Page 105 of My French Love Affair

"In fact, I think you like it even more than I do," he continues, amusement laced in his tone.

I narrow my eyes, my pride flaring up. "You areso-"

He presses his fingers firmly against my clit, dragging them in quick, small circles over the sensitive nub. Whatever insult was about to come out of my mouth immediately blends into a long, loud moan, and my hips buck slightly off the couch at the overwhelming and unexpected sensation.

"Go on," he teases, his tone infuriatingly cocky. "Tell me how much you hate me."

I open my mouth to retort, but all that comes out is a small, stifled moan.

“Do it,” he says in encouragement.

I think of everything he’s said and done over the course of the last few days to piss me off and channel that energy to glare up at him.

“I hate you,” I bite out, trying to sound convincing.

The bastard grins, triumphant as ever.

“Good,” he says, his blue eyes flashing. “It turns me on.”

I gasp as his fingers move over my throbbing clit with expert precision, pushing me closer to the edge with every calculated movement, swirl and flick.

He uses the perfect amount of pressure and gathers up my arousal to use as a lubricant as he works them over me, switching it up every now and then in order to use both fingers to squeeze and pinch at my sensitive nub.

My breath hitches and my thighs tremble as my body winds tighter and tighter, and I fight to keep my eyes open so that I can drink in the sight of him watching me like he's committing every reaction to memory.

"You can fight me all you want," he says, his voice thick with possession, "butthis?"

He coats his fingers before thrusting them deep inside in one fluid movement.

"This belongs to me now."

I swear I almost shatter there and then.

My fingers tangle into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him down as his mouth crashes onto mine again - hot, hungry, and demanding. His control is unshakable, his dominance absolute, and as he fucks me with his fingers and slides his tongue against my mouth, I surrender to it.

Tohim.

Because no matter how much I try to fight it, there's no denying the truth:

When it comes to Frederic Monreau, I never stood a chance.

His mouth and fingers move against me with an intensity that sends fire licking through my veins. There’s no hesitation now - just heat, need, and the sheer force of whatever this is between us.

His hand stays between my legs, his fingers working me over with infuriating precision while his other hand rests beside my head, caging me in. I can’t escape him -

Not that I want to.

His fingers alternate between thrusting inside me and teasing my clit in a way that makes my head tip back in surrender. He presses his advantage, nipping my jaw, throat, and just beneath my ear - all the places he now knows unravel me.

It’s almost too much.

“I can feel you trembling,” he says. “Are you still going to pretend you don’t want this?”

I bite my bottom lip, stubborn even as my body betrays me with every arch and shiver. His soft chuckle is laced with amusement as his fingers thrust again, curving upward to coax another wave of pleasure.

And when he says my name again, the sound drips with hunger, sending another pulse low in my belly.

My heart hammers, and I ignore the way it threatens to undo me, grounding him with a flat-toned “don’t.”

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