The Takeover (The Miles High Club Book 2)

Claire

I exhale heavily and stare at the spreadsheet on the computer screen in front of me.

I can’t believe I rejected Gabriel’s offer of help. What was I thinking?

Obviously . . . I clearly wasn’t.

God. I pinch the bridge of my nose. This is a nightmare. We just lost the biggest advertising campaign we had, and it’s not getting any better. I’m going to have to let more people go this month.

Fuck’s sake . . . we’re running on skeleton staff as it is.

I don’t know how we can possibly do what we have to do—and do it well—with the number of staff that we now have.

I put my head into my hands and let out a dejected sigh. This is hard. Harder than hard.

I don’t know what I’m doing. How the hell do I keep us above water for much longer? If only Wade were here. He would know what to do. He was the brains of our business. Give him a problem, and he could work out a way around it. He saw problems as challenges or learning curves. Nothing was too big an obstacle for him.

But he’s gone . . . and now it’s just me.

God, I feel so out of my depth. I sit and stare at the computer screen for a long time.

Maybe if I stare at it long enough, the answer will come to me like magic.

What do I do?

What direction should I move in? I know something has to change . . . but what?

Stop.

Stop being so negative. I can pull us out of this. I know I can.

Reconfigure a few processes, move a few accounts. Streamline the advertising again.

It will be okay . . . it has to be.

Giving up this company is not an option.

I won’t go down without a fight, and damn it, it will be okay.

I’ll make damn sure of it.

My office door opens in a rush. “Just this way,” Marley says to someone.

A man comes through the door with the biggest bunch of red roses I have ever seen.

“Delivery for Claire Anderson.”

“That’s me,” I reply.

The roses have huge heads with a deep perfume and are in the most beautiful crystal vase. He places them down on my desk. “Sign here, please.”

I sign in the allocated box. “Thank you.” I smile broadly.

“You’re welcome. Although I have an admission. I didn’t buy them.”

Marley and I laugh. The joke isn’t funny, but we are so excited that we would laugh at anything, it seems.

With a kind nod, he leaves us alone, and I open the card.

I’M A VERY HAPPY MAN TODAY.

#TOBELOVEDBYYOU

TRIS

xox

An over-the-top smile beams from my face, and Marley snatches the card from me.

She reads it, and her eyes rise to meet mine in confusion. “What does that mean?”

I roll my lips.

“To be loved by you.” She frowns.

I shrug.

Her eyes widen. “You love him?”

I give her a lopsided smile.

“You told him you love him?” She gasps.

I swing my chair back to my computer. “Yes, Marley. I admit it; I’m in love with Tristan Miles.”

She falls into a seated position on my desk and stares at me for a while in disbelief.

“Well . . . holy fucking shit,” she says as she puts her hands on her hips. “I was not expecting that.”

“Me neither.”

“So . . . what?” She stares at me for a moment as she tries to process the new information. “I mean, I knew you had that week of lunch fucks.”

I smile at her analogy. “Sounds so romantic when you put it like that.”

“You know what I mean.” She smirks. “But what happened then? And more importantly, why the fuck haven’t you told me about any of this?”

“I was just waiting to see what happened, and I didn’t want to jinx it.”

“Jinx it?”

“Well, sometimes when you put something out there, it doesn’t turn out how you expect it to.”

“So . . . this is turning out?” She frowns in surprise.

“Oh, Marley,” I gush as I look at my beautiful flowers. “Tristan is just so . . .” I search for the right words. “Funny and sweet and understanding, and he sleeps on the couch at my house out of respect for my kids.”

She screws up her face in disbelief. “Tristan Miles?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tristan Miles, the arrogant, gorgeous playboy?” she repeats, as if not believing me.

I smile with a nod. “Yep, that’s him.”

She frowns at me. “I’m so confused. I thought he was a hot player who had excellent fucking capabilities.”

I laugh out loud. “He’s all of those things, but there’s more to him.” I read my card again.

I’M A VERY HAPPY MAN TODAY.

#TOBELOVEDBYYOU

TRIS

XOX

“To be loved by you.” I hold the card to my chest.

And he is.

