Page 170 of My French Love Affair

My voice breaks, my body on the precipice as I hover at the edge of complete oblivion.

“I’myours.”

“Yes, youfucking are,” he confirms.

And then, as his fingers thrust harder and faster and his thumb circles my clit in devastating strokes, I shatter.

My entire body goes taut, my back arching against the glass as my thighs tremble uncontrollably as my orgasm crashes through me, tearing me apart at the seams as waves of white-hot pleasure ripple through every nerve ending.

I physically shake in his hold, my walls clenching tightaround him, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let up.

No, he keeps moving, dragging my pleasure out for as long as possible, teasing every last tremor from my body.

When I finally come fluttering back down into reality, I release my tight, desperate grip on his forearms, my fingers unfurling slowly from where they’d been clutching at his skin. Frederic exhales sharply, like he’s just as affected by this as I am.

I lift my gaze to his, and his pupils are blown wide, his expression pure hunger as he drinks me in. He carefully studies every aftershock that ripples through my body, and I can’t breathe, I can’t think, can’t do anything butfeel.

Then - slowly,deliberately- he withdraws his hand, sliding his fingers out from between my legs. The movement is torturously slow, and a choked whimper escapes my throat at the loss of his thick digits.

My pussy clenches around nothing, my body still aching and pulsing with the remnants of my release as he lifts his slick, glistening fingers to my mouth.

“Try it,” he murmurs as he presses them against my lips. “Taste it.”

I’m thankful for his thigh between mine, propping me up against the glass - because if he weren’t holding me steady, I might have collapsed entirely.

A fresh wave of heat surges through my blood as my lips part, and I swear I see pride flash in his eyes at the moment he knows that I’m going to obey him.

I part my lips as his smirk curves into a slow, dark thing, filled with undeniable satisfaction.

His fingers, still slick from my release, press inside, and the taste of myself floods my senses. Frederic watches meintently, his pupils dilating as I close my lips around him, my tongue flicking lightly over his fingertips.

A low, rough sound rumbles from deep in his chest.

“Mon ange,” he murmurs. “You havenoidea what you do to me.”

My own breath is shallow and uneven as his fingers slide free, my lips lingering just for a second longer than necessary. His jaw clenches, and he exhales sharply, his restraint fraying at the seams.

I should feel embarrassed. Self-conscious. Humiliated by how easily I obey him, how effortlessly I fall into his hands, how much I crave his approval, his praise.

But I don’t.

BecauseI love it.

I love the way his muscles are taut with tension, the way his hand flexes against my skin, the way his eyes flicker with pure, unfiltered hunger as he stares at me like he’s barely holding himself back -

And I love knowing that I can do this to him.

Frederic tilts his head, his gaze locked onto mine, his touch lingering and possessive.

“You really were made for me,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.

My heart pounds, my body thrumming, still tingling from the aftermath of my release, still craving more.

Still cravinghim.

His lips part like he’s about to say something else, but I don’t give him the chance. Instead, I close the distance between us.

I kiss him.

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