The Frenchman's Bride Read online

  The Frenchman’s Bride (A BWWM Billionaire Romance)

  Imani King

  Contents

  The Frenchman’s Bride

  1. Blaize Simon

  2. Chelsea Dixon

  3. Blaize

  4. Chelsea

  5. Blaize

  6. Chelsea

  7. Blaize

  8. Chelsea

  9. Blaize

  10. Chelsea

  11. Blaize

  12. Chelsea

  13. Blaize

  14. Chelsea

  15. Blaize

  16. Chelsea

  17. Blaize

  18. Chelsea

  19. Blaize

  20. Chelsea

  21. Blaize

  22. Chelsea

  23. Blaize

  24. Chelsea

  25. Blaize

  26. Chelsea

  27. Blaize

  28. Chelsea

  29. Blaize

  30. Chelsea

  31. Blaize

  32. Chelsea

  33. Blaize

  34. Chelsea

  35. Blaize

  Epilogue

  Volume 1

  My Secret Billionaire

  Want more from Imani King?

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  More from Imani King

  The Frenchman’s Bride

  By Imani King

  The Frenchman’s Bride is a steamy Romance Novel with a happy-ever-after and NO CLIFFHANGER!

  Mega-rich, mega-handsome Blaize Simon is France’s hottest, best-selling author/filmmaker and he’s back in Los Angeles promoting his latest smash-hit novel.

  But problems arise for the French playboy as soon as he sets foot on American soil: A visa snafu, and his undeniable taste for trouble threaten his ability to stay and work in the United States.

  His scheming (but always well-meaning), agent suggests a highly questionable work-around: Why not just marry a U.S. citizen? Or possibly have a child with one? Sacré Bleu! Marriage has always been a totally obnoxious idea to the die-hard bad boy!

  Except...........this time he’s smitten with pastry chef extraordinaire Chelsea Dixon. Chelsea’s beauty and sweet talents captivate and capture the footloose Frenchman. But are his feelings for her real or just more fiction? And is she willing to settle for a pretend marriage? Not to worry; her feisty dad, Willie, is prepared to protect his “baby girl” at all costs.

  1

  Blaize Simon

  Looking out over my sprawling estate from the rooftop terrace of my chateau, I felt like an underworld god smiling down on his own private Sodom and Gomorrah. My insane party guests provided endless entertainment with their drunken antics. They were five hundred of my closest “friends” in various stages of undress, enjoying the fucking shit out of seemingly every corner of my property, in every demented way possible. One could hardly call it a party, though. They were always fucking epic events!

  And that is precisely the way the news media described them: “Depraved Epic Events”, to be exact. The release of each of my books and movies was always cause to celebrate in high style at my 200 year-old villa on the Seine. Located fifty miles outside Paris, there were no pesky neighbors to complain about the noise level. Did I say noise? That was an understatement. The bass vibrations of the techno dance music could be felt pulsating throughout all 69 rooms of the main house. The walls and floors thumped to the steady beat and the window glass shook in sync with the rhythm. I could barely hear myself think, but that didn’t matter. My ever-ready dick was doing all my thinking for me at the moment. The time had arrived for me to wade amongst the throng of hopefuls below and select the two or three lucky girls I deemed worthy for a private rooftop “meet and greet.”

  As I mingled and snaked my way through the guests, I kept my eyes open for any and all girls who appeared to be “unusually adventurous”. My latest vampire novel inspired some of the partiers to come in costume. There were a number of luscious ladies slinking around in gothic-looking bat outfits, complete with brilliantly realistic fangs. Although I appreciated their creative enthusiasm, I noted the obvious possible problem for me in the cock-sucking department and decided to pass on the blood-curdling experience. One of them turned and clawed at the crotch of my trousers, digging into my family jewels with her three-inch black fingernails, and almost causing me to drop my drink.

  “Hey what the fuck? Control yourself sweetheart! Don’t force me to spank you!”

  Surveying the grounds of my mini-kingdom, I was utterly thrilled with the level of debauchery that was taking place in and around my swimming pool. My “peeps” appeared to be setting a new low in merrymaking: Premium booze flowed freely. As usual, my horny little guests were exchanging sexual favors in the dark shadows of the spooky purple and red outdoor lighting.

  Out of nowhere, two water-filled condom balloons whizzed past my head in rapid succession and exploded onto the crowded patio. My attention was quickly diverted to the packed second-story balcony above, where a heavenly vision stood wearing nothing but a red satin Dracula cape. She slowly raised her arms over her head, paused for dramatic effect and then did a perfectly executed swan dive into the pool.

  When she surfaced for air, I was able to catch a glimpse of her teeth and happily noted her lack of fangs. I decided that she would be a perfect candidate for the private rooftop rendezvous with yours truly and headed back toward the house to seek out others.

  Once inside, I could instantly feel the entire house quaking with the music and dancing from the makeshift disco club on the second floor. Not surprisingly, my lavish kitchen was practically wall-to-wall people gorging themselves on the impressive array of delectable gourmet foods, rare French wines, and the most orgasmic desserts imaginable.

