Chapter Forty-Five
Poppy
I t goes without saying that Frederic’s hotel is stunning.
He had already mentioned that his entire team was staying here for the week, but somehow, I hadn’t quite pictured this level of luxury.
He leads me from the car to the entrance effortlessly, his fingers intertwined with mine as though this is the most natural thing in the world.
I, however, am hyper-aware of everything .
There are a few people lingering outside the hotel, watching with curious eyes as we walk past. Their gazes flicker from Frederic to me, then back to him again.
They recognise him, I’m sure, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He just keeps walking, his grip firm and steady.
But the moment we step inside the hotel, the atmosphere shifts.
The staff all recognise him. There’s a quiet “ bonsoir, Monsieur Moreau ” from the doorman as we pass and a subtle nod from the receptionist. Some hotel guests glance over, their eyes lighting up with curiosity, but nobody stares outright, and nobody says anything.
It’s almost too polished, too seamless. Like they know better than to ask questions.
And that’s when it really hits me: Frederic Moreau isn’t just rich.
He’s somebody .
And I’m walking through a five-star hotel holding his hand like I belong here.
I swallow hard, focusing on breathing steadily. His grip on my hand tightens briefly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles as the elevator doors glide open and we step inside.
And once we’re alone - just the two of us in the mirrored, gold-trimmed space - he finally glances over at me.
His blue eyes gleam, full of something infuriatingly smug.
“Nervous?” he muses.
“Of what?” I scoff.
His lips twitch like he’s holding back a grin.
“You’re walking straight into the predator’s den, mon ange .”
The elevator comes to a halt, the doors sliding open; and I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t this .
Beyond the threshold, a vast, sprawling penthouse suite unfolds before me.
Everything about the suite is minimalistic, modern and luxurious. Floor-to-ceiling windows span the entire far wall, giving a panoramic view of the glittering Monaco skyline and the inky sea beyond.
The living area is filled with deep, plush couches, a sleek black dining table, and a fully stocked bar, and there are doors off to the side to indicate the other rooms that the space leads to.
Something tells me Frederic has probably stayed in hundreds of suites like this before - that this level of indulgence is just normal for him.
It isn’t just luxury - it’s power.
I step inside slowly, my heels clicking softly against the polished floors, my stomach twisting with something I can’t quite name.
Because now that I’m here - alone with him, standing in the private sanctuary of his world - something in the air shifts.
It’s thick. Heavy. Charged with anticipation.
And then, I feel him.
Frederic comes up behind me, his body heat radiating against my back, his presence solid and unshakable. His hands find my waist, fingertips trailing over the fabric of my dress, so light I barely register the touch until I do.
Until my entire body locks up, hyper-aware of every single place he touches me.
“You look beautiful.”
His voice is low, quiet, and devastatingly smooth, and a shiver races down my spine.
I’ve spent the past few days convincing myself that I’m in control, that I know what I’m doing. But right now, with his hands on me, his lips a breath from my ear and his body crowding into mine with that easy, unshakable dominance, I know the truth.
I’m not in control at all.
He was right - I’ve walked willingly into the predator’s den.
And as his fingers move to trace slow, lazy patterns over the silk of my dress, a barely-there touch that still manages to send a rush of heat flooding through me, I decide I don’t want to leave.
My breath stutters, my pulse hammering in my throat as I stand still, completely aware of him.
Frederic takes his time - enjoying this, I think - and the tension in my abdomen coils tighter and tighter with every second that passes.
“You’ve gone quiet, mon ange ,” he murmurs, his breath warm against the sensitive skin of my neck. “That’s not like you.”
I clear my throat, trying to calm my racing pulse. “Maybe I just have nothing to say.”
I feel his smile against my skin. “Now that I don’t believe.”
I lean back against him, needing more despite the part of me that still wants to pretend that I have control. He nuzzles the space just below my ear, his lips hovering there. He’s barely touching me, and yet I feel everything .
The anticipation. The heat.
The way my heart pounds so hard I think he can probably hear it.
It’s only been a matter of days since I was convincing myself I didn’t even like this man, and yet I tilt my head, baring my neck for him.
Frederic exhales slowly, deeply; and then he finally presses his lips against my skin.
It’s soft. Unbearably soft. A slow drag of his mouth over my pulse, a whisper of heat that makes my stomach clench and my knees weaken.
“Poppy,” he murmurs, his hands sliding over my stomach, holding me against him as he kisses me again. “Do you like it when I touch you like this?”
