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

  This is something else.

  This is flaring desire and primal fate.

  This – she – is everything I’ve been waiting my whole life for.

  “Not to be rude,” she murmurs after a pause.

  Her voice is breathy, making me think of how she’d pant and moan as I slide myself inside of her.

  Everything she says is tinged with shyness, causing stakes of rage to stab into me, twist, torture.

  My woman shouldn’t be shy, not when she’s so beautiful and talented and has so much to offer the world, so much to offer me.

  “But how do you know I am who I say I am?” I say.

  “Yeah,” she mutters. “Exactly.”

  I wave a hand. “Feel free to look me up online. I’ll wait.”

  “Really?” she murmurs.

  I take another step forward, standing directly over her now. I can smell her perfume and her sweat and, beneath it all, I’m sure I can scent the tangy ripeness of her young sex.

  My fingers twitch as I remind myself that I have to work up to this. I can’t just grab those full, gorgeous breasts of hers and start rubbing, squeezing, making her beg and moan as I work my hand under that shirt and find her nipples.

  Fuck, I bet those nipples will harden when I suck them, squeezing her flesh and greedily taking her pert nipples between my teeth.

  She’s got tits made for sucking and milking, the perfect combination of beauty, fertility, and sexiness.

  “Really,” I growl. “Don’t worry, Fiona. I’m not easily offended.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Just give me a sec.”

  I smirk as I watch her turn to her laptop, opening it and leaning forward.

  Surely she knows what she’s doing when she bends at the waist like that, pushing those meaty divine ass cheeks of hers out. There’s so much of her to grab and please, so much fleshy heavenliness for me to indulge in.

  I could spend an entire afternoon on her ass alone, kissing and biting every inch of it before slipping between her legs and palming her budding wetness.

  She taps a few keys and then starts scrolling.

  Dozens of photos of me flash by on the screen, as well as articles in Forbes and Time and countless other publications.

  One gossip column headline reads, Will real estate billionaire Forrest Ford ever settle down? We pick our ten most likely candidates.

  I glanced at that list once out of curiosity.

  It’s laughable.

  None of them do anything to stir the beast inside of me, not like this woman, this queen.

  She turns to me.

  “You’re a billionaire,” she says.

  “I’m a billionaire,” I agree.

  She throws her hands up, laughing musically. It’s the most intoxicating sound.

  “I don’t know what to make of this,” she says. “Are you sure you’d really not prefer if I took a different room? I don’t mind.”

  She should mind.

  A woman this majestic, this perfect, should feel comfortable demanding the finer things in life. It’s what she deserves.

  When she’s mine, I’ll never let her want for anything.

  “Why?” I say, trying to make my voice sound casual.

  Even so, I can hear the animalistic rumble beneath the question, feel it making my chest vibrate like my seed is trying to make my body explode if my manhood can’t right now.

  “I’m sure we can work it out,” I go on. “But if you’re really not comfortable with it, I can arrange to stay at one of my other hotels. It’s just that I like to stay in this suite when I’m here for business. You have every right to tell me to leave, Fiona.”

  I stare into her eyes, my insides blazing.

  This is the moment where I’ll discover if she’s as hungry as I am. If she sees what’s happening here.

  This isn’t a coincidence.

  We’re here for a reason.

  We’re here to consume each other, hungrily, wildly, to take everything the other has to give until we’re ready to walk hand in hand into our bright future together.

  “You’d do that?” she asks.

  “You won the contest to stay here,” I tell her. “You’re in control, Fiona.”

  And you always will be, I want to roar. Apart from me – the man who owns you – no other man, or person, will ever be able to tell you what to do.

  I’m your king and you’re my queen.

  I force the words down, not allowing them to rise to the level of speech.

  The last thing I need to do is scare the woman of my dreams away.

  “I think we can work it out,” she says after a moment. “Yeah, I mean … it’s a huge suite. The living room alone is bigger than my apartment. I guess my only concern is if you’re going to have people over.”

  My heart pounds in my chest, a smirk twitching my lips.

  Is my shy young soulmate subtly asking if I’m going to be bringing women back here?

  “No,” I tell her. “I don’t socialize much. In fact, this conversation is the longest non-business talk I’ve had in a while. I’d like to keep it going. How about we order some room service?”

  Her cheeks bloom an even deeper shade of red, the flush spreading down to her neck. My balls throb when I think about her tits turning that same color after I grab them. She has the sort of skin that looks like it would bear the markings of my desire for a long time.

  “Really?” she murmurs.

  “Yes, really,” I growl.

  “What and eat in our rooms?” she says.

  “No,” I chuckle, my voice deep and grim. “Eat together, of course. After all, we’re roommates now.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Fiona

  I sit opposite Forrest on the balcony. The sun has set now and the Eiffel Tower is bright with shining lights, seeming to glow down just for us. The late-spring air has a chill to it, but Forrest has turned on the balcony heating, warm fans blasting us and making my skin tingly.

  Forrest leans back in the chair opposite, smirking over at me, his eyes glinting in that hard-to-read way.