Marley smiles as she watches me, and finally she says, “I love seeing you like this.”

“Like what, all dreamy and starry eyed like a schoolgirl?”

“Happy.”

I smile softly. “Thanks. I really am.” I put the card carefully back into its envelope. I’ll keep it in a safe place with the other card from the last lot of roses he gave me.

Everything from Tristan is special.

“I’m meeting his family on Saturday night at a black-tie dinner,” I say.

“Oh jeez.” Her eyes widen. “What are you wearing?”

“No idea. This is my worst nightmare.”

“What do you have in your wardrobe?”

“Nothing. I haven’t bought an evening dress in years. What the hell do you even wear to a black-tie dinner these days?”

“We’ll go shopping. Don’t worry; we’ll find you something. You have to look amazing.”

“I know.” Nerves flutter in my stomach as I imagine meeting his parents and older brother, Jameson. I know their opinions are important to Tris. “I want to look understated sexy, not like mutton dressed up as lamb. Something age appropriate but not motherly.”

“Definitely,” Marley says as she thinks. “I’m going to google this.”

“Dress sense doesn’t come up on Google, Marley.”

“No, but stylists do.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

“I can’t afford a stylist.”

“What you can’t afford is to look like a bag of shit. This is his announcement to the world that you and he are together. It’s an important event, and everyone is going to be looking at you. Don’t worry; we’ll give her a strict budget to work with.”

I stare at her as I process her advice. “Do you think? Isn’t getting a stylist a bit over the top?”

“Claire, everyone in that ballroom is going to use a stylist, and besides, this is New York. Nothing is over the top. I got this. Leave it to me.”

I pull onto my street and see the black Aston Martin parked in my driveway, and I bite my lip to stifle my smile.

He beat me home.

Tristan Miles is at my house . . . with my kids.

Wonders never cease.

I give a subtle shake of my head in disbelief as I go over the last few months. What a whirlwind.

I’ve gone from hating him to tolerating him to sleeping with him to loving him.

I pull into the driveway and park my car alongside his . . . and I do love him.

Regardless of what happens in the future, I love Tristan. I can happily admit it now.

I walk in through the front door to the sound of oohs and aahs.

“Oh my God, Mom. Look at this,” Harry cries in excitement.

I turn the corner to see them all hunched over the dining table, a huge box front and center before them.

“Hello,” I call.

“Mom, look what Tristan got us,” Harry screams.

I haven’t seen him this excited in forever. “What?” I ask as my eyes flick to the gigantic box.

“The rocket ship model.” He gasps.

My mouth falls open. “The what?”

Harry reads the back of the box. “Holy hell, look at this,” he cries as he points to something on the back of the box.

I blink as I try to keep up with what is going on here. “Tris, that model is stupidly expensive.”

Tristan’s eyes rise to meet mine, and he gives me a slow, sexy smile. “Anderson.”

I smile as my stomach flips . . . I know that tone, and I know that nickname.

“What have you done?” I ask.

“I bought Wiz a present.” He shrugs casually. “He won the bet fair and square and then didn’t get to eat cockroaches. It was only right that I pay up.”

I stare at him.

“And it’s for the other boys as well. We’re all going to do it together.”

The boys all smile broadly as they lean over the box and read it out loud.

“Take it out of the box and lay it all out in the colored numbers. Keep the pieces in their individual bags, though. I’m going to change my clothes,” Tristan says as he walks out into the living room.

The boys begin to chatter in excitement as they begin to open the box. “Get the scissors,” Harry directs.

I see something from the corner of my eye, and I turn to see Tristan giving me a come-here curl of his finger. I glance back to the boys to see that they are completely distracted, and I give him a subtle nod.

He disappears up the stairs to my bedroom, and I wait for a few moments. “I’m going to get the washing off the line,” I say, and then I go out the back door and walk around the front and come in the front door and sneak up the stairs.

I walk into my bedroom, and he pounces on me like a tiger. He flicks the lock on the door and pins me to the wall.

“Anderson,” he whispers darkly. His lips take mine.

I smile. “Hi.”

He grinds himself up against me, and I can feel that he’s hard. He holds my face as he kisses me deeply.

