Chapter Fifty-Six
Poppy
I t’s late by the time we’re back at the hotel, and Emma has Not. Stopped. Talking.
“I mean, seriously ,” she exclaims, flopping onto the bed and dramatically tossing her heels aside. “Why did nobody tell me that drivers are this attractive? Poppy, does Frederic have any single friends? Specifically, driver friends?”
Jas groans from her spot on the other bed, rubbing her temples.
“Emma, if you don’t lower your voice, I swear to God, I will murder you in your sleep.”
“Well, excuse me for trying to manifest my way into the paddock. I don’t see you coming up with any solutions to this problem.”
Meanwhile, Leah is preoccupied with her phone, only half-listening as she scrolls.
“I won’t be coming with you all in the morning, by the way,” she announces. “Jacques is picking me up. I’ll meet you there, though.”
Jas and I exchange a look. Of course she’s going with Jacques .
We each take turns showering, the exhaustion of the day settling in as the minutes tick on. The lingering smell of saltwater and sun lotion washes down the drain, and by the time I curl up in bed, my body feels heavy -
But my mind is utterly restless.
I sigh, reaching for my phone, and my stomach flutters when I see a new message from Frederic.
Miss me yet?
I bite my lip, rolling onto my side.
Should I?
His response comes immediately.
That’s not an answer.
I smirk as my fingers hover over the keyboard.
Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping? You do have a race to focus on, you know.
I’m teasing him, sure, but there’s truth behind it, too. Sometimes, I wonder how this man functions - I swear I need a minimum of ten hours of sleep to be in a half-decent mood, never mind work .
It’s pretty hard to sleep when I’m thinking about you, Poppy.
A slow, warm sensation curls in my stomach, my body reacting before my brain even catches up.
Oh.
I hesitate, then slip out of bed, quietly tiptoeing into the bathroom and locking the door behind me.
The screen glows in my palm as I type. I delete it, start over and delete it again several times before finally plucking up the courage to send it .
And what exactly are you thinking about?
My heart is in my throat as I watch the delivered turn to read, and I suddenly feel like I’m back in high school.
It’s ridiculous, the effect this man has on me.
I shouldn’t be half as flustered as I am right now. My cheeks are warm, my breathing is uneven, and my fingers tremble slightly as I tighten my grip on the sink.
It’s just words. Just messages.
So why does it feel like he’s right here in the room with me?
My phone vibrates again, and I rush to read his response.
How much I wish I had you in my bed right now.
I exhale shakily, setting my phone back down as a deep, full-body shiver rolls through me.
I shouldn’t entertain this. I should be logical, should remind myself that this is just a fling, that this is nothing.
I do not get flustered by men. I don’t.
But then my thumbs move before my brain catches up.
Oh?
And what would you do if I was?
I hesitate - god, should I even be doing this? - before pressing send.
There’s a slight pause.
The longest pause, in fact.
Then:
You really want to know?
My stomach clenches .
I shouldn’t be smiling at my screen.
But I am.
I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.
I wait, my pulse hammering as I watch those three dots flicker on the screen.
I’d start slow, and tease you - just like you love to be teased.
I swallow hard.
I’d have you stretched out beneath me, all soft and perfect and ready.
I’d run my hands over every inch of your body, taking my time, making sure you’re trembling before I even think about giving you what you need.
I bite down on my lip as my eyes scan over the words, my abdomen clenching tightly as my body begins to grow warm.
Then, once you’re begging for me?
I exhale shakily, pressing my thighs together in order to relieve some of the pressure between them.
I’d ruin you all over again.
The words sear through me, sinking deep into my bones, setting me alight.
Oh, fuck .
I shift, heart pounding as I fight the sudden wave of heat rushing through me.
Am I really going to do this?
My skin is warm, my face utterly flushed, and for the first time in my life, I feel nervous sending a message.
It’s not like I haven’t flirted before. It’s not like I haven’t played this game before.
But this is different.
Because it’s him.
I stare at the screen for a few beats longer. I reach out a hand, and my thumb hovers over the camera icon.
My breath is somewhat unsteady, my heart continuing to hammer in my chest.
Then, finally, I lift my phone.
The image is subtle and classy - or at least, I think so. Nothing too raunchy, but just enough to tease. The soft lace of my pajamas, the curve of my thigh, my hand resting just at the hem like an invitation I’m not quite brave enough to fully extend.
