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Back Broken French Save as PDF
Chapters (62)
  1. Cover
  2. Full Page Image
  3. Dedication
  4. Chapter One
  5. Chapter Two
  6. Chapter Three
  7. Chapter Four
  8. Chapter Five
  9. Chapter Six
  10. Chapter Seven
  11. Chapter Eight
  12. Chapter Nine
  13. Chapter Ten
  14. Chapter Eleven
  15. Chapter Twelve
  16. Chapter Thirteen
  17. Chapter Fourteen
  18. Chapter Fifteen
  19. Chapter Sixteen
  20. Chapter Seventeen
  21. Chapter Eighteen
  22. Chapter Nineteen
  23. Chapter Twenty
  24. Chapter Twenty-One
  25. Chapter Twenty-Two
  26. Chapter Twenty-Three
  27. Chapter Twenty-Four
  28. Chapter Twenty-Five
  29. Chapter Twenty-Six
  30. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  31. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  32. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  33. Chapter Thirty
  34. Chapter Thirty-One
  35. Chapter Thirty-Two
  36. Chapter Thirty-Three
  37. Chapter Thirty-Four
  38. Chapter Thirty-Five
  39. Chapter Thirty-Six
  40. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  41. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  42. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  43. Chapter Forty
  44. Chapter Forty-One
  45. Chapter Forty-Two
  46. Chapter Forty-Three
  47. Chapter Forty-Four
  48. Chapter Forty-Five
  49. Chapter Forty-Six
  50. Chapter Forty-Seven
  51. Chapter Forty-Eight
  52. Chapter Forty-Nine
  53. Chapter Fifty
  54. Chapter Fifty-One
  55. Chapter Fifty-Two
  56. Chapter Fifty-Three
  57. Chapter Fifty-Four
  58. NEXT
  59. EXCERPT STOLEN ENGLISH
  60. Acknowledgments
  61. ALSO BY TASHA BOYD
  62. About the Author

Josie’s soft cries and needy whimpers held me captive. Her fingers gripped mine as if I could be her salvation. Or she could be mine.

I had to pull back. I had to. Too late, the sensations boiled over, catapulting through me, dragging destruction and absolution in their wake. “Joséphine.” Her name tore through my lips as I let go, pouring myself out and leaving myself like a broken dam and utterly exposed.

Chapter Thirty-Four

JOSIE

The weight of Xavier—hot, hard, and sweaty—pressed me into the bed, teasing out the last of my orgasm. It was soft and rolling on the heels of his. Not near the explosiveness of the first one he’d given me with his mouth and hands, but no less intense. Deeper even. The feel of his breath in my hair and on the back of my neck underscored the utter rawness of the moment.

I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the moisture that had gathered and the rise of emotion that had just choked my throat closed. Shit. Crying after sex? This was new. I tried to even my breath before I sobbed and utterly embarrassed myself.

Something had just happened. I’d felt it, experienced it as it happened to him, and whatever it was had tried to grab at my heart, trying to take me with it. What I’d just experienced had felt a lot less like fucking and a lot more like making love. Maybe it was a French thing. Perhaps this was what lovers were like in France. Soul sex, with lots of emotion, but able to simply switch it off. If this was his idea of just sex, two days, no rules, I was in so much trouble.

His hand brushed my hair off my damp shoulder and his lips, soft and prickly with his stubble, pressed against my skin.

I cringed into the pillow, fighting off the way his tenderness was confusing me, the way it made my eyes leak. He’d been rough in the beginning. Rougher than I was used to. Rough in a way I didn’t know I liked, apparently. The memory of it prickled over my skin. The roughness kept things simple.

He needed to get up right now and clean up and leave me here. I was inside out.

He eased off me. Out of me. I was bereft. “Dis moi …” he whispered.

I wondered if he knew how often he’d slipped into French with me in the last little while. I wondered what it meant that he wasn’t mentally checking himself. Listening to him mumbling in French, saying God knew what, as he did those wicked things to my body, was just about the most erotic thing I’d experienced. I groaned and squeezed my thighs together. I wanted him again. This was bad.