“You seem very pleased to see me.” I smile.

“Needy,” he murmurs against my lips.

“Needy for what?” I breathe.

He bites my neck. “I need to be fucked, Anderson . . . and as my designated fuckee, you need to find a way to make that happen. Tonight.”

I smile as his hand goes to my behind, and he drags my body over his. His teeth graze my neck, and I smile up at the ceiling. He’s not joking; he really does need to be fucked. I can feel the need oozing out of him.

“How am I going to do that?” I whisper.

“I don’t know. Get creative.” He pushes me back against the wall hard, and my body weakens under his power.

“On the couch tonight—or in the laundry.” He kisses me again. “Fuck me in my car out on the street, for all I care. I just need you to fuck me.”

“Your car is too small,” I tease.

He grabs my behind aggressively and bites my bottom lip, and I whimper.

“Don’t dis the car.” With his eyes locked on mine, he bends and slides his hand up my thigh and through the leg of my panties. The backs of his fingers slide through my dripping wet flesh.

He clenches his jaw as his eyes flicker with arousal.

We stare at each other as the air swirls between us. I’ve never had this before.

A physical attraction so strong that all else pales in comparison.

“Or you could fuck me now,” he murmurs as he slides a finger in deep.

My eyes flutter closed. God, that feels good. “The children,” I whisper.

“Are distracted.” He unzips his trousers and falls into a seated position on the side of the bed and then brings me over to straddle him. He lifts my skirt and pulls my panties to the side and in one sharp movement slides home deep.

Our mouths fall open at the overwhelming pleasure. Our eyes are locked, and electricity crackles through the air like lightning.

He inhales sharply as we stare at each other.

“So . . . you love me,” he whispers as his lips take mine.

I begin to slowly rock back and forth. Oh . . . this is good. The feeling of him inside of me is just too good.

I smile and kiss his lips with an open mouth. “I do.”

He puts his mouth to my ear. “Fuck me like you hate me,” he whispers.

His grip tightens on my behind, and he begins to move me aggressively over his cock.

Suddenly we are frantic. He’s lifting me and bouncing me down hard onto him, and I’m trying to hold in my moans. But it’s hard to stay silent when your whole world is in beautiful Technicolor. He puts his hands on the backs of my shoulders and begins to really bring me down hard onto his large cock, and sharp, shooting stars of ecstasy begin to make me shudder. His mouth hangs slack as he watches me. “Fuck me,” he mouths. “Fuck me harder, Anderson.”

I bring my feet up onto the bed behind him, bringing me into a squat.

We both fall still at the deep position.

He shudders. His eyes close, and I know this is it. The position he was craving.

“I hate you,” I whisper.

He chuckles and bites my earlobe. Goose bumps scatter up my arms. “I hate you too,” he whispers into my ear with a sharp nip. “Hate me harder.”

I smile as he slams me down, and I shudder. He holds himself deep and does the same. I feel from the telling jerk of his cock that he’s right here with me.

We fly to the moon and back, and waves of pleasure bounce between us as we both come in a rush, and then eventually . . . and slowly . . . we come back to earth.

Our hearts race, and he cups my face in his hands as he kisses me tenderly.

“Did you buy my children a spaceship so that we’d have time to sneak away and have sex?”

“Absolutely,” he pants. “One hundred percent.”

I giggle as I climb off him. I can’t believe this—he cares if they like him. He doesn’t want to be tolerated; he wants to be a part of us. This is the first night in forever that everyone has been happy together at the same time . . . including me. “Genius.” I kiss him softly. “Now get out before they find you in here.”

He flops back onto the bed, arms wide, his zipper undone with his dick hanging out, and I put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from laughing out loud.

He looks up at me. “What?”

“Too bad you have to go and build a rocket ship now . . . isn’t it?”

He drops his head back onto the bed. “Fuck. Don’t remind me.” He holds his hand out, and I take it. He pulls me down on top of him. He kisses me softly as he brushes the hair back from my forehead. “It was worth it.”

Ninety minutes later

“This is bullshit,” Tristan snaps.

“Language,” I remind him as I chop onions, and I smile as I look over at the four boys sitting around the dining table.

