Claimed by the Hotel Owner: An Age Gap Romance

By Isla Chiu

“You know it isn’t safe for a young woman to squat in a closet,” Chris says.

I clench my fist, resisting the impulse to snarl, It’s not like I was squatting for fun. “My choices were limited.”

A startled noise escapes my mouth when he draws me onto his lap.

“Then you’re stuck with me, Jewel,” he says in a low voice.

Before I can say anything, he wraps his arms around me and kisses me.

To my complete and utter surprise, I’m not repulsed by his kiss. In fact, I’m having quite the opposite reaction. I open my lips, allowing him to plunge his tongue into my mouth. He tastes like whipped cream and fine espresso.

“You’re mine, Jewel,” he rasps.

WORD COUNT: 5,000

A sexy short story about a young woman and a handsome hotel owner!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Isla Chiu
• Release date: Dec 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005676346

Isla Chiu

When I manage to tear myself away from taking Buzzfeed quizzes and watching unhealthy amounts of TV, I write romance and smut. My works feature alpha males, sexy times, and/or my sarcastic sense of humor. I hail from Cleveland, aka the best freaking city in the world, and believe LeBron James is the perfect human being. Despite all of my efforts, I have never truly been able to quit caffeine. My favorites include Taylor Swift, Florence + the Machine, and SHINee. I love to hate/hate to love k-dramas. If I say I’m on a diet, I’m just lying to you and myself. One of these days, I'm going to get hypertension from an excess of salt, both literal and figurative. If I'm awkward around you, I probably don't know what to say to you and/or I think you're hot. And despite what anyone says, Forrest Gump so deserved that Oscar over Pulp Fiction.

Book preview

Claimed by the Hotel Owner

I LOOK THROUGH THE peephole, watching an old man struggle to open the door to his suite with his keycard. My stomach lets out an impatient growl when he drops his card. The minute he takes to bend over and pick it up feels like an hour. When he starts futilely whacking the door with his keycard again, I let out a groan.

I so want to get out and help him. But I can't risk him seeing me walk out of this room–or to be more accurate, this closet. Plus, the last time I helped someone with her keycard, she started asking too many questions. What's your name? What do you do for a living? Which room are you staying in?

All questions I couldn't answer honestly. I hate lying because I suck at it, and I got the feeling that the lady could tell.

So no helping the old man.

I groan again when the keycard falls out of his hand.

Like an angel coming down from heaven, a bellboy appears. My empty belly rejoices when the bellboy helps the old man get into his room.

After the old man closes his door and the bellboy goes into the elevator, the coast is clear. I practically race out of the closet and go down the staircase to the breakfast buffet, aka the only reason I haven’t suffered major malnutrition.

Act like you belong here, act like you belong here, I repeat in my head when I see all the hotel guests in their designer clothes. It