Page 214 of My French Love Affair

Did you touch yourself to my video, mon ange?

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers still trembling as I type my response.

What do you think?

The dots flicker.

I think if I were there, you’d already be on your fifth orgasmby now.

I whimper, my stomach tightening, my thighs clenching together all over again.

I shouldn’t want more. I shouldn’t be this desperate, this needy -

And yet.

You’re dangerous, Moreau.

His response is immediate.

And you, Poppy Taylor, are mine.

I swallow hard, warmth spreading through me all over again.

I don’t reply, though. I don’t trust myself to.

Instead, I reach for a towel, clean myself up, and let out a long, unsteady breath.

But even as I slip back into my pajamas - even as I wish him sweet dreams and crawl into bed beside my sleeping friends -

I know that I’m already in too deep.

Because this isn’t just sex. This isn’t just flirting, or a holiday fling.

And for the first time, I let myself admit it.

I don’t justwantFrederic Moreau -

I think I might be falling for him.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Frederic

The world narrows to one thing.

The car.

The cockpit is a second skin, the hum of the engine a living, breathing thing that pulses beneath my fingertips, vibrates through my bones.

I don’t think.

I just drive.

Each corner, each turn, each adjustment is instinct - muscle memory honed over years, sharpened to perfection.

I flick the radio toggle.

"How’s the balance?" My engineer’s voice crackles through the comms.

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