“What kind of imbecile packages things like this?” Tristan mutters.

They go through the bags and slide them from one place to another as they count.

“Not this way. That way,” Harrison snaps.

“What are you going on about over there?” I ask. “You haven’t even started it yet?”

“There are one hundred and forty—” Tristan mutters.

“Forty-five,” Harrison interrupts.

“One hundred and forty-five ziplock bags of parts in this box, Claire.”

The parts are all perfectly compartmentalized into color-coded ziplock bags. They are trying to locate a missing bag.

I smirk as I watch him lose his cool for the tenth time in twenty minutes. “If it’s too hard for you . . . take it back.”

“No!” the boys all cry in unison.

“Oh . . . we’re taking it back,” Tristan hisses through gritted teeth. “We’re taking it back completely built, and I’m going to stick it in the old buzzard where the sun doesn’t shine. I’m putting an engine on this mofo, and we’re going to fly it through his damn shop window.”

Patrick looks up at Tristan. “What, in the nighttime?” He frowns as he climbs onto his lap.

“Yeah, Tricky, that’s it. Nighttime,” he mutters, distracted.

“Why do you dislike this shopkeeper so much?” I ask as I continue to chop.

“He was a jerkoff,” Tristan mutters.

“Tristan . . . language,” I remind him.

He looks up and frowns. “Jerk off isn’t a swear word. It’s a verb, Claire . . . a doing word.”

I roll my eyes, and Fletcher chuckles.

“If you can’t say it in church, it is a swear word,” Patrick announces.

“I’m pretty sure that priests know the meaning of the word,” Tristan mutters dryly.

“Why didn’t you look at the instructions before you bought it?” I ask.

“I would have, except these aren’t instructions.” He holds up a bound book. “These are directions on how to go insane. People have been institutionalized while reading this book, Claire.” He flicks through the book in disgust. “Nobody can understand these instructions. The smartest man in the world couldn’t.”

I smile. So damn dramatic. “I thought you were the smartest man in the world,” I say.

“Well, precisely. I am,” he adds. “But how can I put something together when I can’t even understand the stupid instructions?”

“Give me that,” Harrison sneers as he snatches the booklet from Tristan. He studies the pictures and then frowns and begins to go through the bags again.

“Watch out, Tricky.” Tristan taps his little lap sitter. “Hop up, buddy. I need a coffee.” He stands and grabs a mug from the cupboard.

“You don’t want a glass of wine?” I ask.

He looks at me deadpan as he begins collecting what he needs for his coffee. “Do I appear to be relaxed to you, Claire? Does this look like a relaxing moment in time?”

I smile as I stare at him. He’s in navy boxer shorts, hair all messed up from nearly pulling it out. His sleepy orgasm glow is long gone, even though it was only a little while ago. I giggle.

“What?” he mutters as he pours the coffee into his cup.

“Maybe this model thing wasn’t such a great idea?” I say.

“We’ll get it,” he says with renewed determination as he stirs his coffee. “If it’s the last fucking thing I do,” he whispers under his breath. “And it might be.”

I kiss his shoulder, and it momentarily snaps him out of his stress. He kisses my forehead. “Stop distracting the genius at work,” he replies as he goes back to the table.

I giggle and look up to see that Fletcher has just been watching our interaction.

He gives me a lopsided smile and turns his attention back to the model.

A frisson of guilt runs through me. Is it weird for him seeing me with another man?

Should I talk to him about this?

What would I say? Hmm . . . I’m going to have to think about this in great detail. I don’t want to overdramatize it, but then I don’t want to sweep it under the rug either.

“That’s it!” Harry yells.

“What is?”

“The bags—they are the wrong colors compared to what’s in the instructions. That’s why nothing is adding up. It’s all labeled wrong.”

“What?” Fletcher frowns.

“The red parts are orange, and the orange parts are red. The black parts are white, and the white parts are gray. That’s why we can’t find all the pieces. The colors are all wrong.”

Tristan punches his fist. “Why you . . . tick tock . . . old man.”

“Yeah,” Harrison growls. “Tick tock.”

