Taken by the Billionaire in Paris

By Kayden Jones

This is a standalone insta-lust age-gap romance novella with a lot of steam.

He knows what I want better than I do...

Charles finds me in Paris and sweeps me off my feet in an instant. Specks of gray in his hair, his godlike body and his impeccable taste in art make my head spin, and as we meet sunset on top of the Eiffel Tower he claims me completely...
***
Turns out art collecting was just one of his hobbies that he indulges in when he is not busy making billions. A whole palace in the center of Paris, an army of servants and... a stinging betrayal that makes me leave him without saying goodbye.
***
Back in New York I still can't get over him, even though I know I could never forgive him. Until he just comes and proves me wrong, and now the only question is, will he ever forgive me?

For adult eyes only. All characters are over eighteen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kayden Jones
• Release date: Apr 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224570607

Kayden Jones

Kayden had a lot of adventures during her teenage years and a lot of fun with dominant older men. Now she writes about these adventures in her books unless she is busy getting seduced by another older alpha!You are guaranteed to find a lot of dominant older men and submissive young women on the pages of her books, so grab a copy and enjoy![e-mail]

Book preview

Taken by the Billionaire in Paris

Claimed by an Older Man

Kayden Jones

Copyright © 2024 Kayden Jones

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter One

Istroll along the Seine, the warm breeze tousling my long hair. The summer sun casts a golden glow over the cobblestones, and the air is thick with the scent of fresh flowers and coffee from nearby cafes. Paris in July is like a lover’s caress, gentle yet insistent. The chatter of tourists blends with the soft strumming of a street musician’s guitar, creating a symphony that dances through the atmosphere.

People laugh and couples lean into each other as they pass by, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of envy at their easy intimacy. I left the frantic buzz of New York to escape the mundane, to help break through the writer’s block that plagued me for months, but it isn’t working. I want to clear my head and forget the world just like all these people around me, but I just can’t let it go.

I just can’t get over the fact that I wrote my best novel and nobody wants to publish it.

A small collection of canvases catches my eye, an impromptu gallery displayed on easels along the riverbank. An elderly woman, her grey hair twisted into a neat bun, gestures for me to come closer. Her smile is toothless but genuine. I weave through the paintings, my gaze drifting from one mediocre piece to another until I stop dead before one particular canvas.

It’s magical, a painting that seems to pulse with life. A couple entwined, their bodies a mix of bold strokes and delicate shadings, perfectly capturing the tumultuous dance of passion and desire. They’re caught in an eternal moment of ecstasy, the man’s hands firm on the woman’s curves, her back arched in a silent plea for more. There’s something about the way the artist plays with shadow and light that captivates me, the colors bleeding into each other like the merging of souls.

Good taste, a raspy voice breaks my trance.

I spin around, and there he stands—a tall, sexy man who radiates dominance in every line of his body. I think he is in his forties and he has the kind of mature allure that makes my heart race. His short dark hair is peppered with grey, and his blue eyes seem to see right through me.

Charles Stanford, pleased to meet you. Retired from business, he explains with a confident smile, now an art collector. And this here, he gestures to the painting that ensnared me, is the only piece worth a damn.

His presence is overwhelming, and for a moment, I’m lost in his gaze. Olivia… I didn’t expect to meet another American just like this, I admit.

Must be fate, Charles suggests, his voice a seductive purr. How about I show you the city and we find out what else the fate has in store for us?

I nod slowly, my thoughts a mix of question and agreement.

His offer is too enticing to refuse.

He leads me to a small café where the aroma of baking and brewing wraps around us like a warm blanket.

Charles turns to the waiter with a confident air. Excusez-moi, monsieur, he begins, effortlessly weaving an order in French, each syllable smooth and assured. The waiter, clearly surprised, nods in understanding and retreats, leaving us alone once more.

I blink at him, my heart fluttering a little. You speak French?

His lips curl into a smirk. Oui, Mademoiselle Carson. Did that surprise you?

My cheeks warm at the teasing lilt in his voice. Just a bit, I admit, unable to hide my delight.

Charles leans in, his voice dropping to a low whisper that sends a thrilling shiver down my spine. You see, Olivia, he murmurs, French is the language of love. His words hang in the air between us, an invitation waiting to be accepted.

Let me teach you, he offers as the waiter brings coffee and an assortment of desserts.

Crème brûlée, he