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

I said quietly. I watched his hands on the railing clench tight. “How about …” God. This was it. Make the first move, or not. After the way I’d felt leaving this morning, after what we’d shared last night. No. I couldn’t do it again. “How about … just … friends.”

He inhaled through his nose and closed his eyes.

“Of course.” Then he pushed away from the railing. His hand went up to his hair, and he turned away, then back. Then he turned away a final time and went inside.

His departure was like a flame being snuffed out. I was a chicken shit.

I stood there, breathing in the wind, and wondering if I’d made a mistake. I examined my hesitancy. And his. Yes, Dauphine complicated things. I wasn’t a stranger. I had attachments to his family. But I also wasn’t living here. I was going home, if not on Thursday, then in a few weeks. No one was asking for a commitment. I wasn’t. I couldn’t. I had a life to head back to. A career to rebuild. This wasn’t some fairytale. Who said we couldn’t just enjoy each other for a couple of days? Get it out of our systems and move on? For a second I let my tightly-reined in mind go and conjured the image of him and me together.

The chemistry of last night.

No clothes between us.

My belly went into free-fall, and I struggled to catch myself and turn off the images.

I drew a shaky breath and replayed our conversation. I’d offered simple friendship. Of course, he’d said. Had his reaction been relief or disappointment? This was Xavier Pascale we were talking about. He was the kind of man who went after what he wanted. He hadn’t gotten to where he was in life by not going for it. He didn’t wait for permission. He created opportunity. So what was different about this situation? Didn’t he trust me to not make it emotional?

Was I capable, at this stage, of not making it emotional?

I shook my head at myself. Of course. I wore my emotions out there for everyone to see. And he could see mine. He saw my love for Dauphine. I wasn’t “no-strings-attached” material. That was definitely dangerous territory for a single dad. Certainly one in his position. I sighed. This was probably for the best. I tried to hang onto the sense I’d talked into myself last night when I’d gone back to my room and made the decision to leave. The attraction between us was dangerous. It felt reckless. And if it felt like that to me, it must feel worse to him. He had so much to lose. A little girl’s heart to break for one.

We rounded the headland, and the low afternoon sun washed gold across the deck and over the water. The yacht cut through the waves, undulating gently. I cast my mind to what I’d read about Corsica to distract myself.

Behind me the door opened again. Andrea probably. I turned around.

It was Xavier. He stopped and we stared at each other.

The sun was blazing fire around his dark hair, and his eyes glowed, spitting gold in the afternoon light. He was so beautiful, it actually hurt my chest.

Then he came toward me and kept coming until he was inches away.

My breath froze.

His arms caging me against the railing. “Friends,” he said gruffly.

Prickles swept up my arms.

God, he was so close. “If … if that’s what you want,” I managed. He smelled so good—cedar wood and ocean salt melted into my senses. “I mean, you could always use another. Friend, I mean.” I was trying to tease, but coming off all wrong.

He shook his head. And then he swayed forward and his forehead came down on mine. “But that’s not what I want. Je veux … I want your mouth.” He paused and I inhaled his breath. “This delicious but annoying mouth. I want to devour it. I want to invade it. That might be a little bit more than friends, non?”

I had no legs. I was just fizzy air and lust melting against him.

His hand threaded into my hair, loosening the messy bun, and then twisting the locks around his hand. He mumbled some things in French, then English. Things about my hair. And if Meredith’s translating skills were to be believed, something about my ass. I was delirious.

He could be telling me he was about to dangle me over the side, and I wouldn’t bat an eye.

He tilted my face up.

My mouth watered.

His eyes burned. “And what do you want?” he rasped.

I didn’t hesitate. I couldn’t. Not now. “You,” I managed soundlessly. “Please. Please kiss me.”

And then sweet merciful angels, his lips closed the distance and slanted across mine.

I grabbed onto his shoulders and the lapels of his cotton shirt. Was this really happening?

He was kissing me. Finally.

God, was he kissing me.

His lips were heavenly—soft in touch, hard with intent—the stubble of his chin sending shots of flames cascading over my skin and into my belly—burning me from the inside out. His lips nipped and tasted. They pulled, and then opened. His tongue slipped against mine.

Oh God.

A moan filled my ears. Mine. Then his.

I opened to him. Tasting him. My body flooded with heat. My tongue pressed forward, needing more, and he took. Deeply. His hands held my head, they tipped my jaw, his thumb opened my mouth farther like he couldn’t get enough, and his tongue delved in. Caressing. Drinking. I was being devoured and I loved it.

This was what kissing was supposed to be. I’d never be able to kiss ever again and not compare. I felt it throughout every cell of my body as it burned its way through, leaving ashes in its wake.

Jesus. It was heady. Addictive. I was ravenous. I didn’t think I could get enough of this. Of him. Of his mouth. I never wanted to stop. My breathing was so erratic I was getting lightheaded. But I didn’t care if I passed