Page 211 of My French Love Affair

I squeeze my eyes shut, my phone still clutched in my other hand, my breath coming in shallow gasps as my skin ignites beneath my own touch.

I’m haunted by the memory of his hands on me, his body pressing me up against the window in his suite. I remember the way he made me fall apart with just his fingers as I brush my own over my clit, and it all rushes back to me at once, stealing the air from my lungs.

A vibration against my palm startles me, and I blink down at the screen.

Show me.

A fresh, burning wave of heat rushes through me.

I shouldn’t. I know that I really,reallyshouldn’t.

After all, this is insane. He’s acelebrity- what happens if his phone gets hacked somehow, if his messages get leaked, if someone else ends up in possession of it and these images get out?

But…

I bite my lip, my entire body pulsing with need, my heart slamming against my ribs as I shift slightly.

All doubt seems to fade away as I angle my phone just enough.

My fingers are still between my legs, and I take the photo.

It’s not too much. After all, I’m hardly identifiable, and youcan’t really see anything.

But it’s just enough to drive him insane.

I presssend, my stomach twisting with nerves and adrenaline as I continue to tease myself with the memories of him.

The response comes much faster than I expected.

Mon dieu.

You’re going to kill me, you know that?

I smirk, satisfaction thrumming through me at the thought of him seeing me like this and knowing that it’s because of him.

I remove my hand from between my legs as I respond. In all honesty, this is a little inconvenient - I’m not sure how I’ll be capable of doing anything but torturing myself while messaging him, since typing with one hand isnota skill of mine.

That would be quite the headline. “Formula 1 Driver Dies from Sheer Frustration.”

His reply has my eyes widening.

Poppy - if and when I die, it’ll be buried inside you.

A sharp, needy gasp escapes me, my thighs clenching, my entire body tightening at his words.

Another message appears.

Touch yourself for me. Properly.

I can’t think, can’t focus on anything but the aching pulse between my legs, the way my skin feels too hot, too sensitive.

My head spins as another message comes through.

I want to know how you feel when you cum for me, evenwhen I’m not there.

I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop.

The thought of him seeing me like this - the thought of him just as frustrated, wanting and needy as I am, the thought of him being just as impacted - only makes the pleasure burn hotter, and I let out a slow, shaky breath as I pressrecord.

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