I press send before I can talk myself out of it, and practically throw my phone down onto the counter.
I needn’t have bothered - the response is immediate.
Fuck.
A deep pulse of satisfaction spreads through me as I read the four-letter message.
Apparently he’s not so articulate now.
Problem?
I smirk as I send it, feeling very much satisfied with myself.
Yeah .
Now I have to return the favor.
My screen lights up with another message.
An image .
I hesitate, blinking down at the screen. My eyes flicker over to the locked bathroom door as though I expect one of the girls to come barging through it and catch me red-handed at that very moment.
Of course, nothing happens. It’s completely silent on the other side of the room, where my friends are all tucked up in bed and fast asleep.
So, I open it.
And holy shit.
The angle is low and intimate, capturing every inch of his lean, toned body sprawled against his white hotel sheets. His race-honed torso is bare - all taut muscle, golden skin and sharp, defined lines.
But it’s not just his body that gets me.
It’s his face - the dark, heated look in his eyes, the slight smirk curling his lips, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
A shiver rolls through me.
Miss me now ?
I exhale slowly, my entire body thrumming with the need to just be near him.
You play dirty.
As is usual with him, I don’t have to wait any time at all for his response.
Only with you.
I bite my lip, warmth pooling in my stomach as my eyes trail over the photo again.
And what if I don’t want to play anymore?
The dots flicker.
Then tell me what you want instead, mon ange .
My breath catches. My fingers hesitate.
Because the answer is so, so easy.
You . I want you .
I swallow hard, my heart pounding, my body already burning with anticipation as I type out my response.
That’s a dangerous question.
His reply is instant.
You’re not going to answer it?
Honestly, I don’t even know what to say. Do I tell him that I want him, that I need him?
No. I can’t do that.
Instead, I take a slow breath, steadying my hands as I type.
I don’t think you’re ready for my answer.
The dots flicker almost immediately.
I’m ready for something.
Another photo comes through with the message, and I open it, my eyes greedily drinking in the sight of his muscular physique.
The white sheets are very much rumpled, his torso still bare, but now - oh.
His hand.
His large, strong hand is gripping the hard, thick length of himself. It’s wrapped around his cock, his skin flushed and straining, and heat slams into me as I blink down at it.
I stare at it for goodness knows how long.
My breath catches in my throat, my pulse roaring in my ears as my fingers tighten around my phone .
Then, another message comes through:
This is what thinking about you does to me.
I just about manage to stop myself from letting out a whimper, though I’m barely able to swallow past the sudden dryness in my throat.
Fucking hell.
I bite my lip, shifting slightly as warmth pools low in my stomach, my skin prickling, my entire body humming. I swear, it’s like I can feel him - feel the heat of his stare through the screen, the intensity of his presence even from miles away.
And suddenly, I’m too warm. Too aware.
My breathing is shallow as I type out my response.
Well, that’s a compliment.
I’m trying my best to keep it cool, really, I am, but I’m convinced at this point that he can see right through me.
Especially when his next response comes through.
I think I need to make sure you remember who you belong to.
A slow shiver rolls through me, even as I type out a biting message.
You’re so full of yourself.
His reply comes through immediately.
Not as full as I’d have you.
I suck in a sharp breath, my pussy clenching around nothing as my knees weaken.
Somehow, I manage to respond, though the act of typing is becoming more and more difficult .
You really have no shame, do you?
A dangerous heat licks at my spine, my fingers tingling with the urge to do something.
Not when it comes to you.
I should end this. I should put my phone down, walk out of the bathroom, go to sleep like a sane person.
But I don’t.
Instead, I exhale shakily, dragging my fingers over the waistband of my pajama shorts and pulling them down as I send a quick response.
Is that so?
Three dots flicker.
I’d prove it to you, but you’re not here.
I smirk, a little lightheaded, my heart pounding as I lift my phone and snap another photo. I capture a lower angle this time, with one hand grazing the inside of my thigh, tugging one side of my waistband down just enough to tease, but not enough to show.
It’s bold - way too bold, in fact.
Still, I hit send anyway.
His response takes longer this time. A full ten seconds.
Lower.
My stomach tightens, and I hesitate.
Then, I do it.
The next photo is even worse. Or better, depending on how you look at it. The front of me is completely bare for him to see as I pull the shorts halfway down my thighs.
