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

I was literally going to die from lust. How could people experience this and not want it all the time? It was like a hit of the most potent drug there was. There was no way this was normal. Allowed, even. He hadn’t even kissed me. I wasn’t even naked with him yet, and I’d never been so turned on in my life. It made me want to cry. My eyes burned.

His hips moved again, but they were already meeting mine as I pressed forward.

I bit my lip in an effort not to gasp at the contact. My dress was too thin. His thigh too hard.

His face moved back slightly, his eyes finding mine, burning with intensity, watching me.

He moved again, harder, grinding up. Testing me.

My dress was nothing. The sensations too acute. “Oh, God.” The friction was perfect. It was too much. It was too fast. Lightning began flashing white hot as I pressed myself back at him. On him. Small movements, but they were enough. I couldn’t stop.

The hand in my hair gripped tighter, he stared at my mouth, and I licked my lips. I wanted his mouth. I’d never needed a kiss as badly as I needed his. I thirsted for it. I tried to reach him but he held me back just out of reach.

“No,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

“But—” His thigh pressed. My hips rocked. Perhaps people would think we were dancing. “But, it’s okay to make … make me come like this,” I choked out. I couldn’t breathe. God, I was almost there.

“Merde! No.” He released me so abruptly, I swayed back against the wall, my legs almost giving out.

But it was too late. The sensations had gathered and built, and the pressure had mounted so high, my brain no longer controlled my body, if it ever had around him. I shattered past the point of no return. It was exquisite. It was maddening. It was shocking. And so very, very … empty of him.

His mouth dropped open and his hands caught me around the waist as my entire body quaked, and I slipped down the wall.

He cursed again and hauled me against him.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, my breath choking out of me. I managed to get my palms between us on his hard chest and pushed away. Jesus. Had anyone seen? Shame swamped me, erasing all the incredible sensations that were ebbing away too fast. My face burned. My head whipped left and right. The groups of people in the dark shadows of the upstairs area seemed to be absorbed in their own business. They either hadn’t seen us, or people up here were used to giving and demanding discretion. We hadn’t kissed, maybe they really did think we were dancing. Jesus. We hadn’t even kissed.

An aftershock wracked me. I was dizzy. I suddenly wanted to laugh hysterically.

“No one saw,” he answered my unspoken question. “But we need to go. Now. That cannot happen again.” His tone sounded shocked. Awestruck. Horrified.

No kidding. “I didn’t start it,” I said, sounding like a petulant child. I was shaken to my core. In literally every way.

He grabbed my elbow and we started toward the stairs. “The fuck you didn’t with that dress.

“Are you kidding me, right now?” I wrenched my arm free.

He turned to me, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Please,” he said. “Not here. I’m sorry. That was … inappropriate. I can’t think. I was wrong. Can we go?”

We glared at each other.

I folded my arms. “I swear to God, Pascale.”

“Xavier.”

I ignored him correcting me. “We better be having a normal conversation when we get back to the boat. And no telling me to fuck off again in French.”

His brows knitted in confusion. “I didn’t tell you to fuck off. When—?”

“You did! That night on the top deck. We were talking, and then you told me something in French that meant—”

He stepped right up into my space, his voice dropping. “I said I wanted to fuck you.” He cocked his head. “Not that I wanted you to fuck off. A very important difference.”

What was left of my breath was sucked right out of my chest.

He inclined his head at whatever he saw on my face. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. “And, yes, I was mad about it. At myself. Not you. And yes, it’s crude. But it’s true. I can’t work. I can’t sleep. I can’t fucking think straight with you around. You are destroying me. And I cannot let that happen. Not for me. Not for Dauphine. That’s why I sent that email. Now, unless you want a picture of us arguing in a nightclub splashed over Voici or Stars tomorrow morning, I suggest we get out of here.”

The mention of the tabloids was like a bucket of ice water. There was no way I wanted to invite that kind of media scrutiny into their lives. Or mine. I snapped my jaw tight, the words he’d said bulleting around my brain, causing maximum damage.

“You leave first,” he went on. “I will be a few minutes behind you. Head straight for the quay. Don’t stop to talk to anyone.”

I nodded. I could do that.

“I’ll have Evan meet you at the gate. It has a code.” He leaned forward and whispered the number in my ear.

There was no way to remember a gate code for fuck’s sake. I hardly knew my own name. I brushed past him. This was all too much. And his words were too much.

“Joséphine,” he said.

I turned back.

“You look beautiful,” he said. His eyes swept over my dress and back to my face. “You are beautiful. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

The night outside felt different. I felt eyes crawling over me, the breeze like pin pricks on my skin, the sounds jarring. My flip flops smacked on the cobblestones, and I almost fell. I moved to the flatter concrete sidewalks where available, dodging people, and then crossed to the