“Here you go,” I say.
“Okay,” she says. “But get ready to be really grossed out if I have to spit it out.”
“Nothing you do could ever gross me out,” I smirk. “Go on.”
She opens her mouth slowly, making me certain I can hear the sound of her lips parting, tempting me to do away with the snails and make a completely different use of her lips.
It’s so easy to imagine them parting in this shy way as I’m bringing the engorged helm of my manhood to her lips instead, pushing forward inch by inch until she has no choice but to take everything I’m giving her.
She takes the escargot and leans back, chewing slowly.
I’m captivated by the way her face changes, moving from curiosity to budding disgust, and then she pushes through that and ends up somewhere near shaky acceptance.
“Okay,” she says. “That’s not as terrible as I thought. But I have to be honest. I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
I grin, chuckling.
“That’s my thought exactly,” I say. “I suppose certain things just shock certain people.”
“Like us,” she says, looking at me with bravery flickering in her gem like eyes. “People might say, oh, there’s an age gap. Or they might say, she’s just with him for the money. They might say, it’s weird how he got her to Paris. But they don’t know what we’re really like, what we really … uh, value, I guess? I’m sorry. I thought I had a really good point there.”
“You do,” I say, my voice trembling with emotion. “I agree with everything you just said. You and I, firecracker, exist separately from the rest of the world. Nobody but us can understand this primal need we have, this certainty that we belong to each other.”
I reach across the table and touch her face, loving the way she turns her head to rub her cheek against my hand, making a soft sighing contended noise that has every part of me alight with my all-encompassing need for her.
“I’m so glad we’re here, together,” she murmurs. “I don’t care how we got here. Maybe I should, but I don’t. I’m just so glad this is happening. And …”
“Go on,” I murmur huskily.
“And I hope nothing happens to end it.”
“I’d die – I’d kill – before I let that happen. It’s me and you against the rest of the world, my sweet Fiona. Never forget that.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Fiona
“I’d like to read some of your writing,” Forrest says, his breath spreading warmly across my cheeks as we sit intertwined on our balcony, the sun beginning to set over the city, turning it blood-red and bruise-purple in turns.
My chest goes light and airy when I think back on the day we’ve had, starting with the escargots on the terrace and then heading to the Louvre to walk amongst all that beautiful art.
Of course, I had to get a famous Louvre photo, too, with my finger perched on the top of the glass pyramid. Forrest and I laughed like teenagers as he tried to adjust the angle of the camera, telling me a little this way, a little that way … until I realized he was playing games with me and I ran over to him, giggling.
The only downside was knowing that security was following us wherever we went, never far away, men in dark suits and sunglasses with earpieces watching our every move.
As we walked through the Louvre, I could see them shadowing us, waiting for Zack or one of his cronies to appear.
But, apart from that, it’s been the most magical day of my life.
When I mentioned to Forrest about going up the Eiffel Tower again, he smirked and got this look in his eyes.
“Patience, firecracker,” he told me. “When we go up there, I want it to be special.”
I’m not sure what he meant by that, but I trust him, as crazy as that may seem to somebody who doesn’t know how quickly we’ve fused together, our fate-fueled closeness crashing into both of us with undeniable intensity.
“Fiona,” he says now, giving me a squeeze.
We’re sitting together on a heavy armchair that seems to devour us as we relax in the evening air. His arms wrap around me, protecting me from all the heartache and pain of the world.
I know that Kelly’s right, that part of me should brim with anger for the way he brought me here.
But I can’t bring myself to feel that way when everything glitters so perfectly.
“It’s hard for me,” I murmur. “I’ve never shown anybody my writing before. Except for Kelly, and that was when we were kids. Recently – when I’ve really been going at it – I haven’t shown anybody anything.”
“I won’t push you to it if you don’t want to,” he says, his voice rumbling, husky and possessive. “But I know it’s going to be brilliant. I know I’ll love it.”
“But what if you don’t?” I whisper. “Would you tell me, or would you lie to me and say you liked it anyway?”
“I’d tell you,” he says firmly. “I’ll never lie to you again. I swear on my life, Fiona.”
“See, that’s the problem,” I cry, leaping to my feet and pacing over to the balcony.
I grip the railing and stare across the city, my heart somehow beating more fiercely now than it did when Zack swaggered into our bookshop date.
I know that makes no sense.
Sharing my work shouldn’t frighten me as much as a mobbed-up stalker.
And yet the fear is of a different kind, coiling around my heart with cold hands of possibility, of all the things Forrest might say and not say when he reads my work.
“What is?” Forrest murmurs, walking up beside me, placing his hand atop mine.
“If you don’t like it,” I say, “then I’m shattering this idea you have of me. You watched me work. You fell for that version of me. But what if you read it and it’s complete crap?”
“It isn’t,” he snarls. “And if it is – which it isn’t, I know it isn’t – but if it is, then I can help.”
“How?”
“This is pointless,” he sighs. “I know it’s going to be amazing.”
“How can you help?” I persist.
“I can hire you the best creative writing teachers in the world,” he says passionately. “If it came to that. But, like I said, it won’t. I know it won’t. So stop being a diva and go and get your laptop.”
