by T L Swan
My insides begin to liquefy . . . oh God.
Something snaps inside of me, and I begin to kiss him back.
I kiss him with everything I have, and God it feels good. Deep, erotic . . . and so long awaited.
He pulls back and looks at me as he holds my face in his hands. His breathing is labored. “What is that kiss, Anderson?”
I stare up at him as my chest rises and falls.
“That’s not a granny-tea kiss.” His hands grip my face harder, and he licks my open lips. My insides clench at the dominance of his action. “That’s a hungry kiss,” he whispers darkly and then licks my lips again. The way he’s licking my open lips with no regard for what my tongue is doing is making me want him to lick me somewhere else. Every muscle deep inside of me clenches as I imagine his head between my legs.
“Are you hungry, Claire?” he breathes.
Fucking starving.
I put my hand on the back of his head and pull him down to me. I kiss him again. Harder this time, more urgent, and it’s as if some kind of sexual rubber band has been stretched beyond repair and has finally snapped in a spectacular fashion.
All bets are off.
I don’t want to be a sad widow anymore . . . just for tonight, I want to be a woman.
His hand goes to my breast, and my concentration returns. The arousal fog temporarily dissipates.
Reality sets in. Wait . . . what?
What the hell am I doing?
I step back from him in a rush.
“What’s wrong?” He frowns as he pants.
I hold my temple as I try to get a hold on my arousal. “Will you just stop it?”
“Stop what?”
“I’m not interested in you, Tristan. I will never be interested in you. Back off,” I whisper angrily.
He screws up his face in disbelief. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I can feel your attraction to me. Stop lying.”
“You’re delusional,” I snap.
“You want me; admit it.”
He reaches for me again, and I step back farther, out of his reach. “Leave me the hell alone, Tristan.”
“Get back here,” he orders.
“Go to hell.”
Get back here . . . I wish.
Three words never sounded so hot and so wrong, and fuck me, my body desperately wants to do as he commands.
But I won’t let her . . . because she’s just horny, and he’s a cad.
And I want to be able to live with myself tomorrow.
I march in through the hotel foyer on a mission.
Get the hell away from Tristan Miles.
That man is the devil and as tempting as sin.
Chapter 5
I sit in the crowded auditorium in a detached state. The people are all listening to the lecture on mind-sets and are journaling and actively working on the set tasks.
But not me, because I can’t concentrate at all.
I’m in the middle of a sensory overload.
Tristan Miles is circling the room. Like a graceful panther on the prowl, he’s walking in and out of the aisles of the audience, helping people when they ask for his input and encouraging them as they think out loud.
I have no idea what’s come over me or why the thoughts in my head have suddenly appeared. That kiss last night opened something up inside of me . . . and I have questions.
Carnal questions.
He’s wearing a perfect-fitting navy suit and a cream shirt with a yellow-and-gray-checkered tie. He just took his jacket off and slung it over a chair, and every muscle in my body sighed.
His cream shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, revealing his muscular forearms and broad chest. I have a full view of his behind now too . . . it’s tight and firm, and his thigh muscles are thick and sculpted. His hair is dark and wavy, and his skin . . . good God his skin—it’s bronzed and olive from the sun, and it matches his big brown eyes. I shouldn’t even be looking at this man, let alone staring.
But I can’t help it, and I can’t stop myself, and I’m not quite sure that I want to . . . every cell in my body is begging for him, and Marley’s words from the first time she saw him about wolf whistling the fuck out of this guy are taunting me as a dare.
A perfect male specimen.
Complete wolf-whistling material . . . whore-bag material too. I’m pretty sure that Tristan Miles could talk anyone onto their back and have them begging to open their legs for him. I get a vision of him taking his shirt off at the end of the bed, and my stomach flutters. Cheers to the lucky bitches who are able to act on it and drink him down like chocolate.
I smirk at my spot-on analogy as I drop my eyes to the floor. Tristan Miles is chocolate. Rich, delicious, and dreamy, he offers a high . . . but in the end, he is detrimental to your health and bad to the bone.
He slowly approaches up the aisle behind me, and a waft of his aftershave surrounds me as he gets closer. As if sensing his arrival, my entire body breathes in. I hold my pen midair as I stare straight ahead and try to focus. As he nears, goose bumps scatter up my arms at his close proximity.
I’ve never had a sexual attraction to someone like this before. It’s strange.
I’ve thought about him all night—and not the “Oh, he’s a nice guy” kind of thoughts.
Thoughts about him throwing me on the bed and giving it to me good.
I don’t like him, and yet . . . all I can think about is getting naked with him. This isn’t who I am; I’m not the kind of woman who thinks with her vagina.
But something about being wild and carefree with a man like him is so damn inviting.
In slow motion, he crouches down beside me. “Do you need any help, Claire?” he whispers.
My breath catches as I stare into his big brown eyes.
Fuck yes, I do.
“I’m okay,” I whisper. “Thanks.”
We stare at each other for a beat longer than needed; the undercurrent of arousal is flowing between us. It’s there every time we are close to each other.