I squeeze my eyes shut as I nod my head up and down, my tongue apparently incapable of forming words. My body thrums with anticipation, my chest rising and falling faster than it should.
A dark, knowing chuckle rumbles through his chest as he moves one hand up my torso, his fingertips ghosting over the curve of my ribcage, tracing the outline of my dress with aching slowness.
I bite my lip, hard .
“ Mon ange, ” he murmurs, voice thick with something dangerously close to affection, “if you don’t tell me what you want, I’ll have no choice but to take my time figuring it out.”
I can’t take it anymore.
My entire body is on fire, andI am sick to death of pretending I don’t want this.
So, I turn in his arms.
I barely have time to take him in - the sharp line of his jaw, the heat in his gaze, the slight smirk that ghosts across his lips - before I grab the collar of his shirt and pull him down into me.
The kiss is slow, scorching, and all-consuming.
Our tongues brush together in delicate strokes as his strong arms tighten around me, his dominance inescapable as he slowly pushes me back against the cold glass of the penthouse window.
The contrast of it is stark: the chill against my overheated skin and the warmth of his muscular body.
One of his hands fists into my hair, tangling around the strands and deepening our kiss while his other slides lower, gripping my thigh and encouraging me to wrap my leg around his waist.
I should be embarrassed by how easily I give in, by how quickly I melt under his touch as he presses me more firmly against the cool glass pane, but I don’t have it in me to care.
When it comes to Frederic Monreau, I already know that I don’t stand a fucking chance.
The heat of him, the sheer size of him, the way he moves - it’s dizzying as much as consuming, and it’s far too easy to lose myself in him.
His hand trails upwards, pushing the silk up over my thighs in a deliberate, slow movement. My breath catches in my throat, my head tilting back against the glass as anticipation coils deep in my stomach.
“Wait,” I whisper.
My chin tilts and my eyes flicker to the city lights beyond the window.
Frederic pauses, his lips hovering just above mine.
“What if someone sees?” I murmur, my voice unsteady.
His responding grin is pure devilment.
“Let them watch.”
I suck in a sharp breath, my stomach tightening at the absolute audacity of him, at the low, husky way he says it -
At the way his smirk deepens when he sees how flustered I am.
I shake my head, half in disbelief, half in frustration, but my lips curl upwards all the same. Before I can say another word, his hand slides higher, gripping around my thigh once more.
I swallow hard, my breath shaking, my lips parting as his thumb brushes dangerously close to the lace outline of my panties.
He leans in, his breath warm against my ear, his voice silk-wrapped sin.
“If they want a show…” he pauses, his grip flexing, the heat of his palm searing into my skin. “…Then maybe we should give them one.”
My heart slams against my ribs, a whimper slipping free before I can stop it.
“Don’t you think?”
“You wouldn’t,” I whisper, though the words come out weak, breathless and utterly unconvincing.
“I wouldn’t?” he chuckles, tilting his head and watching me with mock curiosity as his hand slides even higher.
My nails dig into his forearms, my pulse roaring.
“No,” I rasp, but I know he sees through me.
Because as his knuckles finally reach the place I want him most.
He brushes them gently against the damp centre of my panties, and I know that he can feel how much I want him.
“Do you want me to behave, Poppy?” he asks, his breath a whisper against my lips.
His fingernails rake over the crease of my skin, so close to slipping beneath the fabric and meeting me where I want - no, need him most, and so I can’t breathe, never mind think , and I shake my head in response to his question.
“No?”
I swallow, my throat tight, my pulse hammering, my body burning .
“No,” I whisper.
His responding growl is all the warning I get before his fingers slip beneath the lace fabric and his mouth crashes into mine.
I gasp against his lips as his fingers slide roughly through my slick heat, and my entire body shudders against him. My nails dig into his broad forearms, desperate for something to hold onto as he moves with that infuriatingly slow yet firm precision that makes my mind go completely blank.
“So fucking wet for me already,” he rasps.
A whimper slips past my lips, and he drinks it down, kissing me deeper. His tongue slides against mine with the same aching slowness that his digits tease me with, and it’s maddening and it’s perfect -
And I am completely at his mercy.
He traces lazy, torturous circles over my clit, just enough to make my thighs shake, but not nearly enough to satisfy the ache pooling in my stomach. My hips cant against him, my body chasing more, and he chuckles as he keeps me pinned against the glass.
“Look at you,” he murmurs as he dips lower, teasing my entrance and pressing inside me just barely.
I writhe against him, my moan a desperate plea.