  I don’t understand why he’s doing this.

  Is he just being polite?

  Our platters steam under the lids, the steam rising into the air as the waiter leans down to remove them with a flourish. I breathe in the scent of my steak and fries, my belly rumbling with hunger. I haven’t eaten since the flight, but when I see how juicy that steak is, I have to remind myself to eat it like a lady.

  The last thing I need is to come across like a pig in front of Forrest.

  But why? a voice cries inside of me. It doesn’t matter how he sees you. He’d laugh if he knew you were crushing on him.

  I swallow and place my hands in my lap, worrying them together as the waiter retreats, leaving a pitcher of soda and two glasses next to our silver platters.

  “This smells delicious,” I murmur.

  “Only the best at my hotels,” he smirks.

  I gaze at Paris, at the tower glinting down at me, making me feel small and warm and impossible.

  “I can’t believe I’m here,” I murmur.

  “In Paris or in this hotel?”

  I want to tell him I meant with him. When he said he wanted to share the room, I was certain it was a joke, the sort of cruel bullying the high school jocks used to indulge in.

  But he seems serious.

  We’re going to stay here together.

  How the heck am I supposed to stop myself from drooling over him?

  He’s more mouth-watering than the freaking steak.

  “Both,” I laugh.

  He cuts into his steak, grinning at me like a wolf.

  “What are you waiting for, firecracker?” he says.

  “Firecracker,” I murmur. “I don’t think you’d call me that if you knew me, Forrest.”

  “The way you were ready to use that laptop as a weapon, I’d say you’re wrong about that. Maybe you’re a firecracker hiding in a shy girl’s body, eh?”

 
; My chest flares with a thousand fireworks, erupting over and over at his words. I’ve always thought of myself, secretly, in this way, that if I were given the chance I would burst out of my shell and shock the world, or at least myself.

  I would never expect a man like Forrest, a billionaire who’s been on the cover of the sleekest magazines in the world, to see the same in me.

  I wouldn’t expect him to see anything in me.

  His smirk widens.

  The light dances in his silver hair.

  “You’re a firecracker, Fiona,” he says. “You’re a lioness.”

  I giggle, shaking my head.

  “And you are too kind,” I say.

  “Nope,” he replies a matter of fact. “I’m just telling you how I see it. Now, eat your food.”

  I force myself to cut slowly, despite the hunger driving me to fall upon the meal like a savage.

  I want to fall upon him in the same way, too, bite into the meatiness of his shoulder instead of the steak.

  I eat a mouthful of steak, trying my best not to make a moaning sound of satisfaction. It’s crazy enough that this billionaire has, out of a sense of politeness, decided to have dinner with me. The last thing I need to do is gross him out with my food-love noises.

  But I must make some noise.

  He smirks over at me. “Enjoying that?”

  I turn my gaze down, shame scorching through me, leaving a trail of fire-hot resentment blazing in my chest.

  I wish I could turn back time and make it so I never had a single bite.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur, after swallowing it quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Sorry?” he growls. “Why are you sorry, Fiona? You’re enjoying your food. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  I risk a glance at him, searching his gleaming eyes for any sign that he’s secretly making fun of me. But he just stares at me with understanding flickering across his powerful features.

  I imagine him walking through the hallways of my old high school, his broad shoulders making it look so small and insignificant. I imagine the way the jerks and the bullies would flinch in his wake, finally realizing that they’re not cool or significant or anything even remotely impressive, not when my man is on the prowl.

  But he’s not my man.

  I can’t keep letting my thoughts dance to those crazy places.

  I have to remember that he’d laugh at me if I ever said something like that aloud, instead of leaving it imprisoned in my mind.

  We go on eating, and then Forrest makes an over-the-top moaning noise, smirking over at me as he chews.

  Anxiety twists in my chest for a frantic moment.

  Is he making fun of me?

  But then I see the goodwill glinting behind his predator’s eyes, the way his smirk brims with genuine understanding and some sort of affection.

  Or perhaps I’m projecting, wishing that this stranger felt about me how I’m starting to feel about him.

  It’s a girlish crush, I try to tell myself. Nothing more.

  “So, who are you, Fiona?” he asks.

  I giggle, taking a sip of soda. “That’s a broad question.”

  “One of the downsides to being so well-known,” he says, “is that people can learn everything about me with a few taps on their smartphone. I don’t have that luxury.”

  “Everything about you is online, is it?” I murmur, trying to make my voice sassy and fun.

  It comes out somewhere between shy and confident, a shivering not-so-happy medium.

  “Not everything,” he allows. “But you know I’m a real estate mogul. You know I’m a billionaire.”

  “And that’s all there is to know about Forrest Ford?”

  His smirk widens. He doesn’t take his eyes from me.

  I’ve never been looked at like this before, with utter devotion, as though the Eiffel Tower could come crashing down and he still wouldn’t look away.

  “What do you want to know?” he asks.

  I shrug, feeling like I’ve suddenly been put on the spot. My cheeks go an ever fiercer shade of red. I wish I could control how much I’m blushing, but it feels as though my cheeks are going to erupt, with self-doubt, with all the things Mom and Kelly tell me I never need to torture myself with.

