Page 167 of My French Love Affair

I’ve spent the past few days convincing myself that I’m in control, that I know what I’m doing. But right now, with his hands on me, his lips a breath from my ear and his body crowding into mine with that easy, unshakable dominance, I know the truth.

I’m not in control at all.

He was right - I’ve walked willingly into the predator’s den.

And as his fingers move to trace slow, lazy patterns over thesilk of my dress, a barely-there touch that still manages to send a rush of heat flooding through me, I decide I don’t want to leave.

My breath stutters, my pulse hammering in my throat as I stand still, completely aware of him.

Frederic takes his time - enjoying this, I think - and the tension in my abdomen coils tighter and tighter with every second that passes.

“You’ve gone quiet,mon ange,” he murmurs, his breath warm against the sensitive skin of my neck. “That’s not like you.”

I clear my throat, trying to calm my racing pulse. “Maybe I just have nothing to say.”

I feel his smile against my skin. “NowthatI don’t believe.”

I lean back against him, needing more despite the part of me that still wants to pretend that I have control. He nuzzles the space just below my ear, his lips hovering there. He’s barely touching me, and yet I feeleverything.

The anticipation. The heat.

The way my heart pounds so hard I think he can probably hear it.

It’s only been a matter of days since I was convincing myself I didn’t even like this man, and yet I tilt my head, baring my neck for him.

Frederic exhales slowly, deeply; and then hefinallypresses his lips against my skin.

It’s soft.Unbearablysoft. A slow drag of his mouth over my pulse, a whisper of heat that makes my stomach clench and my knees weaken.

“Poppy,” he murmurs, his hands sliding over my stomach, holding me against him as he kisses me again. “Do you like itwhen I touch you like this?”

I squeeze my eyes shut as I nod my head up and down, my tongue apparently incapable of forming words. My body thrums with anticipation, my chest rising and falling faster than it should.

A dark, knowing chuckle rumbles through his chest as he moves one hand up my torso, his fingertips ghosting over the curve of my ribcage, tracing the outline of my dress with aching slowness.

I bite my lip,hard.

“Mon ange,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dangerously close to affection, “if you don’t tell me what you want, I’ll have no choice but to take my time figuring it out.”

I can’t take it anymore.

My entire body is on fire, andI am sick to death of pretending I don’t want this.

So, I turn in his arms.

I barely have time to take him in - the sharp line of his jaw, the heat in his gaze, the slight smirk that ghosts across his lips - before I grab the collar of his shirt and pull him down into me.

The kiss is slow, scorching, and all-consuming.

Our tongues brush together in delicate strokes as his strong arms tighten around me, his dominance inescapable as he slowly pushes me back against the cold glass of the penthouse window.

The contrast of it is stark: the chill against my overheated skin and the warmth of his muscular body.

One of his hands fists into my hair, tangling around the strands and deepening our kiss while his other slides lower,gripping my thigh and encouraging me to wrap my leg around his waist.

I should be embarrassed by how easily I give in, by how quickly I melt under his touch as he presses me more firmly against the cool glass pane, but I don’t have it in me to care.

When it comes to Frederic Monreau, I already know that I don’t stand a fucking chance.

---