Page 262 of My French Love Affair

My entire body still thrums with the way he touched me, the way he made love to me so slowly, sointentionally, as if every movement, every kiss, every whispered breath between us meant something.

As ifImeant something.

The thought settles heavily in my chest, pressing against my ribs, making it harder to breathe.

Frederic shifts beside me, his arm tightening slightly, his lipsbrushing lazily against the bare skin of my shoulder.

"Good afternoon,mon ange,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.

I close my eyes for a moment, savoring the way his deep, raspyvoice curls through me before I whisper back.

"Afternoon."

He kisses my shoulder again, then my neck, then my jaw; his lips warm and lingering over my skin.

Then, before I can brace myself, he rolls me beneath him, settling between my thighs.

I gasp, my body still sore, still sensitive; but when his mouth finds mine, when his hands grip my hips and his breath mixes with mine, I forget everything else.

And this time, when he makes love to me, it’s even softer than before.

Like he’s trying to make me remember this.

Like heknowsthis might be the last time.

We’re still tangled together in bed when he orders room service, pulling the sheets lazily over both of us as he speaks in smooth, fluent French to the concierge.

I watch him, my cheek resting against his bare shoulder, my fingers tracing absent patterns over his chest.

He catches me looking and smirks.

"Lunch in bed. Apparently, that’s a thing.”

I laugh softly, the sound a little strained, but I don’t think he notices.

It’s only when the food arrives, when we’re both sitting up and eating pastries straight from the tray, that he pauses.

“What’s wrong?”

I freeze.

My heart lurches, my stomach twisting.

“I -” I shake my head quickly, forcing a smile. “Nothing’s wrong. I’msohappy.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“You forget,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles lightly over my cheek. “I can read you like a book.”

I exhale, my throat tightening, my fingers twisting into the sheets.

“It’s just… the girls and I are leaving in a few days,” I admit softly, keeping my gaze trained on my lap. “And I don’t… I don’t know what that means for us.”

For a long moment, there’s only silence.

And then Frederic sighs, setting his coffee down before shifting so he’s facing me fully.

“Poppy,” he says gently, tilting my chin up until I have no choice but to meet his gaze. “London isn’t far.”

---