Paris with the Billionaire

“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.