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)
“Freddie,” I whisper back, just to see what it does to him.
It does everything.
His hands tighten, his grip unrelenting, his mouth crashing back to mine. His kiss is greedy, urgent and all-consuming.
He’s kissing me like he wants to devour me, like he needs this, needs me, and fuck - I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of him.
His large, warm hands skim lower, inching my dress higher and higher until he’s bunching the silk around my hips so that the backs of my thighs brush against the cold glass window.
“Tell me you want me,” he murmurs, his lips brushing along my jaw, his voice gravelly with need.
“I want you,” I confess easily, my nails digging into his shoulders.
Like I could possibly say anything else.
His hands palm at my ass, and in one swift, fluid movement, he lifts me, gripping me with effortless strength as he carries me through the penthouse.
My legs instinctively move to wrap around his waist, my hands clutching at his shoulders, and all I can do is hold on as he moves through the expansive suite with purpose.
He carries me into what I assume is his bedroom and drops me onto the bed, my body bouncing lightly against the soft mattress. He crawls up the bed until his body is poised above mine, his gaze dark and molten and entirely predatory, his breath heavy and uneven.
I’m still panting, still writhing, still aching.
And fuck - I want more. I need more.
My hands tremble as they skim down his chest, slipping over the crisp material of his shirt, feeling the hard lines of muscle beneath. I reach for the buttons, fumbling slightly as I work them open.
Frederic watches me with pure amusement, his lips quirking at the corners.
“So impatient,” he murmurs.
I glare, but the effect is completely ruined by the way my hands are still shaking, by the way my chest is still heaving, by the way my thighs clench together in anticipation.
He chuckles, low and dark, and then - just as I undo the last button - he shrugs off the shirt, letting it fall to the floor.
And, fuck.
I swallow hard.
I hadn’t appreciated him fully on the yacht. Things had been too rushed, too heated.
Because, holy shit, he is unbelievably beautiful.
Tanned, toned, and sculpted to perfection, his broad chest and cut abs look like they belong on a marble statue, not on the French menace currently kneeling between my legs.
There’s a small scar just beneath his ribs, a faint line that catches the soft glow of the penthouse lighting, and for some insane reason, I want to trace my tongue over it.
I don’t get the chance.
Because before I can move, Frederic grips my ankles, his fingers curling around the delicate bones as he spreads me wide beneath him.
My breath catches.
He drags his gaze down my body, slowly, deliberately, drinking in every inch of exposed skin, every detail of the way I look beneath him. His hands reach for the waistband of my underwear, and he drags the lace down my thighs and calves before tossing them somewhere behind him as his eyes return to my core.
His lips part, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice rasping, low and reverent.
I shift beneath him, pressing my thighs together in desperate need of friction.
“Poppy,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing the inside of my knee, dragging slowly, torturously upward before pushing my legs apart once more. “I can’t explain this feeling. This desire. I… I want to ruin you.”
My hands fist into the sheets.
“You already have,” I whisper.
He descends on me, his lips trailing fire down my throat, down the curve of my collarbone, his fingers skimming higher and higher up my thighs. My hips lift from the bed, my body straining for him, my pulse pounding, my skin burning -
And then, finally, he does exactly what he promised.
He ruins me.
Chapter Forty-Six
Poppy
Frederic’s lips trail lower, hot and insistent, sending shivers across my overheated skin as he moves down my body.
His hands, firm and unyielding, slide up my thighs, fingers spreading as he parts me wider, his grip possessive.
The warmth of his breath ghosts over me as his hands flex, his thumbs dragging slow circles against my inner thighs. My stomach tightens in anticipation, my hips lifting in a silent, desperate plea; but Frederic just hums in response, his mouth hovering just above where I need him most.
“Patience, mon ange,” he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement and sin. “There’s no rush this evening. I’m going to take my time with you.”
I fight the overwhelming urge to close my thighs around his head and pull him closer.
“Freddie,” I plead, my voice barely a whisper.
His fingers dig into my thighs, and then - before I can brace myself, before I have to beg again - he gives in.