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I don’t trust myself to explore my fantasies under the gaze of anybody else.
I don’t trust myself not to explode ferociously if another man dares to drink in the sight of her.
I lead her over to the wheel, sliding my hands down her arms until they rest atop hers. Her skin goose-pimples and I can feel the need in her, as potent and as hungry as the need flaring through me.
But she’s being a good girl and containing it, just the same as I am.
“Do you trust me?” she mutters. “What if I crash?”
“You won’t,” I tell her firmly. “I’ll be right here.”
I’ll always be right here, for the rest of our lives, I want to roar, but something rises up inside of me and blocks the words.
I’ve never felt this way about a woman before.
The last thing I want to do is give her too much too fast.
And yet the urge to tell her the full magnitude of her importance to me is starting to bubble and hiss like a volcano on the verge of exploding.
“Whoah, okay,” she laughs, as she takes control and guides us steadily down the river.
Another boat passes by, and I raise my hand and wave.
“Aren’t you going to wave?” I whisper in my woman’s ear, tickling her side softly.
She giggles. “I can’t take my hands off the wheel.”
“You’re so damn cute, you know that?”
“Really?” she says, turning to face me briefly, before snapping her gaze back to the water.
There’s so much in that brief look, an entire universe contained within the intimacy of her expression, sparkling and teasing and begging me to kiss her.
I wrap my hands around her waist and lean down, kissing the top of her head softly, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair.
She wriggles against me. “That’s very distracting, you know.”
“Tell me to stop, then,” I chuckle.
“You know I can’t,” she whispers, with that shy-sassy moan in her voice, a mixture I will never tire of hearing.
“Then you must know I can’t, either,” I smirk. “Careful. There’s another boat coming up.”
“No, you go,” she laughs, stepping away. “I don’t trust myself.”
“You should,” I tell her fiercely, stepping forward and taking the wheel. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“How can you say that when we just met?” she murmurs.
I keep one hand on the wheel and reach across with the other, cradling her cheek, staring at her.
“Because I see you, Fiona,” I growl. “I see all of all. All the little pieces that make you, you, I see them. I respect them. I cherish them. I …”
I trail off, turning back to the Seine.
This is exactly what I wanted to avoid, coming on too strong like this.
I need to maintain my poise the same way I do in business meetings, but right now I feel as though I’m constantly on the edge, ready to grab my woman and tell her all these crazy things at any second, things that might push her away.
“Thank you,” she whispers from beside me. “That means a lot, Forrest.”
I press my hand against the small of her back as we ride the elevator up. She’s sweaty and hot through the thin fabric of her dress, her skin alive with all the life inside of her.
My hand is right above her ass, so I can feel the way it flares.
I bite down in an effort to stop myself from smoothing my touch down and palming the juicy bulbs of her ass, squeezing, caressing.
“You have to let me pay for lunch,” she says.
I laugh. “This again, firecracker?”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“All you have to do is sit there and look fucking gorgeous,” I snarl. “Now stop talking about money.”
She never has to think about money again. For the rest of her life, whatever she wants to do, she can do. She can pursue her writing career without having to stress herself about whether or not she can pay her bills.
She can dedicate herself to her talent completely, enthusiastically, like I know she wants to.
I glance down at her as we ascend higher and higher, as though we’re going to fly away from Paris and into some separate plane, a place that belongs just to us.
I wonder if I should tell her the truth—all the truth.
I wonder how she’d react.
I don’t want to lie to her.
The very notion of it sends jagged blades of resentment into my belly, twisting and stabbing and hating. But if I told her now, she might run. She might be scared.
I’ve never felt this certainty before. This woman is the future mother of my children.
I can’t frighten her away.
I only want the best for her.
Or is that just a lie I’m telling myself as well as her?
Am I just being selfish here?
“Forrest,” she murmurs, looking at me from the open elevator door, standing with her arm raised to stop it from closing.