I turn to him, smiling at the word diva. I love when he banters with me like this, because we both know that underneath it, always, is a firm foundation of want and need and belonging.
I grab his arm, feeling the solid press of his muscles through his shirt. He’s wearing a light white shirt and casual trousers, somehow looking suave and rugged at the same time, especially with the light dusting of silver hair across his strong square jaw.
“How badly do you want to read it?” I murmur.
“Very badly,” he says.
“More than you want … you know?”
He smirks and lifts his hand to my face, touching me softly, sending suggestive tendrils spiraling down my body.
“Still so shy,” he snarls. “No, Fiona. No, not as badly as that. I don’t want – need – anything as badly as I need to claim you, fully claim you. But unless you’re going to bend over and stick that pretty virgin ass out for me, unless you’re going to take my cock right here, you better go and get your laptop.”
I let out a shivering moan.
Even if I told him tonight, part of me wants to take him up on his offer.
But there’s a challenge in his glinting blues and I find myself wanting to rise to it, instead of cringing away and behaving weakly, cowardly, as I have so many times in my life.
“You have to promise not to laugh,” I tell him, stepping away because, if I don’t do it now, I know I won’t be able to.
“I’d never dream of hurting you like that,” he growls.
“Okay,” I say, nodding, taking a bolstering breath. “Just give me a sec, okay?”
I feel his eyes on me as I walk through the balcony doors and head into the suite.
Ever
since I said tonight to him over breakfast, his gaze has taken on a new intensity, as though he’s constantly undressing me with his eyes. It makes my skin tingle and sear as though any second I’m going to burst into flames at the attention.
I’ve never been looked at the way he drinks me in with his gaze before, as though there’s no other woman alive who could make him feel the way I do.
I can feel my clit rubbing wetly against my panties, hotly, burning with my need to give in to my desires and eschew my anxiety and self-doubt.
I get my laptop from the bedroom and carry it back through to the balcony, my heart thundering loudly in my ears.
“I’ve got a little short story you could read,” I murmur, joining him at the armchair.
I perch on the arm, open my laptop, and navigate to my story folder.
“Whoah,” he growls, sitting up. “You’ve written all of these?”
I nod as a blush blazes across my cheeks. My short story folder is bursting with almost one hundred stories.
“But some of these are literally two pages long,” I tell him. “And most of them aren’t finished. So don’t be too impressed, okay?”
He trails his fingers along my back, the pressure of his skin warm through the thin fabric of my dress. The sensation dances up and down my spine, coiling around my neck, teasing and captivating.
It travels down to my back and then between my legs, as though he’s grinding his palm against my clit with shadowy touches.
I shiver on the arm of the chair, which just makes my pussy grind against it, even more, my lips feeling as though they’re expanding there’s so much heat moving through me.
“Okay,” I say, struggling to keep a breathy sigh from my voice. “Maybe we can try this one.”
I open a story called ‘A Dream of a Dream.’ It’s basically a short experimental piece about a woman having a romantic dream and then waking up to find it was real … only to wake up again. The story isn’t great or anything, but I hope it gives him a decent idea of my writing style.
He reaches across to take the laptop and then chuckles when I don’t let go, holding it in place, not letting him take it from me.
“Are you planning on using it as a weapon again, firecracker?”
I laugh and stand up, finally letting him take it.
“I can’t look,” I say, standing at the balcony with my back to him, gazing out at the city.
“That’s fine by me,” he growls. “I’ve got the best view, anyway. Be a good girl and stick that ass out as I read. Touch that pussy for me, too. It might help you relax.”
“Are you kidding?” I moan, the twitching need in my voice betraying me.
He knows I want to do it.
“You’ve been grinding your sweet slit against me all afternoon,” he growls. “You’re soaked, you horny fucking firecracker. I can tell. Go on. I want you to get nice and horny as I read.”
“Fuck,” I whisper, sticking my ass out as I slide my hand down my dress, cupping my sex through my dress.
“Jesus Christ,” he moans. “Now—rub it. Go on. Fucking rub it for me.”
I grind my palm against my dress and my panties, the pressure rubbing hotly up and down my pussy, making me want to explode right here.
He’s right.
Rubbing myself makes it easier not to think about the fact he’s reading my story, exploring the inner workings of my soul.
“Are you reading it?” I moan.
“Yes,” he snarls. “But don’t you fucking dare stop rubbing that sweet wet pussy, Fiona. Go under that dress. Push your panties aside. Feel how wet you are for me.”
I whimper as I do as he says, hiking my dress up and grazing my fingers along my panties. I rub my fingertips against my clit, biting down as my vision wavers with the budding release.
I didn’t realize how badly I wanted to touch myself – for him to touch me – until my clit vibrates and screams at the contact.
“This is amazing,” he groans.
“It feels so good,” I moan, rubbing two fingers against my clit now, tingles rising up into my belly and swirling uncontrollably.
“No, not that,” he growls. “I mean, yes—yes, that. You look incredible. You sound even fucking better. And the way you’re sticking those big round juicy ass cheeks out has got my mouth watering. But I was talking about your story.”
