**WATTPAD HQ EDITOR'S PICK Nov/Dec 2021**
BOOK ONE in the STEAMY FORBIDDEN ROMANCE series
Coralie Watson, a British thirty-year-old living in San Francisco, has a tormented past with men. Physical and mental abuse, abandonment issues, incompatibili...
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🔥 STEAMY ALERT—mild steaminess in this chapter! 🔥
♫ One little kiss can turn into a thousand One little touch and I'm gone ♪ (Bebe Rexha—Self Control)
Hair tousled into a messy bun, oversized purse hanging from her shoulder, Coralie dragged her suitcase along the narrow pathways. The Charles de Gaulle Airport fascinated her; filled with luxury boutiques, exotic language-speaking tourists, and flashing French signs.
The farther she was from baggage claim, and from the customs officers, the closer she was to the one who'd brought her there. The one she'd been yearning to see for too long.
Ryan.
He'd bought her a non-stop ticket from San Francisco to Paris and put her up in business class. Business class? Used to the standard end-of-the-wing seats and the crappy tray tables and the incessant disturbances from rowdy families, Coralie had had the best plane-ride of her life. She'd been cozy in her plush seat, sipping on complimentary champagne. She watched silly movies to not to fall asleep—because every time her eyes closed, she pictured Ryan. Dreams of fawning over him in his birthday suit, lounging on a bed of soft satin sheets, tapping the space beside him.
But she wouldn't be caught in her fantasies while inundated by so many passengers; she'd made that mistake last time she was on an aircraft.
Prowling through the throngs of impatient people, desperate to find the glass doors behind which Ryan would stand, she didn't regret the bubbly beverage she'd indulged in, because it eased her nerves. Since the second she'd finished packing her bags and listened to Delilah's long list of do's and don'ts and scampered out the door, she'd been dealing with drunken butterflies in her belly. The amount of winged creatures flapping about had multiplied once she'd received the confirmation number for her flight. It made it all real.
Hours and hours later, having passed customs in a jiffy thanks to her United Kingdom passport, she strolled through the sliding doors, scanning the horizon for—
"Cora!"
There he was, pushing out of the crowd, a bouquet of red roses in his grasp. His usually close-to-buzzed scalp showed hair that had gotten a little longer, and a few curls dashed down his temples as he hurried over to her, his shiny loafers clacking on the tiled floor.
She was too overcome with emotion to pay much attention to his clothes, but she spotted a denim pattern and a collar and buttons undone at the top, as usual.
Eyes sparkling, he immediately took her in his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth—no shame, no hesitation, not a care in the world that anyone might be watching.
Though shocked at his very public display of affection—were there cameras anywhere that Gemma might somehow hack?—she returned the kiss, letting her purse strap sway down her arm. The bag tumbled to the ground, and though she would usually panic, worried all the contents would spill out, she only had eyes for him.
