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 cock comes into view, and my thumb swipes over my over-sensitive clit without hesitation, my own breath ragged and uneven. I drink in every little detail, from the way his abs tense, the way his thighs flex, the way his muscles strain beneath golden, flushed skin…
The way his fingers tighten around himself, his movements quickening.
And then -
"Poppy - oh, Poppy, fuck."
His voice breaks. His body shudders.
His hand stutters, tightens, jerks -
And then he comes.
Thick, white ropes spill over his stomach and onto his hand. My eyes flicker everywhere all at once, greedily drinking in the details as his jaw clenches and his head tips back against the pillows. His entire body tenses as a low, filthy groan rumbles through his chest.
And that’s it.
That’s my undoing.
My head falls back, my mouth parting in a silent cry as a second, sharper climax slams through me.
I can’t be loud, I can’t, but it’s so hard to keep quiet as my legs tremble violently. My fingers falter against my pussy, my vision blurring.
Still, I can’t stop.
Not when the image of his perfect, muscular body is seared into my mind.
Not when his name is still on my lips, falling from my tongue in a whispered plea.
Not when I know that he just came thinking of me.
It takes me longer than I care to admit to come back down, and my heart is still racing when I lower my phone.
There’s another text waiting for me to open.
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 orgasm by 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 just want Frederic 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.
"Good," I reply, my voice steady despite the way my heart slams against my ribs. "Rear is a little light on entry, but manageable."
"Copy. Mode push now, we need a hot lap for data."
I shift up, foot flat to the floor, engine roaring as I tear down the straight.
Everything disappears.
The pressure. The noise. The expectation.
It’s just me and the car.
I feel everything.
The bite of the brakes as I dive into the next turn.
The snap of grip as I kiss the apex.
The slingshot acceleration as I rocket out, perfectly lined up for the next corner.
I live for this.
For the risk. For the speed.
For the split-second decisions that make the difference between winning and losing.
And yet, for the first time in my life, I’m struggling not to think about something else.
About her.
The fucking disaster of a woman who’s somehow managed to crawl under my skin, into my mind.
The woman who’s wrecked me.
Last night, I held my phone in my hand, watching her come undone just for me.
I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
About her breathless whimpers. About the way her body shook, trembled and begged for more.
I should be focused. I should be thinking about the race, about the championship, about the thousands of fans watching, the millions of dollars riding on this weekend.
But all I can think about is her hands on my body.
Her lips against my throat.
Her voice, wrecked and breathless, whispering my fucking name.
And then, I see her.
Through the glass of the VIP lounge, just beyond the pit lane.
Her dress is white, a contrast against the deep bronze of her sun-kissed skin. Her blonde hair cascades over one shoulder, and her fingers rest on the railing as she leans forward slightly, watching the screen.
She doesn’t even see me. Doesn’t realise that I’ve spotted her.
And yet, I feel it.
A pull, like gravity.
She’s the one thing capable of distracting me, and fuck, that’s dangerous.
I exhale sharply, forcing myself to look away, gripping the wheel tighter.
Not now. Not yet.