  A petite little mademoiselle with long lavender hair sat perched high atop a barstool, and she immediately caught my eye. Her pink laced demi-bra was overflowing with young firm tits and her thong panties were practically screaming, “Oh Blaize, please rip me off with your teeth!”

  I had apparently come in on the tail-end of a conversation I would have loved to have participated in, as she was now attempting to pinch a chocolate éclair off the dessert tray with her ass cheeks. I was completely astounded when she managed it. My cock hardened like a cement sidewalk. Fuck she was hot! She was also the lucky winner of spot number two for the rooftop threesome.

  I immediately dialed my agent and longtime friend, Rolande Girard to give him the descriptions and locations of my two lovely choices. I knew he was enjoying himself somewhere amongst the multitude of other revelers, but the premises were just too large for me to search for him.

  “Will you escort both lovelies up to me please, my oldest and most trusted ass kisser?” I yelled into the phone so he could hear me above the musical din.

  “Absolutely!” he screamed back, “Your wish is my command, oh royal douchebag.”

  His voice was almost hoarse. I lo
ved Rolande. He was the brother I never had. I headed up to my top floor bedroom suite and waited outside on the terrace for the real fun to begin.

  Rolande appeared in the doorway of my suite wearing only his necktie and striped boxers, his arms entwined around both mouth-watering beauties. “Knock knock! Special delivery for Mr. Blaize Simon! Permission to enter your den of delinquency!”

  “I’m on the terrace! Bring them out here!” The warm summer air felt just perfect for a balcony fuck-fest.

  “Are you in a sharing mood tonight, master? I think I might have blown my chance with the girl I was hitting on downstairs. You called at a very inopportune time, you know. I think you owe me, buddy.”

  “I owe you? That’s a laugh! And no, I’m not in a sharing mood. Go find your own! Off you go…….don’t let the door hit you in the ass!”

  That Rolande. Such a great friend. I had no idea what I’d do without him, but it was still not a compelling enough reason to share my bounty with him. He begrudgingly handed both girls over to me and scurried out, saluting me with his middle finger before closing the door.

  I steered them over to the corner of the balcony near the railing, so we could all enjoy the panoramic view while we pleasured each other. I christened the one wearing the lace lingerie “Pinky” and the one who did the awesome dive “Swan”. After all, there was no need to learn their real names.

  Swan had traded her cold, sopping wet cape for a rather expensive-looking men’s suit jacket that she had found draped over a lawn chair by the pool. It was the only thing clinging to her nakedness and just barely long enough to cover her sweet ass. She unbuttoned my shirt and ran her fingers through my chest hair while Pinky ran her hands up and down my ass from behind. I sat down on the overstuffed chaise lounge chair and relaxed back into the soft cushions, pulling both of them down on top of me.

  “I can’t decide…….which one of you tasty little morsels shall I eat first?”

  Swan undid the three buttons of her oversized jacket, and crawled onto my lap, fiddling with my zipper.

  Pinky was just about to help her free my aching cock from my suddenly restrictive pants when I heard a completely sickening sound emanating up from the stone balcony below us. It was a horrible combination of creaking, snapping, and crumbling………the sounds of a very old building coming apart at the seams. The screams of my guests prompted me to spring up from the pleasures at hand and look over the railing, just in time to see the second story porch collapse onto the patio and pool below. A cloud of dust and debris billowed up into my face, shattering my moment of reflection.

  Without even looking back at my rooftop lovelies, I sped down the stairs to the level below to find the entire balcony gone and my guests either in a state of shock or panic.

  “Is everyone okay?” I shouted, overlooking the damage. The balcony alone would cost a small fortune to repair, and the pool cleaner was going to have his work cut out for him this week…

  “Everybody’s fine!” someone shouted from below. “You’ve got one hell of a mess down here though…”

  I knew it would be best if I made my way outside to better assess the damage, so I headed down to ground level, cutting through the kitchen on the way. I was relieved to find most of the downstairs cleared out to bear witness to the carnage, giving me free rein to sprint through the hallways.

  Suddenly, I was stopped literally in my tracks; just like I had run into a brick wall. One of the catering staff was busy boxing up the remaining pastries, just as cool and casual as could be. Collapsing balconies and shouting guests be damned. She looked up from her work and our eyes locked… And talk about eyes; they were like large dark pools of melted chocolate. Fuck! Where had this dark-skinned little temptress been hiding all night? How did I miss this one? She was beautiful beyond all logic and reason. And even her plain white uniform could do nothing to disguise the smokin’ hot body smoldering underneath.

  “Bonsoir! I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Blaize Simon, host of this evening’s party and man of your dreams. I do hope you’re not planning to haul away those desserts…….they were the most delicious things at the party. Other than you, of course.”

  She was clearly unimpressed.

  “You’re the host? Don’t you think you should be outside tending to your guests instead of in here chatting with me?”