“Such a needy little thing, aren’t you? Tell me, mon ange ," he purrs, his fingers sliding in deeper, his thumb circling my swollen clit with devastating accuracy. "Who’s making you feel this good?"
His voice is pure sin, smooth as silk and wrapping around me like a spell.
"You," I tell him, barely coherent, my thighs shaking and my abdomen clenching as pleasure bubbles within.
His smirk brushes against my throat from where my head tips back against the glass.
"Say it properly."
I let out a shaky, needy breath.
" You , Frederic."
His responding groan is low and filthy , and he thrusts deeper, a silent reward for my submission.
“That’s my girl.”
His fingers fuck in and out, pressing deep inside and sending shockwaves of pleasure through every nerve in my body. He curls them just right and my breathing stutters , my legs trembling as I grip him tightly in an attempt to keep myself upright against the glass.
But Frederic doesn’t make it easy for me. In fact, he makes it impossible .
"That’s it," he praises, his lips brushing my heated skin. "You take my fingers so well.”
My thighs threaten to snap shut, my entire body betraying me, but he doesn’t allow it. Instead, his knee wedges itself between my legs, keeping my legs spread wide, keeping me open for him -
Keeping me helpless .
My hands claw at his arms, desperate to anchor myself, desperate to hold onto something as he drives me higher. His fingers continue to thrust in and out, curling just right as his thumb swipes almost cruelly over my clit.
"You feel so good like this," he says, his voice strained as though he’s just barely hanging onto his own control. "So fucking perfect . Remind me: you were made just for me, weren’t you, Poppy?"
His voice sends heat pooling between my legs, his possessive tone making my head spin.
"Tell me," he demands, his fingers curling inside me again, pressing right against my most sensitive spot and dragging another strangled moan from my lips.
My head lolls back against the glass, my nails digging deeply into his forearms.
" Say. It ," he rasps, increasing the pressure while thrusting deeper in a way that has my vision blurring at the edges.
I can’t fight it. I don’t want to fight it.
"I w-was made," I gasp, barely coherent, “for you.”
"What was that? I can’t hear you, Poppy. Speak louder. ”
I whimper, my head tipping forward as his fingers work me over with expert precision.
"I was made for you , Frederic," I breathe. “My - my pleasure, my pussy, my everything. It’s all for you.”
My voice breaks, my body on the precipice as I hover at the edge of complete oblivion.
“I’m yours. ”
“Yes, you fucking are, ” he confirms.
And then, as his fingers thrust harder and faster and his thumb circles my clit in devastating strokes, I shatter.
My entire body goes taut, my back arching against the glass as my thighs tremble uncontrollably as my orgasm crashes through me, tearing me apart at the seams as waves of white-hot pleasure ripple through every nerve ending.
I physically shake in his hold, my walls clenching tight around him, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let up.
No, he keeps moving, dragging my pleasure out for as long as possible, teasing every last tremor from my body.
When I finally come fluttering back down into reality, I release my tight, desperate grip on his forearms, my fingers unfurling slowly from where they’d been clutching at his skin. Frederic exhales sharply, like he’s just as affected by this as I am.
I lift my gaze to his, and his pupils are blown wide, his expression pure hunger as he drinks me in. He carefully studies every aftershock that ripples through my body, and I can’t breathe, I can’t think, can’t do anything but feel.
Then - slowly, deliberately - he withdraws his hand, sliding his fingers out from between my legs. The movement is torturously slow, and a choked whimper escapes my throat at the loss of his thick digits.
My pussy clenches around nothing, my body still aching and pulsing with the remnants of my release as he lifts his slick, glistening fingers to my mouth.
“Try it,” he murmurs as he presses them against my lips. “ Taste it .”
I’m thankful for his thigh between mine, propping me up against the glass - because if he weren’t holding me steady, I might have collapsed entirely.
A fresh wave of heat surges through my blood as my lips part, and I swear I see pride flash in his eyes at the moment he knows that I’m going to obey him.
I part my lips as his smirk curves into a slow, dark thing, filled with undeniable satisfaction.
His fingers, still slick from my release, press inside, and the taste of myself floods my senses. Frederic watches me intently, his pupils dilating as I close my lips around him, my tongue flicking lightly over his fingertips.
A low, rough sound rumbles from deep in his chest.
“ Mon ange, ” he murmurs. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
My own breath is shallow and uneven as his fingers slide free, my lips lingering just for a second longer than necessary. His jaw clenches, and he exhales sharply, his restraint fraying at the seams.
