Page 204 of My French Love Affair

Frederic chuckles, the sound deep and rich.

“Fast?”

“Well, yeah,” I huff. “I mean - it’s Formula One, isn’t it?”

He grins. “Of course. I was just hoping for a little more insight thanthat.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Would you like me to start talking about tire compounds and brake temperatures?”

His expression lights up, all mock surprise.

“You’ve been paying attention.”

“Okay, I watched one segment on the big screen about tire wear, Freddie. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Freddie,”he repeats as he takes a step forwards, almost as though he’s testing it out on his tongue. "I like when you call me that."

“Nobody else calls you that?” I ask.

“No.”

I shake my head, stepping back, desperate to escape the heatcreeping up my neck.

“Ah. Well, I don’t - I don’t have to call you that.”

He smirks, stepping forwards, effectively following me.

“Mon ange, you can call me whatever you want.”

Argh -why oh why does that sound sofilthy?!

Flustered, I try to turn my attention to literallyanythingelse.

My eyes land on the couch, where a freshly opened water bottle and a white towel are resting.

“You’re not too tired, are you?”

Frederic tilts his head, reading between the lines.

“Why?” he asks, a teasing edge to his voice. “Worried about me?”

I scoff. “I just don’t want to be blamed if you’re exhausted on race day.”

His grin deepens, something wicked sparking in his eyes as he steps closer.

“I think we both know that if I’m exhausted on race day, it won’t be because of the car.”

His fingers brush against the side of my waist, sending heat curling through me, and my breath catches as he moves in.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Not like the last time he kissed me - when he was desperate and wild, impatient to take what he wanted.

This is different.

This is measured.Intoxicating,even.

His lips hover just above mine, so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my skin, so close that the spacebetween us is practically humming with tension.

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