Paris With The Billionaire: An Instalove Possessive Age Gap Romance

by Flora Ferrari

  “Up here,” I say, somehow keeping my voice steady.

  She walks to the bottom of the stairs case, gazing up at me.

  I let out a low growl from deep inside of me, staring at the way the sequined dress hugs her body. It glitters gold in the faux-candle light, squeezing onto her hips, framing her cleavage like a gift just waiting for me to open it.

  Everything about her screams at me to possess her.

  She wears short heels, shaping her thick juicy calves.

  “I can’t believe I’m really here,” she murmurs, gazing starry eyed at the book lined walls as she ascends the stairs.

  “I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you are,” I say, moving to the top of the stairs to meet her. “I was starting to think I’d have to ground a few planes to get my hands on you again.”

  She gasps as I grip her hips and pull her flush against me, driving my hungry manhood against her belly.

  She looks up at me, lips pursed, eyes shimmering in the mood lighting.

  “You wouldn’t go that far to keep me here, would you?” she whispers.

  “Look how far I went to get you here,” I growl. “Of course, I would. I’m just sorry I didn’t tell you the second I walked onto the balcony in our room. I should have, Fiona, but maybe I thought – like a stupid asshole – that I could still get over this madness you’ve awoken in me.”

  “And?” she murmurs. “Can you?”

  I lean down and push my lips against hers firmly, squeezing harder onto her hips and pushing her against the banister.

  She gasps and freezes up for a moment, but then she melts against me, moaning through the kiss as our tongues go to war with each other.

  I slide one hand up her body, over her delectable hips and breasts, and then softly clasp her neck.

  The kiss pauses and we gaze into each other’s eyes.

  I feel her smile against me, her lips twitching upward.

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “That’s a kissing you makes me forget the damn question,” I chuckle.

  “Do you think you can control the madness I’ve woken up inside of you, Forrest?”

  “Never,” I growl. “I’ve never felt anything even remotely close to this before. I never imagined I could feel. And then I saw you and I became so obsessed—and shit, Fiona. I was so goddamned worried I’d scared you away.”

  “I’m here,” she whispers. “I know it’s crazy. I know it’s not conventional. But I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. Because …”

  “What?” I urge when she falls silent. I kiss the corner of her lips. “What is it, firecracker?”

  “Because I would’ve done the same,” she says, letting out a shaky breath as though the revelation shocks her as much as me. “If I’d felt this, and if I could, I would’ve arranged for us to be together. I know I would.”

  “You’re as hopeless as I am, eh?” I tease lightly, stroking my hand from her neck to her hair.

  “Oh, I’m definitely a wannabe hopeless romantic,” she giggles.

  “Is that what you write—romance?”

  “I try to,” she says.

  I take her hand in mine and lead her to the corner of the room, where I’ve had a dining table and chairs set up beneath a towering bookcase. More faux-candles flicker, making the glass vase dance, the red rose seeming starker and brighter somehow.

  “I still can’t believe you did this,” she smiles as I pull her chair out for her.

  “Of course I did,” I growl. “Do you like it?”

  “I love it,” she says. “Coming here was on my to-do list, but I didn’t expect it to be after hours.”

  “So, romance?” I say, sitting opposite her.

  “Wait a sec … How are we going to order anything? We’re in a bookshop.”

  I smirk. “It seems to me you’ll do anything to get out of talking about your writing, Fiona. But if you have to distract me, then I’ve arranged for a nearby restaurant to remain open. They’re going to bring the food and drinks over – whatever we want – when I text them.”

  “Oh,” she says, smiling in a way that sets my heart ablaze, beating like there’s a furnace under it. “You thought of everything, didn’t you?”

  “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you laugh, to see you smile at me,” I tell her.

  She bites her lip, setting other parts of me ablaze.

  My cock burns hotly as my desire tries to make me erupt across the table and fist her wavy hair, bend her over and claim every inch of her curvy body, bite and kiss all the right places until she’s shivering and ready to give me her virginity.

  “I’ve never felt like this before, either,” she says. “I don’t want to hold a grudge. Just never lie to me again.”

  “I won’t,” I growl. “I’d die before I did that. Now—your writing.”

  “Shall we order our drinks first?”

  I laugh, rolling my eyes. “You really are determined not to talk about this. Fine. Let’s order some damn drinks. Non-alcoholic champagne?”

  “You can get alcohol if you want,” she says. “I don’t mind.”

  “I’m not much of a drinker,” I tell her. “My uncle, he was, and it put me off. I’ll never judge you for drinking, though. When you’re old enough.”

  “Hey, I’m old enough in Paris,” she says. “I could neck a whole freaking bottle if I wanted to.”

  “Do you want to?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “I’ve never been much of a drinker, either. And I think I should probably keep my wits about me. I don’t want to lead you on.”

  “What?” I say, narrowing my eyes at her.

  “You know, what if I get all tipsy and confident and take you back to the hotel room, and then lose my nerve before we … you know?”

  “Fuck like wild animals?” I say, smirking as a blush spreads across her cheeks. “It’s okay, firecracker. You don’t need to be shy.”