That’s probably the only thing he could say to make my hand drop.
I turn to him, my dress falling back down around my knees.
“Are you serious?” I whisper, gazing at him as he sits on the chair, legs wide, dominating the chair the same way he has dominated the business world his whole life.
He places the laptop on the glass table and leans forward, staring at me with those pin-me-in-place eyes of his.
“I’m deadly serious,” he snarls. “I love the way you use imagery. Your dialogue made me smile. I’m not a literary man by any measure, but I’d read a book written like that, Fiona. I swear on our future children’s lives. I’m not lying to you.”
I leap across the balcony.
Even as a thousand voices scream inside of me that he’ll laugh at me, that I’m making a fool out of myself, I lean down and place my hands on his legs. I lean close, knowing he’ll be able to see down the front of my dress.
“Promise,” I moan.
“I promise,” he snarls, snatching his hand out and grabbing my ass.
He grips it firmly, possessively, so that I know my skin will be red under his touch.
I lean even closer to him, my breathing getting short, my chest going tight.
“I’m ready,” I whimper.
His eyes widen for a moment, and then he smirks through a shivering growl.
“Don’t play games with me,” he says, leaning forward, his whole body throbbing and pulsing.
I can track the lines of his muscles through the fabric of his shirt, the way they expand like there’s a furnace inside of him.
“I mean it,” I whimper. “I want it. Just don’t be disappointed—”
I giggle and squeal as he bolts to his feet, putting one arm under my legs and bracing my back with the other.
Before I know it, he’s got me cradled against his chest, carrying me in a way I never dreamed I’d be handled.
I feel weightless as he walks toward the balcony door.
“Where are we going?” I laugh in delight.
“Where do you think?” he growls, beast-like. “The goddamn bedroom.”
I squeal when he drops me onto the silk sheets, the mattress bouncing beneath me.
He looms over the bed, standing over me with his hands hanging at his sides like weapons he’s itching to use, his quicksilver eyes flitting up and down me in unrestrained desire.
“Fuck, I need to see you,” he pants, leaning down and bringing his hands to my hips.
I sit up to help him as he pulls my dress up, lifting my arms so he can pull it over my head. I’m achingly aware of my body, both in good and bad ways.
I can feel my clit burning and singing, and I can feel my womb throbbing and rejoicing.
But I can also feel my size, the way my body shivers.
But then Forrest steps back and gazes down at me again, and this time I don’t feel any self-consciousness at all.
I feel…
“Beautiful,” he snarls, completing the sentence for me. “Everything about you is so damn perfect. Bend over. I need to see that ass. I need to see that sweet pink slit.”
“Like this?” I moan, climbing onto all fours.
“Now—stick your ass out. Arch your back.”
“Like this?” I moan, following his commands as best I can.
I look over my shoulder to see his fingers twitching, his eyes glued to my ass.
“Fuck, you’re so damn hot. That ass was made for spanking, for biting, for using in any damn way I want. Tell me to spank you, Fiona. Moan for it.”
“Spank me, Forrest,” I cry.
He brings his hand down i
n a stinging kiss of pleasure on my ass cheek, more a playful tap than a real spank. I love that we can exist in this place, between kinkiness and understanding that I’m not going to instantly be a porn star in bed.
“Hmm, that feels juicy,” he growls.
He reaches down and smooths his hands over my ass cheeks, softly at first, and then applies more pressure as I start to twitch and buck my hips.
His fingers skirting so close to my sex—it’s driving me crazy.
He grabs my panties and pulls them slowly down, tickling my skin and whispering against my sex. I shiver against his touch, sticking my ass out even more as he inches them further and further down toward my knees.
I feel every single moment of the pleasure, euphoric sensations blistering across my skin and making my toes curl.
“Fuck,” he snarls, once he’s pulled my panties over my feet. “I need to take you from behind. I know it’s your first time. But I need to see those ass cheeks crashing against me. I need to see you thrusting those hips for me.”
“Do it,” I moan, squeezing my thighs together so hard I’m sure my pussy is going to explode. “Do it, do it, do it.”
“Are you sure?” he growls, his voice shivering.
“Yes,” I cry. “I want it however you want it, Forrest.”
“Goddamn, you’re perfect,” he growls.
I gasp when he brings his finger to my hole, moving it around in small circles that drive me further and further into carnal madness.
Finally, he pushes his finger inside of me and I collapse forward, my breasts pressing into the silk sheets.
“It’s so hot,” I pant. “Oh, fuck—it’s electric, Forrest. It’s … ah, ah, ah.”
He pumps his finger in and out of my hole, fucking me with his hand, his knuckles pressing into my ass cheeks over and over with pulsing pleasure.
“Come for me,” he snarls. “And then you get your prize, your horny perfect thing. Then you get to feel my massive cock opening that virgin slit as wide as it can go. You get to feel my seed pumping into you as your womb greedily drinks up every single drop.”
“Ah,” I gasp, biting down on the sheets to stop myself from screaming.
He pauses with his finger inside of me, his fingertip pressed against a sweet spot deep within my sex.
Paris With The Billionaire: An Instalove Possessive Age Gap Romance Page 10
