Bring Me Back B.a. Paris Novels & Stories

Part II Your sex takes me to paradise -Bruno Mars Second semester was fast approaching and I began to prepare to return back to school. I would return to Aurelia, Asha, Sime, Sao, all my course mates and… Bussy. No, there would be no Bussy. God forbid. Even if she apologized and begged to come back, it would be over my dead body. When the day of my departure eventually arrived, my dad sent me back to Igbinedion University Okada, with the usual ‘entourage’.

I murmur to myself, shifting on the floor to press my thighs together. “Huh?” The girl next to me screws up her face. “What is it?” I don’t even have to lie. “Monsieur Paris. He’s back.” The girl’s head whips around, and my teeth clench at her breathless sigh. “He’s so handsome, isn’t he?” I say nothing. “He looks like he could pick you up and slam you against a wall.” I do not need that mental image, nor the answering pulse between my legs. I huff and shove my last pointe shoe on, tying the ribbons with vicious tugs.

I can’t be wrong! “But he’s gone. Again. And I don’t know when I’ll be seeing him again, or when he’ll ever appear in front of me.” I sighed and looked up at the sky. Life really is unfair. I went back to the pool, put on my silhouettes, and headed back to the ballroom. "Oh, hello there! See who we have here!" someone snickered from behind me. I so wished I wouldn’t see her here…but again, nothing is in my hands anyway. I turned to face my precious cousin, Angelina, coming up to me with a glass of wine in her hands.

I opened it slowly and a single sentence stared back at me. Unknown: If you go to Paris next week, I’ll make sure you don’t return. My breath caught in my throat. Right under it was a photo of my plane ticket. A ticket I'd never printed or posted anywhere.

I bolted out of my seat, not giving him a chance to escape even if my hands are sweaty, trying to get a hold of myself. “Caelum,” I called out and I smiled in relief, thanking the heavens when he stopped. He stayed motionless, his hands gripping the banister tight. “Caelum, can I ask for your permission to go back to Paris? I haven’t had my bow with me – so…”

“I’ve got an assignment for you.” Astoria, Queens – Later That Night The moment Natalia stepped through the front door of the brownstone, she exhaled. Not the polished, clipped breaths she used in courtrooms or boardrooms—but the ragged, real kind. The kind she hadn’t allowed herself to take since she’d seen Damien Carrington’s face for the first time in ten years. The scent of arroz con pollo drifted through the air, warm and comforting. From the kitchen, a pot clinked against the stove, followed by the low hum of a Spanish ballad playing from an old radio.

"Besides, you know I'm a perfectionist." Maribel arrived a few minutes later, looking elegant in a cream blazer and dark jeans. She hugged me warmly, then offered Claire a polite smile. "Claire, good to see you." "You too," Claire said, her smile equally polite but somehow cooler. "How was Paris?" "Beautiful," Maribel said, settling into her seat. "Exhausting, but worth it. I brought back macarons for Theo. They're in my car." "He'll love that," I said, grateful for the easy conversation. "He's been asking about you since I told him you were back."

A BRIDE FOR SALE 😂{WHEN NEMESIS STRUCKS}😂 EPISODE EIGHT 💥Albert💥 I banged my fist against the bathroom room as soon as I wore back my briefs. The soap in my hair was already gone and I glanced up furiously. "Denise, you sure know you are playing with fire, do you?" I asked angrily. " Well, I don't really care what I'm playing with. I'm only getting a payback. " Denise replied from the room

Blaze considered the question as she smeared Camembert on her bread. “Well, to be honest, at first, I missed London just a little bit, but seeing Paris with you, through your eyes, cured my homesickness. You showed me so many things… and places… I’ve learned so many things these past few weeks that helped me appreciate this city even more. And the paintings you showed me… Paris is really unique.” “I know what you mean,” Fabien said. “Ever since I was a kid, I fell in love with the way Renoir and Camille Pissarro painted this city. And the thousands of photos I’ve seen…Yes, Paris is my city.”

I plead. Just then I hear the sound of heels clicking in the hall, and smell Arabella’s vile perfume. “It’s too late.” Bastien announces gravely. “She’s back.” _________________