by T L Swan
I pass over my license, and she studies it and types my license number into the computer. She passes me a key. “You are in the Eiffel Tower Suite on level seven,” she says. “We can take you up if you would like?”
“No, that’s okay.” I smile. “I can go myself.” I take the elevator to level seven. Frigging hell, this hotel is next level. Even the damn elevator is fancy.
I let out a low, deep breath. I’m suddenly nervous. I fix my hair in the mirror, and the doors slide open.
Holy hell.
Lush carpet, chandeliers, and insane luxury . . . and this is just the corridor. I walk down until I get to the room number on the key. Do I knock?
No. Just go in.
I swipe my key and am hit in the face with a visual sensation. I feel the blood drain from my face.
It’s huge—not a room at all. A whole apartment of over-the-top wealth. A perfectly decorated beautiful space of creams and whites, with french doors going out onto a terrace that overlooks the Eiffel Tower. It’s like a movie, only better.
Holy . . . hell.
Huge silver-gilded mirrors hang on the walls, and there are white lounges . . . white? How the heck do they keep white lounges clean? I look around nervously. “Hello?” I call.
I can hear talking out on the terrace, so I put my handbag down and walk to the door. White overlong drapes hang on the french doors.
“Nous devons obtenir une réponse à ce sujet puis-je advancer a ce sujet cette semaine,” I hear. I peer out.
Tristan is on the phone out on the balcony . . . speaking French. What the heck? Well, I guess French is among the five languages he supposedly speaks. He glances up and catches sight of me and gives me a breathtaking smile. He holds one finger up to signify he will be just a minute.
I get a flashback of the first day I met him, looking perfect in his expensive suit and pacing with his hand in his trouser pocket as he speaks on the phone.
Déjà vu.
I drop my head as I remember that I don’t like who he is and what he does for a living.
God, Claire . . . what are you doing? Couldn’t you have found somebody else to get back in the game with?
“Je dois conclure,” he says to whomever he’s speaking to. He smiles as he watches me and gives me a sexy wink. “One moment,” he mouths.
I roll my eyes as I act impatient, but I’m not really. I could listen to him speak French all day. “Come on,” I mouth back.
“Malade, je vais vous envoyer un message dans la matinée. Je vais avoir besoin du rapport d’ici lundi s’il vous plait,” he says in his deep sexy voice.
“Hurry,” I mouth to tease him.
He bites his bottom lip to stop his smile and holds up his hand to signify that he’s going to smack me.
“Promises, promises,” I mouth back.
He walks past me into the apartment. “Oui, s’il vous plait,” he says.
He reappears with an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne with two champagne flutes. He holds the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he pops the cork and fills the two glasses.
He leans in and kisses me softly and then hands me a glass of champagne.
“Thank you,” I mouth.
He kisses me again, as if unable to stop, and I can hear the other person, a woman, speaking a million miles a minute to him in French.
“Who is it?” I frown.
“My PA,” he mouths. He moves his head from side to side, as if she is taking too long to say what she’s saying. “Oui, oui, nous en parlerons lundi. Je dois y aller. Au revoir,” he replies.
He listens as she keeps speaking, and he rolls his eyes impatiently.
I smile as I sip my champagne. The cool, crisp taste dances on my tongue. Oh yeah. I eye the glass of bubbles—this is the good stuff.
“Okay, je dois y aller. Passer un bon week-end, au revoir,” he says. He hangs up and then turns his phone off and turns toward me.
“About time.” I smirk.
He takes me into his arms. “Anderson.” He smiles down at me as he pumps my hips into his. “Fancy seeing you here.”
I smile goofily up at him. He towers above me. He must be six foot three at least. His dark hair is messed to perfection, and his lips are a perfect shade of come fuck me.
“Well, I felt sorry for you.” I shrug. “This is a pity date.” I look around at the grand apartment. “Not sure if I can spend the whole weekend in this dump, though.”
He chuckles. “I do love your smart-ass mouth.” He pumps me with his hips once more. “I may have to fuck it later.”
I giggle as he kisses me again. This one has a little tongue, and it’s as if he’s licking me there . . . my entire insides clench in appreciation.
He steps back and holds out his hand to the Eiffel Tower. “Welcome to Paris.”
“Oui, oui.” I smile.
He pulls out a chair and sits at the table. He refills my glass. “How was your flight?”
“Good.” I frown as a thought runs through my mind. “You have a French PA?”
“Yes.” He shrugs casually. “I spend a lot of time here.”
“How much?”
He scratches his head as he thinks. “Maybe four or five months a year,” he replies casually, as if this is no big deal.
“You live here for a third of the year?” I ask in surprise.
“Yeah.” He sips his champagne. “My brothers Elliot and Christopher and I share the operations of the French, English, and German offices. We take turns so that one of us is always at each place.”