“Hmm.” The stylist’s eyes roam up and down my body as she circles me. “We have a lot to work with here.” She fiddles with my hair and tucks it behind my ears. She messes it up with her fingers as she inspects me in great detail.

My eyes flick to Marley, and she gives me two thumbs-up, the universal symbol of “You can do this.”

It’s Wednesday, and I’m at the dreaded appointment with the personal stylist. “You’re gorgeous, Claire; there is no doubt about it. Your bone structure is flawless, and you have a beautiful figure. But you don’t dress accordingly. Why don’t you show it off more?”

“Oh.” I shrug bashfully.

“You need to wear more fitted things.”

“I just don’t want to look like I’m trying to be young,” I reply meekly.

“You are young, Claire. You’re only what? Early thirties?”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

She smiles as she runs her hand down my shoulder and readjusts my bra strap. “I style eighty-year-olds. Trust me. You are young.” She smiles as she stands back to look at me. “Now, what do you need?”

“I have a black-tie dinner on Saturday night.”

“Okay.” She holds my hair up and looks at it. “At what time is it?”

I frown, and Marley grabs my phone. Tristan sent me the invitation. “Seven p.m.”

“Okay.” She takes out her phone and makes a call. “Hello, Marcello.”

She listens for a moment. “Hello, darling. Listen, I have a favor. Can you do hair and makeup for me on Saturday night, please?”

I frown, and my eyes flick to Marley.

“Oh . . . it’s an emergency. I’m going to send you images of exactly what we need.”

Emergency. I widen my eyes in horror, and Marley drops her head to hide her smile.

“Yes, we have a Cinderella here.” She listens, and her eyes sweep up and down my body. “Okay great, I’ll text you the address.” She hangs up. “Okay, that’s sorted out.”

I smile nervously.

“Marcello will come to your place and do your hair and makeup late on Saturday afternoon.”

I bite my lip to hide my smile. I’ve never had that before. “Is that necessary?”

“Oh my God, darling. Yes. It’s necessary. Now . . . let’s go shopping. I know exactly what you need.”

“Okay, thanks, Barb.” I smile. I rest my foot on top of Tristan’s leg. It’s Thursday night, and Tristan and I are having a glass of wine and watching television in the living room. The boys have miraculously done their homework, dinner is finished and cleaned up, and now they have a precious two hours to work on their model. This bribery of Tristan’s is the best thing since sliced bread. Everyone is behaving and hustling to get things done quickly so they can work on it together.

It’s like the freaking twilight zone or some shit.

“Are you sure that’s okay?” I listen to my girlfriend as we speak on the phone. I’m arranging for Harry to stay at her place on Saturday night. Fletcher is staying here with two friends, and Patrick is taken care of, but it’s Harry that I have to really check on.

“Of course, Claire, he’ll be fine. We will get pizza and watch movies.”

“Thanks so much. I’ll see you then.”

“Okay, see you on Saturday,” she replies, and I hang up.

Tristan raises an eyebrow. “We good?” he asks hopefully.

“All good.” I smile. “Who knew that Tristan Miles would be excited about locking in a babysitter?”

He chuckles and clinks his glass with mine. “Right?”

“Seriously, though, it is a relief. Barb is the only one I would leave Harrison with.”

“What’s gone on with Harrison in the past to make you so nervous about leaving him?”

I let out a big sigh. “He can be a nightmare.”

“How? I mean, I know he’s a bit mischievous and all that, but isn’t that normal at his age?”

I sit back and sip my wine. “Oh hell, where do I start? He’s been suspended from school. He disappears for hours at a time and then lies about where he’s been, sneaks off to friends’ houses without permission. He’s fallen in with this party crowd but then denies he’s been with them.”

“Suspended from school—what for?”

I roll my eyes. “For some reason, he’s under the impression that the teachers pick on him. One day he got a project back, and he thought he should have gotten a higher grade, and he got into a full-blown argument with his teacher.”

“So . . . he was cheeky?” Tris frowns.

“No.” I shake my head in embarrassment. “He opened the window and threw his assignment out of it in protest.”

Tristan’s eyes widen.