I send it before I can second-guess myself, and his response is instant.
Touch yourself for me.
I move on pure instinct, my fingers trailing lower, ghosting over my inner thigh and teasing myself with the anticipation of it - of him .
I squeeze my eyes shut, my phone still clutched in my other hand, my breath coming in shallow gasps as my skin ignites beneath my own touch.
I’m haunted by the memory of his hands on me, his body pressing me up against the window in his suite. I remember the way he made me fall apart with just his fingers as I brush my own over my clit, and it all rushes back to me at once, stealing the air from my lungs.
A vibration against my palm startles me, and I blink down at the screen.
Show me.
A fresh, burning wave of heat rushes through me.
I shouldn’t. I know that I really, really shouldn’t.
After all, this is insane. He’s a celebrity - what happens if his phone gets hacked somehow, if his messages get leaked, if someone else ends up in possession of it and these images get out?
But…
I bite my lip, my entire body pulsing with need, my heart slamming against my ribs as I shift slightly.
All doubt seems to fade away as I angle my phone just enough.
My fingers are still between my legs, and I take the photo.
It’s not too much. After all, I’m hardly identifiable, and you can’t really see anything.
But it’s just enough to drive him insane.
I press send , my stomach twisting with nerves and adrenaline as I continue to tease myself with the memories of him.
The response comes much faster than I expected.
Mon dieu.
You’re going to kill me, you know that?
I smirk, satisfaction thrumming through me at the thought of him seeing me like this and knowing that it’s because of him.
I remove my hand from between my legs as I respond. In all honesty, this is a little inconvenient - I’m not sure how I’ll be capable of doing anything but torturing myself while messaging him, since typing with one hand is not a skill of mine.
That would be quite the headline. “Formula 1 Driver Dies from Sheer Frustration.”
His reply has my eyes widening.
Poppy - if and when I die, it’ll be buried inside you.
A sharp, needy gasp escapes me, my thighs clenching, my entire body tightening at his words.
Another message appears.
Touch yourself for me. Properly.
I can’t think, can’t focus on anything but the aching pulse between my legs, the way my skin feels too hot, too sensitive.
My head spins as another message comes through.
I want to know how you feel when you cum for me, even when I’m not there.
I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop.
The thought of him seeing me like this - the thought of him just as frustrated, wanting and needy as I am, the thought of him being just as impacted - only makes the pleasure burn hotter, and I let out a slow, shaky breath as I press record .
I make sure that the angle is careful and teasing, removing my shirt so that my pert breasts are on show for him along with my long, blonde hair.
I trust Frederic, I do, and I know him well enough to know that his possessive nature would never allow him to share this with anyone else.
As far as he’s concerned, I belong to him and him alone.
Still, you can never be too careful, and I don’t know who might try and get into his phone and why, so I keep my face out of the shot
The video is all smooth skin and parted thighs, the slow, deliberate movement of my hand as I press my fingers inside.
I can’t watch it back - the thought is mortifying - and so once I feel I have enough to share with him and drive him truly crazy, I press send .
My pulse pounds as I watch the message deliver, nerves and anticipation twisting in my stomach, my breath catching in my throat as I wait.
Those three dots appear and I can’t help but smirk, satisfaction thrumming through me at the thought of him watching the video, jaw slack and chest heaving as he touches himself, too.
You’re so fucking perfect .
And then -
Show me more.
My heart races.
Still, I obey, pressing record again as I shift.
I angle the camera lower this time to allow him to see the way that my fingers tease against my slick, throbbing heat, the way my body is already falling apart at just the thought of him.
It feels incredible, and I don’t even process what I’m doing as I raise one of my legs to the counter. It spreads me out in full, providing the camera with a complete, full view of my wet slit; but more than that, it provides me with more pleasure as I work my fingers over myself.
A soft, breathy whimper slips past my lips, and though I bite it down so not to disturb my sleeping friends, I’m confident he’ll hear it on the video.
My movements are slow and deliberate as I drag my fingers up and down the full outline of my pussy, exaggeratedly circling my clit. I tease at the outside of my entrance for a moment before sliding my fingers in and out, in and out, my thumb swiping over my swollen clit and drawing small, tight circles over it as I close my eyes and picture him here.