  Without missing a beat, she looked down at my crotch and added, “And you might want to zip up your pants.”

  Just my luck, my dick was hanging out of my fly. It was still quite impressive even in its shell-shocked state, but I hastily tucked it away.

  “I’m so sorry! Really! And yes, you’re absolutely right…… I need to go out and check on my guests. Please don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” I tore out of the house, now with only half the interest I’d had just a moment ago. The rubble in my pool and the concern for my guests was suddenly overshadowed by the all-consuming need to get back to the breathtakingly beautiful angel in my kitchen.

  2

  Chelsea Dixon

  Food shopping at the bustling Saturday street markets was one of my absolute favorite things to do in Paris, whether for fun or for my internship at the Café de Fourchette. And it was definitely tops on my list of things I knew I would miss when I returned to the U.S. on Monday. I had a heavy heart, for sure, but I knew I was extremely lucky to have had this invaluable culinary education in the premiere food capital of the world. And I was even more fortunate that I got to experience such a unique learning opportunity with my best friend since childhood, Tiffany.

  The past three years had been truly glorious and surpassed even my wildest dreams. They had practically flown by! During that time, Tiffany and I literally lived and breathed food! We had taken every imaginable advanced pastry class, interned at two world-class restaurants and even worked as volunteer chocolatiers in one of the city’s finest chocolate boutiques. It was hard to believe that in two short days our lovely French adventure would be ending and our scary “time to make a living” adventure would begin. For the moment, we decided to just enjoy our last 48 hours in the City of Light, unburdened by any weighty thoughts of future business. We both agreed there was no better way of doing that than by visiting our favorite marketplace on the left bank of the Seine River.

  It was lively and noisy and the whole neighborhood shopped there. The air was thick with a variety of smells: Crisp fresh produce, briny seafood, roasted almonds, and pungent cheeses. Our favorite vendor was Madame Babette, the cheese lady. She was a tiny, round old woman with flaming red hair and an obvious fondness for brightly colored costume jewelry. She was known for her giant laugh and her giant heart. Everyone loved her as much as we did.

  There was always a long line of people at her small counter, which was also due to her vast wealth of cheese knowledge and huge selection of local delights. Tiffany and I had learned, within the first couple months of our stay, that the French were notorious line cutters. After silently suffering through this unacceptable social practice time and time again, we figured out a way to put a stop to it: We both bought huge shopping baskets and propped them against the front of our thighs while in line. Our basket “fences” created the perfect uncuttable barriers that prevented even the skinniest of little French bodies from inching their way in front of us ever again. We always got such a kick out of playing our little game.

  “Did you see her face, when she ran into your basket Tiff? Oh my god, that was funny! People sure do get into a snit when they have to go to the end of the line, don’t they? I sure am gonna miss this.”

  “Me too, Chels! But you never know. We might still get a chance to use our little shopping technique in Los Angeles. There’s a lot of hoity toity entitlement types over there.”

  When it was finally our turn at the counter, we politely ordered a small wheel of Camembert. We really wanted a bigger one but knew we’d never be able to eat it all before our trip home and we just couldn’t bear the thought of throwing any of it away. Equally painfu
l, was the idea of saying our good-byes to Madame Babette. But we did so with teary eyes and a group hug. She made us promise we would stop by and see her if and when we were ever back in the neighborhood. We had learned practically everything we knew about cheese from her. She was so generous and patient with us.

  “Au revoir, Madame!” We felt like school girls waving farewell to our favorite teacher at the end of the year.

  Tiffany and I made a few more market purchases before heading down to the inviting riverbank for lunch: A box of red ripe raspberries, a two-foot long French bread baguette, and two Cokes. We lucked out and found an empty bench under a large shady Chestnut tree.

  It seemed all of Paris was out enjoying the warm June sunshine. Lovers strolled hand in hand near the water’s edge, artists leisurely painted their colorful canvases from the sidewalk above and the packed tour boats chugged past, gliding underneath the arches of the stone bridges. What a perfect setting it was. The perfect setting for girl talk……

  My curious friend had been bugging me all morning to tell her about last night’s already infamous party at bad boy novelist Blaize Simon’s villa. We were supposed to work together as catering staff at the event, but the company pulled Tiffany away to handle another event at the very last minute. She was pretty bummed out over her bad luck. Unlike myself, she was a pretty big fan of Blaize’s work.

  I honestly wasn’t sure where to begin my incredible tale; the entire evening had been so outrageous. It just seemed like the perfect type of story to share over a long leisurely lunch. As soon as we sat down, she pounced on the subject and begged me unrelentingly for the details.

  “All right, times up girlfriend! I’ve waited patiently. Now let’s hear it! Did you get to see Blaize Simon or not? Is he as good-looking in person? What was his villa like? Is it true, what they said on the news about a balcony falling off onto people? C’mon spit it out…….. I’m dying to know!” She broke off a piece of the crusty baguette and popped it in her mouth.