  “I definitely do,” she says. “I feel like my face is on fire right now. Quick, get us some water and some non-alcoholic champagne to cool me off. And maybe some snails to start?”

  “Escargots, my angel,” I grin.

  “I forgot they give them a fancy name to make it seem less gross,” she giggles.

  “Right,” I say. “I’m ordering the drinks and a starter of snails, but no main course until you tell me about your book.”

  “I just want to put it on record that I haven’t agreed to this,” she giggles.

  “Alright, but only if you make sure to include the fact that I don’t give a damn.”

  She laughs again, the most glorious sound in the world.

  I pull out my cellphone and shoot off the text, and then reach across the table and take her hand.

  “I can’t tell you how good it feels to be here with you,” I say, a rumble in my voice, a shiver in my soul.

  She squeezes my hand, her fingers shaking, mirroring the rhythm of her lips.

  “I feel the same,” she says, her voice breaking a little. “But mostly I’m relieved you didn’t laugh when I came in here.”

  “Laugh?”

  “At my dress. Isn’t it a bit much for a book shop?”

  “No,” I tell her firmly. “You look elegant and beautiful. But, if you’d prefer, I could always tear it off you.”

  Her eyes swim and she averts her gaze, still a little shy even if she’s my firecracker.

  “Maybe later,” she murmurs. “Or maybe tomorrow—or the next day? I don’t know. I want it, though, Forrest. I promise I do.”

  “That’s all I need to hear,” I growl, as my heart pounds a predator’s beat in my chest. “Now, your writing. I’m not letting you get away without talking to me about it.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fiona

  Elegant and beautiful.

  His words chart a starry path around my chest as I sit back in the chair, placing my hands in my lap.

  He said that, didn’t he, about my dress and how it looks on me?


  I didn’t imagine it.

  Maybe there’s something wrong with me because, after everything that’s happened, compliments probably shouldn’t be my biggest concern right now.

  “Your novel, firecracker,” Forrest says, staring at me with those near silver eyes of his.

  His iron hair is swept back, the same shade as his suit, all of him glinting like armor in the faux-candlelight.

  “You haven’t even read any of my work,” I murmur. “Maybe I’m a terrible writer. Maybe you’re getting all interested in the work of an amateur. I mean, heck, technically, I am an amateur.”

  “You’re a master procrastinator, is what you are,” he smirks, this giant who spirited me here, this billionaire who fell for me just by looking at me through a café window.

  Is this madness, or is this real?

  Maybe it’s both.

  “So?” he says. “Or am I going to have to start spanking you every time you change the subject?”

  Shivers dance over me at the words, tickling against my skin, as though his hands are already gripping my flesh with possessive power.

  “The truth is,” I murmur, “I’ve made hardly any progress with my writing. All those times you watched me write, do you know what I was doing?”

  “Apart from looking drop-dead gorgeous?”

  I giggle and avert my gaze, a flush spreading across my cheeks, moving down my throat. I can feel it moving all over my body, colonizing all the different parts of me.

  “I can’t believe we can joke about this,” I say.

  “I’m not joking,” he growls. “You really did look beautiful—you do look beautiful.”

  I grip the edge of the table tightly for a moment, a spike of anxiety moving through me at the compliment.

  I keep seeing Zack Sykes’ leering face under the bleachers, his lies boiling through my mind.

  I force myself to release the table and take a breath.

  Forrest isn’t the same. He just made a mistake.

  And I don’t want to run away from Forrest, not even a little bit.

  “So, why no progress?” he asks, staring at me in that intense way of his, the way that makes me feel like I’m the only woman who matters.

  “I don’t know,” I sigh. “I start a project and then I lose my way. So I start another one. I’ve toyed with lots of different genres over the years, and right now I think romance is my jam. I love romance. But I guess it’s hard to write when I’ve never, you know, had a romance.”

  “Until now,” he says, reaching over and stroking his hand up my arm, across my cheek.

  I move my face toward his touch, savoring the strength of it.

  “Maybe I could write one based on us, huh?” I say. “I could write about you watching me, wanting me, and then taking me to Paris. I could write about how quick and crazy this has all been. Yeah, that could work. But maybe you wouldn’t want me writing about you. I’d use different names, obviously.”

  “Write away,” he says fiercely. “I can see how passionate you are. If you think you’ve got a project you can finish, a project that will bless the world with your talent, then do it, Fiona. Don’t let anybody stop you. I’ll support you all the way. I’ll set you up in a Parisian penthouse and lock you away until you have a finished manuscript.”

  I reach up and touch his hand, pressing it against my face, warm skin pressing against warm skin.

  “I’ve thought of that before,” I say. “Just disappearing someplace and not letting myself come out until I’m finished. But that would get in the way of my very fulfilling waitressing career.”

  He chuckles at my sarcasm, removing his hand.

  His quicksilver eyes dance with hilarity.

  “Oh, it’s your passion, is it?” he says, with heavy irony.

  “Oh yeah,” I giggle. “I wake up in the middle of the night thinking of all the different ways I can improve as a waitress. It really is my calling in life.”