Does he feel it too . . . or do all women react to him this way?
“Are you coming to the wine tour this afternoon?” he whispers.
I nod, unable to push a word through my lips.
He smiles softly. “I’ll see you then.” He stands gracefully and, with his perfect posture, keeps walking; his aftershave lingers in the distance behind him.
An unexpected thrill runs through me, and I look down at my notepad, rattled by my body’s reaction.
What will I wear?
I shake my head, disgusted that I just had that thought.
No.
Tristan Miles is off limits.
Stop it . . . whatever you are thinking, stop it right now.
My cheeks hurt from laughing, and the heat of the alcohol haze warms my face.
This is our sixth winery, the final destination of our tour, and it’s just ten o’clock at night.
With each winery, we’ve gotten sillier and sillier. The bus pulled up out front here, and we all nearly fell out of it as we laughed out loud. We’ve had such a fun day.
Who knew this conference would be fun? I most certainly wasn’t expecting it.
My eyes go to the man sitting alone at the bar. Tristan.
We’ve only spoken in a group today, and although our eyes lingered on each other across the circle, not a word has been said about our kiss last night.
“Let’s keep going for dessert and port,” Jada says. “We’ll go to the brewery.”
The group laughs and starts chattering as they make plans to move on, but my eyes stay firmly fixed on him as he sits alone.
Screw it . . . just go talk to him. There’s no harm in talking to him, and besides, I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps he has a different side than what I first perceived.
Although, that could just be the wine talking. The group continues to chatter and laugh, and I take a deep breath and walk over to him at the bar. “Is this seat taken?”
I ask.
His eyes come to me, and a trace of a smile crosses his lips. “Be my guest.”
I sit down on the stool beside him at the bar, and the waiter approaches me. “What will it be?”
“I’ll have another glass of champagne, please.”
“Sure.” His eyes flick to Tristan. “Another scotch?”
“Please.” Tristan stares straight ahead, with his hands clasped in front of him. “Took your time, Anderson,” he says.
“What does that mean?”
He glances at his fancy watch. “It’s ten p.m.”
“Well, if it’s too late to talk, I’ll leave,” I tease. I go to stand.
“Sit. Down.” He smirks. “You’re lucky it’s a quiet night.”
The bartender puts the champagne down in front of me, and I pick it up as I try to hide my smile. “Who’s lucky?”
He chuckles and taps his glass on mine. “To Épernay.”
“To Épernay,” I whisper. Our eyes lock, and I sip my champagne. It’s cold and bubbly and starts a fire inside of me.
With his eyes fixed firmly on mine, he licks the scotch from his lips. “You should probably stop looking at me like that.”
Electricity buzzes between us as everyone else in the room disappears.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to fucking eat me.”
My stomach flutters. “That’s very presumptuous, Mr. Miles.”
“Call me Tristan.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling. I like this game. “I’ll call you whatever I like,” I mouth.
He inhales sharply and rearranges his crotch.
Watching him touch his dick does something to my insides, and my sex begins to throb.
“What makes you think that I want to eat you?” I whisper.
His eyes drop to my lips. “Because I want to eat you, and it’s manners to reciprocate.”
I giggle at his audacity. “I don’t have very good manners, I’m afraid.”
In slow motion, he picks up his chunky crystal glass and smiles as he puts it to his lips. “So . . . this martyr thing works for you?”
“How am I a martyr?”
“Well.” He shrugs casually. “You keep telling me that you’re not attracted to me, and yet . . .”
“And yet what?” I whisper.
“And yet I can feel it,” he murmurs. “Your body is calling for mine.”
Our eyes lock as the air leaves my lungs.
“Every time I’m close to you, I can sense our bodies talking to each other. Don’t tell me you can’t feel it, because I know you can,” he whispers.
We stare at each other for an extended moment, the air swirling between us.
“Are you going to give her what she needs?” he asks as he lifts his glass to his lips.
I drop my head, rattled by his sixth sense. “I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not someone I . . .”
“Like?” he asks, amused.
I hold my tongue, not wanting to be rude.
“Relax, Anderson; you’re not someone that I would like either. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
I smile, relieved.
“But . . . what happens on tour stays on tour,” he adds.
My stomach flutters at the prospect of having secret sex with this man.
His focus moves to straight in front of him, as if he’s pondering something, and then he smiles darkly and takes a sip of his drink.
“What?” I ask.
“Well, you do know that one day, we are inevitability going to . . . fuck.”
I stare at him as a million pornographic pictures come to mind.
“An attraction like this doesn’t go away, Anderson.”
Goose bumps scatter up my arms; he does feel it too.
“So, as I see it . . . we can use the time away to our advantage.”
“Or?” I ask.
His dark eyes meet mine. “Or we can go back to New York until I eventually wear you down—for then I will fuck you on your desk. It will be hard and wet and messy, and who knows who might walk in on us.”
I blink, shocked. What the hell? “You’re so sure of yourself.”
“I always get what I want.” He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “And what I want is you.”
My stomach flutters with nerves. “Why?”
