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)
“Then what are you going to do about it?”
Every inch of my body is thrumming with awareness. His presence is everywhere, his scent - clean, expensive, intoxicating - seeping into my lungs, his closeness making my skin burn.
I hate it.
I hate it so much.
Frederic exhales, his lips parting slightly as his warm breath fans across my skin. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, but there’s something else there now - something taut and restrained, like he’s holding himself back with the last shred of control he has left.
His gaze flickers over my face, dark and searching, and as I look right back up at him, it’s like something inside him snaps.
His head dips, brushing his nose against mine.
A taunt. A test.
One of his hands drops away from the surface of the door and comes to rest on my hip. His fingers tighten at my waist, his thumb stroking slow, deliberate circles over the thin fabric of my dress.
It’s barely anything - a whisper of touch, really - but my body is traitorous. My breath catches, my skin prickling with awareness.
He’s so close. Too close.
But I don’t move. I don’t pull away.
And he notices.
“Tell me to leave,” he murmurs, voice low, rough and thick.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
His eyes drop to my lips.
Lingering. Daring.
My heart hammers against my ribs, so loud I swear he must be able to hear it. The room feels smaller, the air thicker, now - charged with something dangerous and electric.
He tilts his head slightly, like he’s about to close the distance, like he’s waiting for the moment I’ll stop him.
And I should.
I should say something, do something. I should raise my hands to his chest and shove him away, should put an end to whatever this is before it spirals any further out of control.
But I don’t.
I just stand there, pinned between his body and the door, my pulse roaring in my ears, my breath uneven, my lips parting.
Waiting.
“I’ll make this easy for you, mon ange,” he says softly. “You have two choices.”
Oh, good. We’ve already established how much I love games.
“Choice one: You turn around, walk out of this room, and I won’t speak to you again.”
I swallow hard, barely breathing as his fingers ghost over my waist, like he’s already preparing himself for the possibility of letting go.
“I’ll stay away,” he continues. “I’ll leave you alone. And you have my word: you’ll never have to deal with me ever again.”
A pause.
Quite possibly the longest pause of my life.
“Or?” I whisper, barely able to find my voice.
His lips twitch - just slightly, just enough to make my stomach tighten - but there’s nothing playful about the way he looks at me now.
He leans in, his movements slow and deliberate. His nose skims the edge of my jaw, his breath warm against my skin.
“Or… you stay.”
My pulse roars, pounding so hard I can feel it everywhere.
Frederic brings a hand up, the backs of his fingers barely grazing my jaw before trailing lower, following the delicate line of my neck, down, down - until they reach the thin strap of my dress.
His fingers toy with it, his touch featherlight, his knuckles brushing against my bare shoulder as he exhales slowly, like he’s barely holding himself together.
“But if you stay,” he murmurs, voice like velvet, low and lethal, “I can’t promise I’ll be gentle.”
A shiver rolls down my spine.
The silence between us is charged, borderline suffering and thick enough to drown in. My breathing is shallow, my skin is on fire, and my entire body is screaming at me to make a decision.
But there’s no decision to be made, because I already know the answer.
I should leave.
I should walk away.
I should tell him to go to hell and never look back.
But I don’t.
Instead, I do something far, far worse.
I rise onto my toes and I tilt my chin up, my lips a breath from his.
And as the tip of my nose brushes against his, I whisper, “then don’t be.”
Chapter Thirty
Poppy
The second the words leave my lips, something inside Frederic seems to snap.
A deep, guttural sound escapes him - somewhere between a growl and a groan - and then he’s on me.
His mouth crashes against mine, searing, claiming, and there’s nothing slow about it. It’s all heat and fire, tension snapping like a rubber band stretched too tight for too long.
His hands grip my waist roughly, fingers digging in like he’s making sure I’m real, like he’s making sure I can’t slip away again. I respond instinctively, fisting my hands into the fabric of his shirt as he presses me harder against the door, pinning me there completely with his body.
Logically, I know it should feel wrong. Stifling. Overwhelming, even.
Instead, it’s intoxicating.
"You have no idea," he murmurs against my lips, his voice tinged with something possessive, "how long I’ve wanted to do this."