  “Um, your favorite color?” I giggle.

  “Easy—gray. It hasn’t always been, though.”

  “No? What changed your mind?”

  “The day my hair went from black to gray, I said to myself, You know what? Fuck this. I’m going to buy a gray sports car, gray suits, gray everything. I’m going to own it.”

  “You could dye your hair,” I murmur, even as I scream at myself silently for the sentence.

  I don’t want him to dye his hair.

  It’s not gray.

  It’s steel and iron and the color of sunbaked rock.

  There’s something primal about the color of his hair, like his body is turning him the same shade as armor so he can always protect me.

  “No, I couldn’t,” he snarls. “A man shouldn’t dye his hair.”

  I laugh. “That’s a pretty broad statement.”

  He shrugs. “Call me old fashioned if you want, my little firecracker. But I believe there are certain things any self-respecting man should avoid at all costs, and dyeing my hair is at the top of that list.”

  I laugh and then force myself to look him fully in the eyes.

  “I like your hair color, anyway,” I tell him.

  “How old are you, Fiona?” he asks, his voice turning husky.

  “Twenty,” I tell him. “Why?”

  “I thought we were getting to know each other,” he smirks.

  “Okay … then how old are you? And don’t tell me to look it up.”

  “Forty-two,” he says.

  Something deep inside screams at me to tell him I don’t care about the age gap, that I like the age gap.

  An experienced silver wolf like Forrest will always know how to protect me, how to care for me, how to help me grow and develop in my career.

  He’ll never let anything happen to our babies.

  What the heck am I thinking? Where are these crazy thoughts coming from?

  I need to rein them in before I drive myself insane.

  “You still haven’t told me who you are, Fiona,” he growls after a pause.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “How can I make it any clearer?” he says. “Who are you, deep down?”

  I bite my lip and my knife scratches against my plate. I’m cutting too hard.

  I relax my hands and let out a little breath.

  Is this really happening right now?

  I’m having an impromptu dinner with the owner of the hotel, in the presidential suite.

  In Paris.

  Surely this has to be a dream.

  “I’m a writer,” I murmur. “I guess that’s the best way to describe me. I mean, I haven’t published anything.”

  “But you’re dedicated to your craft,” he says, looking at me in that wholly-attentive way again. “You think about it all the time. You never stop thinking about it. It follows you into your dreams.”

  I let out an involuntary whimpering noise, a little puff of air that’s full of shock and want and desire and a thousand other unvoiced emotions.

  “I guess I’ve never thought about it in those terms before,” I murmur with a tangled giggle. “That doesn’t say much about my writing ability, does it?”

  “But I’m right,” he asks.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “If I did as much writing as stressing about writing, then I’d have a hundred books written by now.”

  “But without your obsessive thinking, would they be worth reading?”

  “Oh my God,” I say, laughing, shaking my head.

  “What?”

  “I literally said that exact sentence to my sister a few weeks ago.”

  He smirks, his eyes consuming me, making my skin tingle with the absolute focus he aims at me. />
  “I guess great minds really do think alike. You’re going to be successful, Fiona. I can tell that just by looking at you.”

  “How?” I whisper.

  I feel as if a part of my mind has detached and is constantly looking for the punchline. I want to take a good look around the balcony, see if there are any cameras lurking, waiting to capture this moment, and broadcast it to millions of laughing viewers.

  What would the show be called?

  Naïve Virgin Fooled by the Billionaire?

  No, that’s too wordy.

  “Your passion,” he growls into the noisiness of my thoughts. “No matter what somebody does in life, no matter how talented they are, it doesn’t mean a damn thing without passion.”

  “Are you passionate about real estate?” I murmur.

  “I’m passionate about beauty,” he says.

  My heart pounds in my chest, the sensations swirling through me, touching every part of me. I feel my toes curling as all the tension bubbling up inside of me becomes almost too much to handle.

  I want to scream just to relieve some of it.

  “Your buildings are very beautiful,” I say, my mouth dry, and yet my hands are too shaky to reach for my glass.

  “I grew up in a trailer park,” he says. “We never had enough money. My family … They were broken in many ways. I never knew my mother or my father. They died shortly after I was born. But my uncle, he was a real son of a bitch. He was a cruel bastard and he—He did things, Fiona. Not to me, but to people I cared about.

  “I saw a lot of horrible shit growing up. I always promised myself that I’d grow up and make beauty instead, and that’s what I try to do in my work. I’m not an architect. I tried to be. But I didn’t have the eye for it. What I do know how to do is make deals, twist people to my will, force people to play fair even if that means not always playing fair myself.”

  I stare, captivated by this speech.

  Something in the quivering quality of his words – the way his eyes cast away dreamily into the past – tell me he rarely talks about this.

  His eyes focus and he smirks, gesturing with his steak knife.

  “That was incredibly depressing,” he chuckles.

  There’s a husky quality to his voice I can’t help but want to hear again, and again.