I should feel embarrassed. Self-conscious. Humiliated by how easily I obey him, how effortlessly I fall into his hands, how much I crave his approval, his praise.
But I don’t.
Because I love it.
I love the way his muscles are taut with tension, the way his hand flexes against my skin, the way his eyes flicker with pure, unfiltered hunger as he stares at me like he’s barely holding himself back -
And I love knowing that I can do this to him.
Frederic tilts his head, his gaze locked onto mine, his touch lingering and possessive.
“You really were made for me,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
My heart pounds, my body thrumming, still tingling from the aftermath of my release, still craving more.
Still craving him .
His lips part like he’s about to say something else, but I don’t give him the chance. Instead, I close the distance between us.
I kiss him .
Hard. Fierce. Desperate .
His groan is immediate, vibrating through me as he kisses me back just as hungrily, his hands tightening on my hips, pulling me flush against him.
I feel every inch of him - his hardness pressing into my core, the heat radiating between us, the slow, deliberate roll of his hips against mine. I moan into his mouth, my fingers threading through his hair, tugging slightly.
“Poppy,” he mutters against my lips. "You are the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted."
His voice is low and wrecked, thick with pride and satisfaction, and I swallow hard, still trembling, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“ Freddie ,” I whisper back, just to see what it does to him.
It does everything .
His hands tighten, his grip unrelenting, his mouth crashing back to mine. His kiss is greedy, urgent and all-consuming.
He’s kissing me like he wants to devour me, like he needs this, needs me, and fuck - I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of him.
His large, warm hands skim lower, inching my dress higher and higher until he’s bunching the silk around my hips so that the backs of my thighs brush against the cold glass window.
“Tell me you want me,” he murmurs, his lips brushing along my jaw, his voice gravelly with need.
“I want you,” I confess easily, my nails digging into his shoulders.
Like I could possibly say anything else.
His hands palm at my ass, and in one swift, fluid movement, he lifts me, gripping me with effortless strength as he carries me through the penthouse.
My legs instinctively move to wrap around his waist, my hands clutching at his shoulders, and all I can do is hold on as he moves through the expansive suite with purpose.
He carries me into what I assume is his bedroom and drops me onto the bed, my body bouncing lightly against the soft mattress. He crawls up the bed until his body is poised above mine, his gaze dark and molten and entirely predatory, his breath heavy and uneven.
I’m still panting, still writhing, still aching .
And fuck - I want more. I need more.
My hands tremble as they skim down his chest, slipping over the crisp material of his shirt, feeling the hard lines of muscle beneath. I reach for the buttons, fumbling slightly as I work them open.
Frederic watches me with pure amusement, his lips quirking at the corners.
“So impatient,” he murmurs.
I glare, but the effect is completely ruined by the way my hands are still shaking, by the way my chest is still heaving, by the way my thighs clench together in anticipation.
He chuckles, low and dark, and then - just as I undo the last button - he shrugs off the shirt, letting it fall to the floor.
And, fuck .
I swallow hard.
I hadn’t appreciated him fully on the yacht. Things had been too rushed, too heated.
Because, holy shit, he is unbelievably beautiful .
Tanned, toned, and sculpted to perfection, his broad chest and cut abs look like they belong on a marble statue, not on the French menace currently kneeling between my legs.
There’s a small scar just beneath his ribs, a faint line that catches the soft glow of the penthouse lighting, and for some insane reason, I want to trace my tongue over it.
I don’t get the chance.
Because before I can move, Frederic grips my ankles, his fingers curling around the delicate bones as he spreads me wide beneath him.
My breath catches.
He drags his gaze down my body, slowly, deliberately, drinking in every inch of exposed skin, every detail of the way I look beneath him. His hands reach for the waistband of my underwear, and he drags the lace down my thighs and calves before tossing them somewhere behind him as his eyes return to my core.
His lips part, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice rasping, low and reverent.
I shift beneath him, pressing my thighs together in desperate need of friction.
“Poppy,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing the inside of my knee, dragging slowly, torturously upward before pushing my legs apart once more. “I can’t explain this feeling. This desire. I… I want to ruin you .”
My hands fist into the sheets.
“You already have,” I whisper.
He descends on me, his lips trailing fire down my throat, down the curve of my collarbone, his fingers skimming higher and higher up my thighs. My hips lift from the bed, my body straining for him, my pulse pounding, my skin burning -
And then, finally , he does exactly what he promised.
He ruins me.