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)
How did I go from swearing off men altogether at the start of this trip to letting him tear me apart like I was made for him less than one week later?
How did I let him touch me, take me, fuck me like I wanted this?
Like I needed this?
I exhale shakily, pressing the heels of my hands into my closed eyes, frustration clawing at my chest.
This is not me. I’m not the girl who loses herself in reckless attraction. I don’t give in to men like him - cocky, arrogant men who walk through life expecting everything to fall at their feet.
And yet, I can still feel him.
The ghost of his hands gripping my thighs. His breath, hot against my ear.
His voice, dark and possessive, telling me I was his.
A shiver runs down my spine, and I hate it.
I hate that this excites me. That he excites me.
I swallow hard, my heart hammering in my chest.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Frederic
Poppy Taylor.
Even as I stride through the yacht, my head is full of her.
I can still taste her. Feel her.
The heat of her skin, the way she trembled beneath me, the way she fought me even as she surrendered so sweetly in the end.
I knew it would be good. But fuck, it was better.
Better than I even let myself imagine.
And I’d imagined.
Ever since I first saw her, since she stole my fucking car, since she sneered at me like I was the biggest inconvenience in her life, she’s been under my skin. A little too much.
Less than a week. That’s all it’s been.
And in that time, she’s done nothing but consume me.
Monaco is small, yes. A city of little more than two square kilometers. A place where you expect to run into the same people.
But this?
This feels deliberate.
Like the universe has been having a laugh at my expense, throwing her in my path at every turn, dangling her in front of me like some cruel, impossible temptation.
And I fell. Hard.
I exhale sharply, rubbing my jaw, rolling my shoulders back as I refocus.
Later. I’ll let myself dwell on her later.
Right now, I have a different problem to deal with.
I push my way through the crowd, my irritation sharpening with every step.
I already know where Jacques is, and I already know who he’s with.
When I step onto the lower deck, I find them exactly where I expect.
Three men. Well-dressed, but not the kind of polished wealth you see in places like this.
Their suits don’t quite fit right. The watches they wear are almost convincing.
Almost.
They don’t belong here.
And yet, somehow, they’re on my family’s yacht.
I don’t know how the fuck they got on board. Everyone is supposed to be vetted, logged, ID-checked - but that doesn’t matter now.
What matters is resolving this mess.
Jacques stands at the centre of them, leaning against the bar like he doesn’t have a single care in the world.
He smirks when he sees me.
The men glance over, assessing me quickly, though their expressions don’t shift much. Not immediately, anyway.
“All right,” I say smoothly, rolling my wrist as I slide my hands into my pockets. “Let’s get this over with.”
One of the men tilts his head, dark brows lifting slightly.
“Ah,” he muses. “The great Frederic Moreau.”
I offer him a humourless smile. “The one and only.”
“Didn’t expect you to be the one handling Jacques’ problems,” he remarks.
“Someone has to,” I reply, leveling a sharp look at Jacques, who still looks far too relaxed for my liking.
One of the others chuckles, shaking his head.
“We don’t want trouble, monsieur,” the first man continues. “Only what we’re owed.”
I exhale through my nose, nodding. “How much?”
“Fifteen thousand.”
I don’t react. What’s the point? It will only bring them unnecessary satisfaction.
I take the card from the shorter one's extended hand. This isn't my first rodeo - I know the drill now - and so I pull my phone out of my pocket, open my banking app, and start transferring the money.
The men watch me carefully, as if expecting me to argue. I don’t.
Because this isn’t about money.
Formula One pays well. Generational wealth pays even better.
And this is about something else entirely.
This is about Jacques being a fucking liability, again.
After a few moments, my phone buzzes, confirming the transaction. The first man checks his own, then nods, taking back the card with the details on it and sliding it back into his pocket.
“All settled,” I say, my voice cool, composed. “And if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you stayed the fuck off my yacht in future.”
One of them smirks. “No need to be unfriendly, monsieur.”
I arch a brow, my lips twitching into something that is definitely not a smile.
“No need to fall overboard, either,” I counter. “But we’re still out at sea, so you never know.”
Their amusement fades slightly.
The first man nods once, then glances at Jacques.