“But that’s not the worst of it. It accidently hit a janitor who was walking past and scratched his head. They thought he needed stitches. It was mortifying.”

Tristan bites his bottom lip as he tries to hide a smile.

“It was so embarrassing—you have no idea, Tristan.”

He sips his wine as he pulls a straight face. “I can imagine.”

I smile and rub my foot up his calf muscle. “Thank you.”

His eyes hold mine as his fingers draw a circle on my shoulder. “For what?”

“For making the trek out to see me every night.” I shrug bashfully. “I know you hate the couch.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Well . . . I hate being at home without you more.”

I smile and lean in and put my head on his shoulder. It’s so nice having someone . . . wonderful, actually. He kisses my forehead, and we go back to watching television and our blissful silence. He doesn’t even have to talk to me.

Him just being here is enough to make me happy.

“You know, as I was walking in here today, a bowerbird swooped at my balls.”

I sit up with a frown. “A what?”

“A bowerbird.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes at my apparent stupidity. “Everyone knows what a bowerbird is, Claire. I suggest you google it.”

I stare at him in question, and after a while he replies, “A bowerbird collects blue things, Claire.” He raises an eyebrow as he waits for me to get it.

Oh . . . he’s telling me he has blue balls. I smirk. “Whatever.”

“Tristan,” a voice calls out from the kitchen.

He smiles as his eyes widen. “Did you hear that?” he whispers.

“What?” I frown.

He raises his eyebrows as he waits for it, and eventually, the voice calls out again. “Tristan.”

“That’s the first time he’s ever said my name.”

“Harry’s never said your name?” I frown.

He gives a subtle shake of his head.

“Tristan,” Harry calls.

Tristan smiles broadly. “Yes, Wiz, what is it?”

“Can you help us for a minute, please?”

He raises his eyebrows in excitement at being needed. “Coming.” He jumps up and makes his way into the kitchen. I listen to them talking about the diameter of a part that they are trying to work out. Tristan seems to think that it’s put together backward, and they are in a deep discussion about the pros and cons of pulling it back apart and starting that piece again.

As I listen, I find myself smiling like a goofball at the television.

Happiness is to be loved by you.

“Let him in,” Tristan says over the phone. He glances over at me and gives me a sexy wink as he hangs up. “Your hairdresser is here, Ms. Anderson,” he teases.

“Oh God.” I put my head into my hands in dismay. “This seems . . .”

“Normal.” He kisses my temple as he walks past me and into the living area. “I’m going to go out for a while and leave you to it.”

“Where are you going?” I frown. It feels weird being in his apartment without him.

“I’m meeting Elliot and Christopher at a bar to watch the game. I’ll be back around six. We leave around six forty-five.”

That will give me time to wash off the makeup and hair before he gets back if I don’t like it. “Okay.” I smile.

He kisses me softly. His lips linger over mine, and I hold him tight. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”

“Just for you to come home.”

A knock sounds at the door.

He hugs me tight with a big smile. “Goodbye.” He opens the door in a rush, and we are both taken aback.

The hairdresser is male . . . and hot. Like stupid hot.

He’s European, in his early thirties, and has blue tight jeans and a black T-shirt on. He’s muscular and fit looking.

Tristan’s eyes flick to me in horror, and I smile goofily. I know exactly what he’s thinking. “Hello.” He holds out his hand to shake the man’s. “Tristan Miles.”

“Hi, I’m Marcello,” the man replies in a heavy accent as he shakes his head. “I’m here to style Claire.”

“Hello, that’s me.” I shake his hand.

He looks me up and down and rubs his hands together playfully. “Oh . . . this is going to be so fun.”

Tristan looks at him deadpan and then at me. “No . . . this is going to be completely funless for you . . . or else,” he mutters dryly.

Marcello laughs. “Oh . . . so possessive of his woman. I love that.”

Tristan’s jaw clenches, and I giggle as Marcello grabs my shoulders and turns me away from him. “Goodbye. She will be beautiful for you when you return.”

“She already is,” Tristan snaps, unimpressed. “And I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right out here.” He flops onto the couch in disgust.

I giggle. He’s actually ruffled . . . I love it.

