There’s a moment where I’m sure it’s real, that that’s really how last night went.
But no, I realize as the sunlight shines through the hazy curtains and comes to rest on my face.
Forrest left and I lay here, anxiety replacing the budding confidence that grew within me as he claimed my sex.
I close my eyes and relive last night, telling myself it was real.
I didn’t dream it.
When I woke to find him looming over me, his hard-muscled body framed in moonlight, I felt sure the bed was going to disappear beneath me and I’d jolt awake.
But then he claimed my lips, kissing me hard, passionately, until I felt like I could sizzle and burst into an orgasm from the kissing alone.
When he touched my sex, I was on fire, burning up.
But then he wanted more …
What the heck was I supposed to say to him?
I wish I was what he clearly thinks I am, some fun loving woman who can jump into bed without a moment of self-doubt.
I get up and walk into the ensuite, take a quick shower, and then change into a long summer dress. My phone tells me the day’s going to be unseasonably warm, the perfect weather for my first full day in Paris.
I respond to texts from Mom and Kelly, and then I walk out of my room and head out to the balcony.
I want to take a look at the city in the glistening daylight.
“Finally,” Forrest says as I walk onto the balcony.
I flinch and look down at him, though he’s so tall, even when he’s sitting, we’re almost eye to eye.
He’s wearing a steel-colored suit, his hair swept back, his eyes intense.
Shimmers move through me as I automatically undress him, remembering how his muscles bulged last night, how his manhood pushed against his boxer briefs and became a savage thick outline.
“I thought I was going to have to eat breakfast alone,” he says, waving a hand at the table.
My legs feel ridiculously shaky as I take the seat opposite him. In the bright spring daylight, with the Eiffel Tower, well, towering over us, last night feels even more difficult to believe.
He smirks across at me. “Sleep well?”
“Pretty good,” I murmur.
“I didn’t,” he says, his eyes gazing into me. “I was too distracted by you, my firecracker.”
“I thought you’d be mad,” I murmur, looking down at the table.
I flinch when he reaches across, touching my chin with his thumb and forefinger and directing my gaze back to him.
“I’m not mad,” he snarls. “I’m disappointed I didn’t get to feel you, really feel you, but that can wait.”
“Really?” I murmur a shimmer in my voice.
He nods. “Let’s order breakfast. What are you in the mood for?”
I giggle, shaking my head.
“What?” he smirks, voice husky and full of unspoken wants.
“It’s just … I’m in Paris, with a billionaire I met last night, and we kissed—and we did other things. It’s just a whole lot to take in. I still don’t know why you’re even interested in me.”
He sighs heavily. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that, Fiona. You have so much to offer. You’re beautiful. You’re modest. You’re curvier then I could dream up in my wildest fantasies. You’re passionate.”
I state at him, my mouth falling open.
“You’re not making any of this easier to believe when you say stuff like that,” I tell him.
He smirks and smooths his hand from my chin to my cheek, cradling my face.
“Believe it,” he growls.
He snatches his hand away, his jaw pulsing. It’s the same way it pulsed last night when he abruptly strode from the room. He told me I had nothing to be sorry for, but the way he left made it seem like the opposite.
I was sure he’d be mad.
Or that he’d disappear from the suite this morning, perhaps leaving a note behind telling me he wants me out by the end of the day.
“What?” he says.
“What?” I murmur, and then I smile and he smirks.
Something hums between us, something unspoken but no less real.
“You’re looking at me funny,” he grins, wolfishly.
“I was just wondering why you snatched your hand away like that, I guess.”
He leans forward, his biceps bulging in the suit jacket. His shirt creases against the shape of his pectoral muscles.
“If I didn’t move away,” he growls, “I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from losing control. I’d bend you over this table and pull that gorgeous fucking dress up, and then I’d slam into you rough from behind as you scream and whimper and tell me you can’t take it—even as your pussy sends rivers of come down my cock. That, my little firecracker, is why I had to let you go.”
I repress a breathy sigh that starts deep in my belly and tries to work its way up my throat, tickling every part of me it passes. I feel that weird pulsing deep inside of me again, as though some primal piece of me is screaming to throw myself at this man, to mount him, to shift my hips until he’s gasping and exploding inside of me.