Mike’s final forceful thrust sent Fleurette’s squeal of orgasmic rapture soaring into the Parisian night.
Mike, fingers skimming warm breasts, eased her weight off him. Despite his basic French, she had to know. “C’est fini,” he growled.
“Mais pourquoi?”
Mike sighed. Wildly demanding all night, Fleurette needed to realise, “C’est tout.”
Her eyes showed dismay. His softness slithered out of her, leaving an empty cavern, a heaving heart, and a wet thigh. “Je t’aime, Mike.”
“I share ce sentiment—mais…” Mike struggled.
“Oui?” her voice trembling.
“Wait until—morn… du matin—because—je ne suis pas… a fucking robot!”