“You see . . . I could pretend that I like you and that I want to explore our friendship or some fucking bullshit.” He sips his drink. “Or I could just tell you the truth.”
“Which is?” I breathe.
Our eyes are locked.
“The idea of you hating me while I lick you up is a fucking turn-on,” he whispers.
I begin to hear my pulse in my ears.
He leans in and whispers in my ear. “I want to hear you fucking moan, Anderson.” His breath tickles my ear, and goose bumps scatter. “It’s all I can think about; my cock has been weeping for you all day.”
Jesus.
“You don’t expect me to like you?” I ask, fascinated by his request.
“As a friend . . . who you can trust to take care of you sexually, of course.”
“Anything more?”
“Absolutely not.”
I sip my champagne as I process his words. “I’m not the kind of woman who does this sort of thing,” I whisper.
“And I’m the kind of man that does. You don’t even have to talk; I’ll do all the work.”
The air buzzes between us like electricity.
This is it, the defining moment—an offer to possibly find the woman inside of me whom I’ve lost. I know that I have two choices. I can go home alone and always regret this moment, or I can have honest sex with a man with whom it’s impossible to form an emotional attachment.
“We’re going to the cellar,” Nelson says jovially from behind us, breaking the spell. “You guys coming?”
I look over at the group as they all stand by the door, waiting for everyone, and I know I need to make a decision. “Um . . . no. I’m going to call it a night and go to bed.”
“Oh, okay.” Nelson turns to Tristan. “You coming?”
“No, I’m meeting a friend here at the bar. She hasn’t arrived yet,” he lies without a beat.
Nelson smiles. “Lucky bastard. Have fun for me.” He slaps him hard on the back and smiles at the two of us. “Good night, then. See you tomorrow.”
“Good night.”
The group waves to us, and with a loud chatter among them, they leave the bar.
Tristan’s eyes come to me. “Your room or mine?”
“Mine.”
I unlock the door to my room as he stands behind me. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, and I may pass out at any moment . . . or orgasm. Both options aren’t ideal or particularly cool.
He kicks the door shut and, without a word, takes my face in his hands and kisses me as he walks me backward toward my bed. His tongue dives deep into my mouth as he holds me close, and goose bumps scatter up my spine.
No matter what happens from here . . . the man can kiss. So . . . well.
Our tongues dance together, and I can’t even open my eyes to look at him.
I’m so in the moment that it’s just ridiculous.
“Jesus,” he murmurs against my lips.
I giggle.
“Hurry up. Fuck.” He begins to undo the buttons of his shirt with urgency.
“What’s the rush?”
“The rush is I want you naked, and I can’t get you naked until I’m naked. It’s the naked law.”
“There’s a naked law?”
“Everyone knows that. Fuck.” He rolls his eyes. “I told you not to talk, remember?”
I laugh. Oh man. He’s fun.
He tears his shirt over his shoulders, and my breath catches. Broad and muscular, with a scattering of dark hair. He has a rippled abdomen and a V of muscles that disappears into his pants.
Holy shit.
>
Suddenly, I’m nervous.
Nobody has seen me naked in a very long time . . . oh jeez.
Abort mission.
He takes my fingers and puts them on his zipper. He smiles, with his eyes fixed on mine. “Take it all off,” he mouths.
My heart somersaults in my chest, and I slowly slide the zipper of his trousers down. The tip of his cock sits above the waistband of his briefs. Preejaculate is beading on the end of it, and my stomach clenches hard. In fear and anticipation and horror . . . oh hell, so much to clench about. He holds his hands out wide and smiles down at me.
“Do it,” he says.
I slide his trousers down and then his briefs. His cock is large and broad, and it hangs heavily between his legs.
Oh . . . shit.
I inhale deeply as I stare down at him. He’s a beautiful man. Handsome, built, and well endowed. I have no words as my eyes drink him in . . . just wow.
He smiles darkly. “My turn.”
I puff air into my cheeks.
“I . . .”
His lips drop to my neck, and I look up to the ceiling. He begins to undo the buttons on my silk shirt, and I wince and slightly pull away from him.
“What?”
“I . . . haven’t . . .”
He stares at me, waiting.
“I . . .”
“You what?” He kisses me softly, as if to prompt me to speak.
“I haven’t had sex in a really long time.”
His face falls as he connects the dots. “Since?”
I shake my head.
“Jesus, Anderson . . . no pressure.”
“Why would that make you feel pressured?” I stammer.
He throws his hands up in the air. “Because, like . . . fuck.” He goes back to work on my blouse and throws it to the side and then stops and smiles as he looks down at me.
I close my eyes, so nervous that I can’t even look at him.
He slides my skirt off, and I stand before him in my panties and bra. He unhooks my bra, and then his lips drop to my nipples as he slowly slides my panties down and throws them to the side.
His eyes drop down my body and then up to my face, and he smiles softly.
“Don’t,” I whisper, embarrassed. “I must be a world away from the women you normally sleep with.”
“Why is that?” he whispers as he kisses my lips.
“I’m . . .”