Page 259 of My French Love Affair

Her friend is red-faced, breathing hard, and fuckinglivid.

I step forwards, reaching for my girl.

My hand finds her waist, and she startles slightly before looking up at me, her brown eyes wild, her pulse fluttering beneath my touch.

“Be careful,” I murmur, low and quiet. “I need to help clean him up.”

She swallows, nodding, and I realise -

I don’toweJacques anything. Not anymore.

But Poppy?

I’d give hereverything.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Poppy

By the time we reach Frederic’s hotel, my body is humming with exhaustion, my limbs heavy from a mixture of champagne, adrenaline, and the whirlwind of emotions from the long day we’ve had.

The doors slide open, and we step into the lobby, the grandeur of the place still enough to make my breath catch. It’s late - so late that the place is eerily quiet, the usual buzz of the staff reduced to only a few lingering employees behind the concierge desk.

Frederic doesn’t let go of my hand.

He’s been holding onto me the entire night, keeping me close, keeping mehis. Through the celebrations, the flashing lights, the endless flutes of champagne - and the feeling of being alive in the way that only this city can provide.

Now, his grip tightens slightly as we step into the elevator, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. I glance up at him, my chest warm, my heart full.

I should be exhausted.

But I can’t stoplookingat him.

His hair is still slightly messy, strands falling over hisforehead in a way that makes my stomach flip. The top two buttons of his dress shirt are undone, revealing a sliver of golden skin, and he looks so fucking good that I almost can’t stand it.

I reach for him before I can even think better of it, my fingers smoothing over the fabric of his shirt, tracing slow, lazy patterns against his chest.

He exhales sharply, tilting his head down towards me.

“You’re insatiable,mon ange,” he murmurs, his voice low, dark, teasing.

I smirk. “I think that’syourinfluence.”

The doors ping open, and he wastes no time leading me towards his suite.

The moment we step inside, he kicks the door shut behind us and pulls me in for a kiss - slow, deep and sensual.

It’s not the desperate, needy kind from earlier in the night - this is something else.

Something lingering, something steeped in satisfaction.

He justwonMonaco.

And now, he hasme.

We take our time. We celebrate.

Properly.

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