I swear, it’s like I can see it in full, high definition. Frederic in the bathroom, taking me, owning me. Me down on my knees before him, his hands on the back of my head as he guides me to suck him and take his length right down my throat. Him fucking me from behind, his bright blue eyes meeting mine in the mirror as he pounds into me, the sound of his skin slapping against the flesh of my ass filling the space around us.
I make a point of showcasing my glistening fingers to evidence my arousal since I know he’ll be watching, and I can feel my thighs beginning to tremble, my abdomen clenching tightly as heat thrums through my body.
And then, I send it.
It takes him less than a second to respond.
Fucking hell, Poppy.
My cheeks burn, my skin flushed and hot, my body thrumming as my phone vibrates again -
This time, it’s a video.
My breath hitches, but I don’t even hesitate to press play. I keep my hand between my legs as I watch it, my fingers pressed high and deep, my thumb still nudging my clit.
And - fuck .
The video is low-lit, the angle slightly tilted as the camera captures every inch of his golden skin, his broad chest, the way his muscles flex as he grips the thick, hard length of himself in his fist.
Just as I imagined it, his pace is slow as he pumps his hand over his cock. His breathing is ragged, and my stomach tightens at the way his hand moves, the way his thumb swipes at the bead of pre-cum oozing from the tip of him, the way his body reacts to me.
To this. To us .
My thighs clench together, a soft, needy whimper escaping me as I watch the way his hand strokes himself, the way his abs tense with every movement.
And then, he groans.
"Fuck, Poppy .”
The moment his voice slips through the speakers of my phone - deep, rough and completely wrecked - I shatter .
A sharp, choked whimper escapes me as my body clenches around my own fingers, pleasure slamming through me in a wave so intense I have to bite down on my lip to stop myself from crying out.
He sounds desperate. Like he’s barely hanging on.
Like he’s completely undone by this, by me.
And that is what ruins me.
I barely register the way my hand still moves as the aftershocks roll through me. I can’t even consider the way my body trembles, too sensitive, too hot, too much.
All I know is him .
His voice. His body.
His breathless, desperate groans as his fist works over his cock, slick and slow and so fucking perfect that it makes my stomach clench all over again.
Another video comes through, and I press it open immediately, not even bothering to hesitate.
His cock comes into view, and my thumb swipes over my over-sensitive clit without hesitation, my own breath ragged and uneven. I drink in every little detail, from the way his abs tense, the way his thighs flex, the way his muscles strain beneath golden, flushed skin…
The way his fingers tighten around himself, his movements quickening.
And then -
"Poppy - oh, Poppy, fuck ."
His voice breaks. His body shudders.
His hand stutters, tightens, jerks -
And then he comes.
Thick, white ropes spill over his stomach and onto his hand. My eyes flicker everywhere all at once, greedily drinking in the details as his jaw clenches and his head tips back against the pillows. His entire body tenses as a low, filthy groan rumbles through his chest.
And that’s it.
That’s my undoing.
My head falls back, my mouth parting in a silent cry as a second, sharper climax slams through me.
I can’t be loud, I can’t, but it’s so hard to keep quiet as my legs tremble violently. My fingers falter against my pussy, my vision blurring.
Still, I can’t stop.
Not when the image of his perfect, muscular body is seared into my mind.
Not when his name is still on my lips, falling from my tongue in a whispered plea.
Not when I know that he just came thinking of me.
It takes me longer than I care to admit to come back down, and my heart is still racing when I lower my phone.
There’s another text waiting for me to open.
Did you touch yourself to my video, mon ange?
I let out a shaky breath, my fingers still trembling as I type my response.
What do you think?
The dots flicker.
I think if I were there, you’d already be on your fifth orgasm by now.
I whimper, my stomach tightening, my thighs clenching together all over again.
I shouldn’t want more. I shouldn’t be this desperate, this needy -
And yet.
You’re dangerous, Moreau .
His response is immediate.
And you, Poppy Taylor, are mine.
I swallow hard, warmth spreading through me all over again.
I don’t reply, though. I don’t trust myself to.
Instead, I reach for a towel, clean myself up, and let out a long, unsteady breath.
But even as I slip back into my pajamas - even as I wish him sweet dreams and crawl into bed beside my sleeping friends -
I know that I’m already in too deep.
Because this isn’t just sex. This isn’t just flirting, or a holiday fling.
And for the first time, I let myself admit it.
I don’t just want Frederic Moreau -
I think I might be falling for him.