Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
We hadn’t grabbed breakfast or lunch at his hotel.
We’d been too busy fucking.
My pussy was so sore, but I knew that once we hit California we would be fucking some more.
How did I get so lucky?
His long fingers drummed against the armrest, and I hated how much I wanted to touch them.
Scratch that.
I didn’t hate it.
I was just getting used to the fact that my life had taken a full-blown romance novel turn in the span of 24 hours. One moment, I was in New York for a much-needed solo trip, rediscovering my confidence after years of putting myself last. The next, I was tangled in the sheets with him—a man who moved like he owned the world and yet looked at me like I was the most exquisite thing he’d ever seen.
And now?
Now, I was flying back to California with him.
Not only was Fabien coming with me, but his assistant had already locked down a beach house for him ten minutes from mine.
Ten. Minutes.
This man wasn’t even pretending to take it slow.
I should’ve been freaked out.
I should’ve had several questions about what the hell I was doing.
But instead, when I looked at him—at that sharp jaw, those full lips, that completely ridiculous head of tousled French perfection—I felt something foreign and wonderful settle in my chest.
Peace.
Because I wanted this too.
Fabien’s deep, velvety voice broke through my thoughts. “Why are you staring at me, mon amour?”
Heat flooded my face. “I wasn’t staring.”
He smirked, that sexy, devastatingly arrogant smirk. “Liar.”
I huffed. “Have you decided on what we will have to eat?”
“Mon dieu, this menu is a tragedy. Where is the foi gras? The truffle butter? The duck confit? The fresh-baked brioche with fig compote? What is this. . .mediocrity?”
Chuckling, I glanced down at my own menu, scanning the options. “Babe, they have filet mignon, lobster ravioli, and an actual cheese plate. I think you’ll survive.”
He leveled me with a look. “You think this is acceptable?”
“Considering I would’ve been back there eating pretzels in coach? Yes.”
He pointed at me. “Never will I allow you to fly coach again.”
“Alright.”
“Never.”
“I got it.” I did my best to not laugh since his face was so serious.
He glanced out of the window. “I am about to spend half of my time in a country that considers Cheese Whiz a part of an actual food group. I must prepare myself.”
I snorted. “You do realize California has some of the best fine dining in the country, right?”
He looked back at me and waved a dismissive hand. “I will be the judge of that.”
Actually, he would.
Because apparently, once he notified the company this morning, they gave him an assignment that would start in two weeks.
He would need to inspect a restaurant in Los Angeles for a Stellar Star.
And because he wasn’t subtle at all, he had already asked me to go with him.
So now, in addition to having the best sex of my life, I would also be experiencing fine dining in L.A., eating food prepared by chefs whose plates probably cost more than my rent.
This is my life now.
I exhaled and reached for the seatbelt strap, but Fabien’s hands were faster.
He took the belt from me and buckled me in, his fingers brushing against my stomach a little too slowly, like he wanted me to feel him.
My breath caught.
It was such a small thing, but the deliberate way he touched me had me pressing my thighs together.
He gazed at me. “Thank God, I will have you, Rae. In the end that is all that will ever matter.”
I swallowed.
Hard.
The way he said that.
Like he had already been thinking of what ring he would buy me to propose.
I cleared my throat. “I’m so happy you’re coming with me. I plan to help you fall in love with California.”
He smirked. “Just be naked and that will be enough.”
“Then. . .once the movie is done within another month—”
“I can show you the beauty of France, and perhaps introduce you to some of my film director friends that may need an intimacy coordinator on their next films.”
“Just coincidentally they will need one?”
“Of course. No ulterior motive at all. Not even calling in favors or anything.”
“Liar.”
We laughed together.
The flight attendant walked up to us, and we gave her our orders.
When the plane finally began its ascent, I took a deep breath and looked down at myself, especially my stomach that pushed out against my dress’s fabric.
You are worthy. You are deserving.
I was comfortable in my body—I had worked hard to get here.
But I wasn’t used to this.
Wasn’t used to men looking at me like Fabien did.
I didn’t have the Instagram model curves or the Hollywood standard of beauty.
I was soft, thick, natural, and very much a real woman.
And Fabien?
He was drop-dead gorgeous, rich, and powerful—a man who could have anyone.
Yet here he was.
With me.
My fingers brushed over my stomach, and just as self-doubt started to creep in, Fabien caught my wrist.