cockpit door and I unlock it.

  “We’ve got a bit of a problem in first class,” Francois, one of our flight attendants says.

  I rip off my seatbelt and stand. “What happened?” I snarl. If anyone is messing with my woman they’re going to pay.

  “The girl in seat one a, Marie…her seatbelt is stuck. I tried to unhook it, but couldn’t get it to let go. Pierre said you personally boarded her so I just wanted to let you know.”

  “I did personally board her,” I say. I turn to Baptiste. “You got this for a few minutes?” I ask.

  “Sure thing, captain. Take all the time you need.”

  Francois smiles at me. “Nice catch, captain. She’s got a nice way about her. Heck, I’d almost go straight for her.”

  I see Baptiste’s head turn quickly towards us as he knows what’s coming next and wants to take advantage of his front row seat.

  I grab Francois by the collars and lift him off the ground. “Stay in your lane, Francois. She’s mine, you understand?” I say holding his feet off the ground.

  He shrieks and then says, “Sorry. I was just playing.”

  I put him down and he scurries off.

  Baptiste quickly faces forward and doesn’t say a thing.

  Maybe I overreacted there. Francois is as flamboyant as they come and is well known in the thriving gay nightclub scene in Paris. When he has extended time in the city he even dances in some of the clubs for extra cash and because he likes to perform. There’s no way he’s going straight anytime soon, but I still don’t like the joke he made. I need everyone on this plane, and in the whole of Paris and the world, to know she’s mine…and to keep their hands off her or else I’ll put my hands on them. And they don’t want that.

  I make my way out of the cockpit, my big frame having to duck and contort to get out and I move towards her seat.

  Damn, there she is, her small stature practically swallowed up by the big seat. She looks so cute and feminine there with that little blanket over the top of her. I can imagine the two of us lying on my couch with a blanket watching old black and white films in that same horizontal position, before we get horizontal in a different way.

  “Hey,” she says and then her little hand comes out from underneath the blanket and waves at me. “Sorry to cause more troubles for you. I’m not trying, I promise.”

  Oh, she’s trouble all right, but in the best kind of way.

  “It’s not your fault. These things do this all the time. Let me have a look at it.”

  I move in closer and as I do she pulls back her blanket. The first thing I see is the seat belt across her lap. If this was a car and not a plane, and the seat belt was going at a right angle across her chest, through the valley between her breasts, there’s no way I’d be able to control myself. As I squat down I feel lightheaded and then a rage of jealousy shoots through me. The thought of somebody else someday seeing what I’m imagining pisses me the fuck off.

  I grab the blanket and move it close to her chest. “You can keep the blanket on up here, so you don’t get cold,” I say.

  “Thanks,” she says, but it’s the other passengers that should be thanking her because if she didn’t have that blanket there and I saw someone trying to check her out I would knock them out.

  Damn, why am I so intense today with so many thoughts of violence? I’m a no-nonsense kind of guy but today I’m not just thinking about the things it takes to fly a plane, but also the ways I’d send guys flying through the air as I decked them with a solid right cross, a fist to the face, if they tried to step to my woman.

  I play with the seat a bit and find what looks like a solution.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  She laughs and I quickly move towards the small employee locker we have in front of first class, removing a hanger.

  A few seconds later I’ve got the tip worked into the buckle and the strap releases and she’s back in business.

  “Let me see if it’s going to work now,” I say.

  I buckle it up again and hit the release and it does just that.

  “You fixed it,” she says.

  But I still haven’t fixed the problem in my pants.

  “Glad I could help,” I say, knowing the only one who can help me with my other problem is her.

  “Gabriel,” I say, finally introducing myself.

  “I know,” she says. “Marie.”

  “I know.”

  A moment passes between us where nothing is said, the way we look at each other saying more than words ever could.

  “I should probably use the ladies room,” she says. “Three flutes of champagne at this altitude…let me tell ya.”

  I offer her my hand and help her bring her seat back upright and then assist her in getting out of her seat.

  Just as she does we hit a single spot of turbulence and her body falls right into mine, my arms wrapping around her keeping her safe with my hands going behind her head instinctively as I pull her face into my chest.

  She doesn’t move, just leaving her head there and right in front of all the other passengers I can’t help but drop my chin and take a deep inhale of the scent of her long, golden locks.

  It doesn’t smell like a fruity shampoo, but more like something sophisticated and natural. I’m guessing she uses something unscented and this incredible aroma is her own, and when I notice the other passengers eyeing me strangely I don’t have to guess that they think I’ve lost it completely.

  I should let her go, but the warmth of her body, the feeling of her breasts pressed up against my body, the way she fits perfectly against me and in my grasp is too much.

  I can feel her heartbeat racing and her breath on my upper arm.

  One passenger has his phone out and he looks like he’s trying to covertly prepare to take a picture of us.

  Fuck, I could lose my pilot’s license and the worst part is I know it would be worth it.

  What’s the point of flying all over the world and seeing all these amazing places with French influence like Tahiti, Corsica, the Ivory Coast, Vietnam, and so many more when I do it alone? There is no point.

  How incredible would it be for us to stay in an open water bungalow in Bora Bora, diving nude into the crystal clear waters of the Pacific?

  How about walking hand in hand thro
ugh the fields of lavender in Da Lat, Vietnam, the place known as Le Petit Paris?

  What about spending the rest of our lives in Corsica, where Napoléon Bonaparte is from, but instead of building a vast military empire we could build an entirely different kind of empire of our own…a family, our own dynasty?

  “Let me show you to the toilet,” I say, taking her by the hand and leading her past the first class toilet and to the private one only the pilots use.

  I watch as she steps inside, and is a bit slow to close the door. My dick jerks thinking for the first time how badly I want to join the Mile High Club. I always thought it was some cliché…until her.