  We laugh together and it feels like heaven, this release, this ability we have to forget the rest of the world and the past and the future and just be together.

  “You never need to wait tables again,” Forrest says.

  “What, just quit?”

  “Why not?” he says. “Money is no concern for you, Fiona. You don’t need to worry about it.”

  “What—you’d just pay my way?”

  “You’re going to be the mother of my children,” he snarls. “Of course I will. You deserve a palace and servants to wait on you.”

  I shake my head, looking around the yellow-lighted room, at the rows and rows of books. The room is filled with the smell of the books, gorgeous and tempting, calling me back to all the libraries and bookshops I’ve visited over the years.

  “I don’t think these writers got as good as they are by taking handouts.”

  “There have been plenty of wealthy authors over the years,” Forrest says. “But, if you really decide you don’t want to take my money, I’d never force it on you.”

  “I didn’t say that,” I laugh. “I just … I don’t know. Maybe let me think about it?”

  “You never have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he says. “Those days are over. You’re mine now. You belong to me, and that means I’ll protect your right to choose any path you want.”

  I move my hands over my belly as tingles move through me.

  My womb shivers and dances inside of me, as though she’s cheering at his words.

  It’s like she’s talking to me, You better take him up on his offer. We’re going to have a family to provide for. Let him support your writing journey.

  “Hungry?” he asks, nodding at my hands.

  With anybody else, I’d think this was a sly dig about my weight, but Forrest’s smirk is anything but combative. His eyes are a predator’s, focused and aimed at me, but kindness swells behind them as he meets my gaze.

  It’s a carnal sort of kindness, as though he’s telling me he’d kill anybody who tried to hurt or touch me.

  “Yes,” I say. “But it’s not that. I was just thinking about the future, our future. Our children.”

  “You still want that, don’t you, Fiona?” he snarls.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “Badly. Very badly.”

  “Good,” he sighs, voice tinged with relief. “And don’t worry about the other score. Our delicious meal of cold, sludgy snails will be here soon.”

  I giggle. “Oh, I can’t wait.”

  He leans forward, laying his forearms on the table. The fabric around his biceps tightens and squeezes, as though it’s trying not to burst apart at the seams under his body’s pressure.

  “Why did you start to write?” he asks.

  “I guess my dad leaving had a lot to do with it,” I murmur.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Kelly, my sister, she’s actually the one who pointed that out to me. Dad walked out on us when we were ten years old. He just disappeared one day, leaving a note behind, basically telling my mom he never wanted to be a dad.”

  “Fucking despicable,” Forrest snarls. “A man abandoning his family is unacceptable. He should be goddamned ashamed of himself.”

  I nod, biting my lip, something primal lighting up inside of me at his words.

  He’ll never abandon our family.

  He’ll never walk out and leave a pathetic note behind.

  “I started writing stories about where he went,” I say. “They were all make-believe, obviously. I had no idea where he was. But I imagined he’d become a spy or a knight in some far-off magical land. I lost myself in writing, and Kelly encouraged me. She read my stories aloud, using different voices for all the characters. I became addicted to it, I guess. Even if I’ve never finished a full-length project.”

  “You will,” he tells me firmly.

  “Thank you, Forrest,” I murmur.

  “Did you ever found out where your dad went?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “He went to Canada to live with this woman he’d be
en talking to online. When I was seventeen, I learned he’d died of lung cancer. He was always a smoker, and clearly, he never stopped. The woman contacted us and told us. She thought we should know.”

  “I’m sorry,” Forrest says, a growl in his voice. “Whatever he was, he was still your father. That must’ve hurt.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh. “But in a way … It’s too awful to say.”

  “It was a relief,” he says, eyes searing into me as if capturing the candlelight. “Because at least you knew where he was now. At least you didn’t have to wonder anymore.”

  “Is that terrible?” I ask.

  “It’s human,” Forrest says. “It’s how you felt, how you feel. You don’t have to be ashamed of that.”

  He reaches over and dabs at my cheek, wiping away a tear I didn’t even know was there.

  I grab his hand, squeeze onto it hard, feeling his knuckles and his warmth. His cologne, or maybe just his natural muskiness, wash over me, surround me.

  “Sorry for depressing us at dinner,” I murmur.

  “You don’t have to apologize to me,” he growls.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Did you ever learn what happened to your parents?”

  “They OD’d within a year of each other,” Forrest says. “My uncle died when I was in my teens. I’ve been alone for the past twenty-some years.”

  As the words rise on my lips, I hear Kelly in my mind, warning me to be careful, to take this slow, and not overextend myself. She’s screaming in my mind that I have to remember how this man lured me here—her word, which I hate.

  But there’s real pain in the cracking of his voice, withheld until he could tell somebody about it until he could tell me about it.

  “You’re not alone anymore,” I murmur, even as my instincts try to make me avert my gaze, to bite my lip, to do anything to still my words. “And you never will be again.”

  He walks around the table and kneels down next to me.

  For a crazy second, I think he’s going to take a ring from his silver jacket pocket.

  For an even crazier moment, I almost scream, Yes, yes, of course, I’ll marry you.

  How’s that for taking it slow?