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.