Page 171 of My French Love Affair

Hard. Fierce.Desperate.

His groan is immediate, vibrating through me as he kisses me back just as hungrily, his hands tightening on my hips, pulling me flush against him.

I feel every inch of him - his hardness pressing into my core, the heat radiating between us, the slow, deliberate roll of his hips against mine. I moan into his mouth, my fingers threading through his hair, tugging slightly.

“Poppy,” he mutters against my lips. "You are the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted."

His voice is low and wrecked, thick with pride and satisfaction, and I swallow hard, still trembling, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Freddie,” I whisper back, just to see what it does to him.

It doeseverything.

His hands tighten, his grip unrelenting, his mouth crashing back to mine. His kiss is greedy, urgent and all-consuming.

He’s kissing me like he wants to devour me, like he needs this, needs me, andfuck- I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of him.

His large, warm hands skim lower, inching my dress higher and higher until he’s bunching the silk around my hips so that the backs of my thighs brush against the cold glass window.

“Tell me you want me,” he murmurs, his lips brushing along my jaw, his voice gravelly with need.

“I want you,” I confess easily, my nails digging into his shoulders.

Like I could possibly say anything else.

His hands palm at my ass, and in one swift, fluid movement,he lifts me, gripping me with effortless strength as he carries me through the penthouse.

My legs instinctively move to wrap around his waist, my hands clutching at his shoulders, and all I can do is hold on as he moves through the expansive suite with purpose.

He carries me into what I assume is his bedroom and drops me onto the bed, my body bouncing lightly against the soft mattress. He crawls up the bed until his body is poised above mine, his gaze dark and molten and entirely predatory, his breath heavy and uneven.

I’m still panting, still writhing, stillaching.

And fuck - I want more. Ineedmore.

My hands tremble as they skim down his chest, slipping over the crisp material of his shirt, feeling the hard lines of muscle beneath. I reach for the buttons, fumbling slightly as I work them open.

Frederic watches me with pure amusement, his lips quirking at the corners.

“So impatient,” he murmurs.

I glare, but the effect is completely ruined by the way my hands are still shaking, by the way my chest is still heaving, by the way my thighs clench together in anticipation.

He chuckles, low and dark, and then - just as I undo the last button - he shrugs off the shirt, letting it fall to the floor.

And,fuck.

I swallow hard.

I hadn’t appreciated him fully on the yacht. Things had been too rushed, too heated.

Because, holy shit, he isunbelievablybeautiful.

Tanned, toned, and sculpted to perfection, his broad chest and cut abs look like they belong on a marble statue, not on the French menace currently kneeling between my legs.

There’s a small scar just beneath his ribs, a faint line that catches the soft glow of the penthouse lighting, and for some insane reason, I want to trace my tongue over it.

I don’t get the chance.

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