Page 115 of My French Love Affair

But it never clicked.

There was no spark. No fire. No breath-stealing, pulse-racing, all-consuming need.

No butterflies. No tension.

No fuckingdesire.

It was easy, simple, light and fun - but no matter what I did, no matter how hard I grit my teeth to stop myself from physically cringing every time he spoke, no matter how much I told myself he was everything that I was looking for in a man, it just wasn’t enough.

And now look at me.

Here.

Withhim.

A man who is none of those things.

A man who infuriates me, who pushes me, who makes me want to claw at my own skin just to get a grip on myself. A man who is infuriating and arrogant and possessive. A man I barely know -

A man who just fucked me like he owns me.

My throat tightens, my fingers gripping my dress so hard that the delicate silk wrinkles under my touch.

How did this happen?

How did I go from swearing off men altogether at the start of this trip to letting him tear me apart like I was made for him less than one week later?

How did I let him touch me, take me,fuck melike I wanted this?

Like Ineededthis?

I exhale shakily, pressing the heels of my hands into myclosed eyes, frustration clawing at my chest.

This is not me. I’m not the girl who loses herself in reckless attraction. I don’t give in to men like him - cocky, arrogant men who walk through life expecting everything to fall at their feet.

And yet, I can still feel him.

The ghost of his hands gripping my thighs. His breath, hot against my ear.

His voice, dark and possessive, telling me I was his.

A shiver runs down my spine, and I hate it.

I hate that this excites me. Thatheexcites me.

I swallow hard, my heart hammering in my chest.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Chapter Thirty-Two

Frederic

Poppy Taylor.

Even as I stride through the yacht, my head is full of her.

I can still taste her. Feel her.

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