Broken French: A widowed, billionaire, single dad romance Natasha Boyd (i read books .TXT) 📖

groaned, and letting his arm lift me, wrapped my legs around his waist so I was a barnacle on his body. I held his head in my hands so I could get enough of his damn mouth.

“Ta bouche,” he said on a groan and I giggled, pulling back for a moment, trying to remember the word. Mouth.

“I love yours too,” I said. “I was thinking that exact thing.” And I gave him another deep kiss, my tongue tasting his.

He growled and his hand slipped behind my neck.

My bikini straps slithered down my chest, and his erection pressed hard between my legs.

He licked his lips. “How much of what I say in French do you understand?” His fingers played over my nipple, pinching gently and making me arch into him with a sharp inhale.

“I mean …” I gasped as his mouth followed his fingers, and then chuckled. “I get some contextual clues. But not a whole lot.”

His other hand slipped down my waist to my butt and he squeezed a handful, pressing me into him. “Ton cul,” he began, and then let out a stream of words.

“Tell me in English,” I managed as we rocked together. “Or is it too dirty?”

“It’s too much of everything. You’re too much of everything. It’s the first thing I noticed about you. I stood there in the train station and thought … I can’t have you here distracting me away from trying to be a good father. Trying to be a good man.” His joking tone had slipped, and his hands gripped, and his mouth took mine savagely.

He swayed in the water and I gripped his body tighter.

“God, I want you inside of me,” I said breathlessly as he gave up my mouth for a second. I gazed into his unblinking eyes, his lashes sparkling with sea water. “But I don’t want this to be over,” I said. “This. Right here. This ache and need I have for you is the most delicious and painful thing I’ve ever experienced,” I admitted. It was excruciating and overwhelming and almost otherworldly. In that moment, I understood how desire could make people do stupid, thoughtless, insane things. Murder, break up families, or take countries to war.

He brought a hand up to my face, cradling it, everything slowing and gentling. His thumb ran over my lips and then dipped inside. I sucked the tip of his thumb into my mouth, watching as his nostrils flared and his pupils dilated. He swallowed heavily.

“Let’s go to the beach,” I whispered.

We found a tiny strip of sand hidden from the boat by a boulder. Above us was nothing but cliffs and blue sky. Even the sun was blocked here. With a hand to his chest, I pressed Xavier down to the sand and worked his turquoise swim shorts down. And there he was. Huge, and hard.

“Joséphine,” he started to say and then the rest of his words disappeared into a groaning, breathless, flurry of French as I took his length into my mouth.

I wondered if he knew all the different ways he said my name. Like it was not just my name, but a prayer. “Joséphine.”

Every lick and suck pulled more words from him.

His hand tangled in my hair, firm and pleading. His hips strained up.

My hand gripped him hard, mimicking my mouth, touching where my mouth couldn’t reach, and the sounds he made sang in my blood, spurring me on, flooding me with hot and wet heat. I couldn’t help that my other hand slipped between my own legs, edging my bikini bottoms aside and slipping against my swollen, slick skin.

I sucked him deeper, harder, faster, moaning with the sheer thrill of feeling his pleasure, his vulnerability, and his loss of control. For a few moments, he tried to stop me—muttered things in French I could barely understand like he couldn’t, or I couldn’t, or God knew what.

Then suddenly his fingers squeezed to a fist against my scalp, his breathing stopped, and his entire body tensed for two seconds before his breath stuttered and he started to pull my mouth away. I fought him, determined to have him.

I wanted everything.

He let out a strangled sound, and he jerked and erupted down my throat, shuddering violently through his orgasm.

Time slowed and then came back.

The waves lapped gently up the sand in whispering rushes. Birds cried.

“Merde, Joséphine. You will kill me,” he added after a few moments, his voice cracked.

“I wanted it. I wanted you.” Every single piece of you I can get, I added silently. Because I love you. I sat back, and his eyes opened and swept down my body.

Suddenly his eyes narrowed at the hand that was still between my legs, and he grabbed it.

Xavier’s flushed face turned agonized as he sucked my fingers into his mouth. “Pour moi,” he said. “I should punish you for trying to take your pleasure away from me when you just stole mine. You cannot have it all.”

Jesus. His erotic words sent me even closer to the edge without laying a finger on me.

Then his fingers replaced mine, then his mouth, and as I gazed up at the cliffs a few moments after that, I realized how fleeting my control was.

We pulled ourselves up the ladder onto the swim deck, laughing and out of breath from racing each other. The music on the boat was still playing. It was slow and powerful, and the woman’s voice sang familiar lyrics in an echo of the feeling I’d just had on the beach with Xavier about it being strange what desire could make foolish people do. I inhaled, feeling the words hit my chest as she cried out desperately that she didn’t want to fall in love. “Is this ‘Wicked Game’? I only know the Chris Isaac version,” I added, my voice nonchalant in a bid to draw attention from the fact that the words were the theme to our entire relationship. And that I was going to fucking cry if I stopped to listen to