Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
His lips graze my ear.
"You were fucking made for me."
A full-body shudder wracks through me, and I can’t tell if it’s from the pleasure still flickering through my veins or from the way he says it so calmly, so simply.
Like it’s a fact.
I have no idea how long passes before his fingers finally leave my pussy, sliding back down to grip my thigh. Time blurs into something meaningless as my breaths still come out in shaky gasps.
I try to recover, try to compose myself with long, deep inhales of air.
He, on the other hand, is completely composed.
Of course he is.
The bastard.
My eyelids flutter open, and as I drink in the sight of his handsome face, a familiar smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. My brain is still a little slow as the last waves of my orgasm roll through my body, and I watch carefully as he lifts his fingers, running them slowly and deliberately over my bare thigh before bringing them to his lips.
They glisten in the light, and my stomach tightens as I watch him intently. I’m totally breathless and completely helpless, frozen in place as I continue to straddle his lap, my pulse practically roaring in my ears.
He licks his fingers clean, his eyes never leaving mine -
And I swear to god, I almost implode right there in the middle of this fucking restaurant.
Smug doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I swallow, my body still trembling, my brain still not caught up.
And then - the worst part.
His voice, smooth as silk and laced with pure fucking arrogance.
"Délicieux."
Oh.
Oh, I hate him.
But fuck, do I want him again.
Chapter Forty-Four
Poppy
Once I’ve recovered - and removed myself from his knee - Frederic calls for a waiter and signals for the bill with a casual flick of his wrist, already pulling out his phone to text his driver.
I watch as he effortlessly commands the moment, barely phased by the fact that he just made me come in the middle of a Michelin-starred restaurant.
Meanwhile, I’m still trying to remember how to breathe.
The waiter returns promptly, bill in hand, but Frederic doesn’t even glance at it before slipping his card onto the tray.
He doesn’t check it.
I don’t really know why I expected anything else.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes as he hands the signed slip back with a nod of thanks, then reaches for the shopping bag - the Cartier shopping bag - before standing and turning back towards me.
That’s when I notice it.
His jacket.
Black. Tailored to absolute perfection.
And currently draped over his forearm as he extends it toward me.
“It’s warm out,” I murmur, eyeing the offering as I move to stand. “I don’t think I’ll need it.”
He lifts a brow. “I beg to differ.”
Heat creeps up my neck - and not from the temperature.
I don’t quite know why I hesitate.
Maybe because I don’t actually need the jacket. Maybe because I know that accepting it means something else entirely -
Something softer. Something almost intimate.
But it’s clear that the only winner here is him, and so I swallow, reaching for the material before I can talk myself out of it.
He watches closely as I slip my arms through the sleeves. The scent of his cologne wraps around me instantly, and my entire body betrays me by relaxing into it.
Smug satisfaction flickers over his face as he slides a hand to my lower back and guides me out of the booth and towards the exit. He nods at a few of the waiters as we pass, the inside of the restaurant much quieter now, and he holds the door open for me as we leave.
But it’s when we step outside - when the night air actually does feel cooler than I anticipated - that he does something I don’t expect.
He reaches for my hand.
Not my waist. Not my wrist. Not my arm in a possessive, claiming gesture.
My hand.
And then he intertwines our fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I freeze, caught off guard by the simple action.
It’s ridiculous, I know. After all, this man has just made my come inside the fucking restaurant, and I’ve already slept with him on the yacht.
But this - him holding my hand and leading me through the quiet streets of Monaco - feels more intimate than anything else we’ve done.
Not wanting to give myself away, I relax into his touch and follow his lead as he walks us towards the curb. I spot his sleek black car already idling, and we come to a stop, waiting for the driver, Luc, to step out.
I glance up, taking in the sky. The stars are scattered across the night in tiny shimmering specks, and I can’t help but admire them.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur absently, tilting my head up toward the inky expanse.
He makes a small sound of agreement, but when I turn my head to look at him, he’s not looking at the stars.