“Through here.” I guide Marcello to Tristan’s en suite bathroom, and he puts his two big bags on the floor. He looks me up and down again. He sits me in the chair and gives me a broad smile.

“Let us begin.”

Three hours later I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I hardly recognize myself.

My dark hair is set into Hollywood curls, and my makeup is out of this world. It’s all gold and bronze with fanned eyelashes and big red lips. I look like a movie star or something. It’s . . . just wow.

I’m in a black lace strapless bra and panties with a garter belt and a white dressing gown over the top. I’ll put my dress on soon. Tristan is getting ready in the other bathroom. I heard him come home about half an hour ago. My eyes roam over my face and hair and down over my curves in the sexy lingerie, and I smile at my reflection. I’ve never seen myself look like this, and damn it, I’m going to make more of an effort moving forward.

Tristan loves me motherly . . . but hell, he deserves sexy. And I’m going to try my hardest to be that for him.

He loves me.

It’s funny, you know—Tris has never said those elusive three words. But he doesn’t have to. I already know that he loves me. Every action, every message, every effort he makes to get along with my sons only cements our feelings. The tenderness in his touch is like an open book, and words are irrelevant between us.

Despite our different worlds and rocky beginning, we have a beautiful relationship, and I am utterly in love with the beautiful man that he is.

The door opens, and he comes into view. He frowns and inhales sharply, as if seeing me for the first time. “Claire,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

He’s wearing a black dinner suit, a crisp white shirt, and black bow tie. His dark hair has a slight curl to it, just enough to give it that perfect just-fucked style. He has the squarest jaw and dark-pink and full kissable lips, and his big brown eyes hold mine as he steps forward and takes me into his arms.

Without saying a word, he takes my face into his hands and kisses me. His tongue explores my open mouth, and his hands undo the tie on the dressing gown.

I smile against his lips. I love that he has to touch me.

He steps back. His eyes roam down my lingerie-clad body, and when they rise to meet mine, they are blazing with desire. “Fuck,” he murmurs.

As if something snaps inside of him, he pushes me back to the counter and lifts me to sit on top of it. He lifts my foot onto the countertop, and he stands between my open legs as his lips take mine. “You look fucking edible, Anderson,” he murmurs against my lips.

As he kisses me, I open my eyes to see that his are closed.

He’s completely lost in the moment, right here with me.

His hand roams over my breasts and down my stomach, down over my garter belt, and down to my panties.

“Are you wet for me?” he asks.

He puts his hand down the front of my panties and finds that sweet spot between my legs. His eyes flicker with arousal as he slides three thick fingers deep into my sex.

My back arches as he holds me tight. “We need to go,” I whimper.

He watches me as his fingers again slide in deep. “No.” He pumps me hard. “You need to come.”

My head tips back as his strong fingers get to work. The sound of my arousal sucking him in and out echoes around the room, and his dark eyes watch my helpless face.

He’s rough, so rough . . . and I shudder as my foot on the counter lifts and hangs in the air.

His kiss is aggressive, his fingers strong. My legs are up on his chest.

But it’s his eyes that get me . . . locked on mine, with such a tenderness behind them.

“I love you, Claire,” he whispers. My heart collapses.

Sensory overload—the best kind of sensory overload. Emotional and physical.

He kisses me softly, with a strong pump of his hand, and all my senses crash as I come hard.

With one hand, he holds my face to his; with his other he tenderly lets me ride out the high.

“You love me?” I whisper.

“So much.” He smiles against my lips.

My heart free-falls from my chest. God . . . I love this man.

He unclips my garter belt and then slides my panties down, and I hover somewhere in heaven as I watch him . . . and then he does the unthinkable.

He drops to his knees in front of me and spreads my legs.

My breath catches. What’s he doing?

With his dark eyes locked to mine, he pulls me apart and licks me with his long thick tongue.

My body convulses. His eyes close in pleasure as he cleans me up.

My orgasm on his tongue.

I run my fingers through his hair as I watch him. He’s in a black dinner suit on his knees before me—a new arousal takes me over.

Deep and dangerously dark.

Holy hell . . . Tristan fucking Miles.