“Why don’t you just take one office each?” I ask.
“Because then”—he sips his wine—“we would all live alone on the other side of the world from one another. This way, we’re all doing the same job and sharing the responsibilities and see each other and talk all the time.”
“You’re close to your brothers?”
“Yes.” He frowns, as if that’s a weird question. “They’re my best friends. We’ve been alone together for a long time.”
“Alone?” I repeat. “I thought your parents were still alive?”
“Oh, they are. But I mean . . .” He pauses, as if contemplating his answer. “We went to boarding school together overseas from a young age. We shared a room, and it has mostly always been just the four of us.”
“Oh.” I sip my wine, and I find myself wanting to ask a million questions about his formative years. “How come you went to boarding school?”
“For the languages.” He shrugs. “Among other things.”
“You are all multilingual?”
“Yes. We need to be in this business.” He exhales deeply as he stares out over the view. “We’ve always been in training to take over Miles Media. There was never a time when we were . . .” His voice trails off, as if he’s cut himself short. He seems uncomfortable with the topic.
“Well, that makes sense, then,” I interrupt.
“What does?”
“Why you’re such a dirty-talking cad. You had no discipline as a child.”
He smiles.
“I bet you were all fucking your governesses in boarding school.”
He puts his head back and laughs out loud. “Jameson was, actually, come to think of it.”
“Really?” I gasp. Jameson is his older brother and the CEO of Miles Media. We both laugh, and his eyes linger on my face.
“So now that you have me here, Mr. Miles, what are you going to do with me?” I ask.
“Hmm.” His eyes hold mine. “The possibilities are endless, really.”
I smile.
“You have three options, Anderson.”
“Yes.”
“You can get your smart-ass mouth fucked.”
I smile. That sounds pretty good, actually.
“Or you can bend over, and I’ll give my own version of the Eiffel Tower.”
I chuckle. He’s so ridiculous. Where does he come up with this stuff?
“Or”—he sips his drink and casually shrugs—“I suppose I could take yo
u out for dinner and dancing or something equally boring.”
I smile over at him.
He raises a sexy eyebrow. “Well?”
I narrow my eyes as I fake concentration. “I’ll take dinner and dancing, thank you.”
He rolls his eyes. “Ugh, I knew you were going to pick that one. You’re boring. Why would you want to dance when you have the opportunity to suck my dick?”
I laugh, loud and free. The conversations I have with this man kill me.
“What?” He smirks.
I stare at his beautiful face for a moment. “Tristan Miles, I have never met anyone quite like you.”
“Ditto.” He holds his glass up. “A toast.”
I take a big gulp of my champagne and touch my glass with his.
“To swallowing semen,” he says.
What the hell? I snort and spit my drink out, and it spurts all over the table as I laugh out loud. “You’re head obsessed today.”
He sits back in his chair; his eyes are alight with mischief. “That’s because I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Tristan.” I lean forward in my chair.
He leans forward, too, mimicking me. “Yes, Claire.”
“Be a good boy, and you might get what you want.”
He smiles darkly. “Or be a bad boy, and take it anyway.”
The air crackles between us; our eyes are locked, and nerves flutter deep in my stomach.
I think those two lines just summed up the entirety of Tristan Miles.
I can kid myself all I want about being in charge.
We both know I’m not.
Tristan
We’re in a busy and bustling restaurant. It’s late, after one o’clock in the morning, and we are sitting side by side at the bar.
The mood of the place is loud and jovial, and music is piped throughout the space.
We’ve had dinner, and I haven’t laughed this much since I don’t know when.
Claire Anderson is fucking hilarious.
She’s tipsy and relaxing more and more by the minute. I like her like this. I mean, I like her anyway, but she is at her best when her defenses are down.
She’s wearing a fitted black dress with spaghetti straps and stilettoes. Her thick shoulder-length dark hair is down, and she’s wearing minimal makeup.
She has no idea how fucking sexy she is.
It’s the weirdest thing—she’s everything that I’ve never found attractive before.
And I don’t even know what it is about her, but I find myself hanging on her every word.
“Tell me.” She smiles as she takes my hand in hers. “How are you still single?”
I smile and pick up our hands and bring them to my mouth. I kiss hers and then shrug.
“How old are you?” She frowns.
“How old do you want me to be?”
“You only say that if you’re a prostitute.”
I widen my eyes. “How do you know I’m not? How do you know that Marley hasn’t paid me to seduce you?”
Her lips twist as she fights a smile. “How much is she paying you?”
“There isn’t enough money in the world.” I smirk into my glass as I take a sip. “Keeping you satisfied is a dirty job. I bit off more than I can chew. I’m demanding a pay raise.”
The woman at the bar beside us looks at me and then turns to the bar, as if revolted.
My eyes widen. She heard me. Claire tips her head back and laughs out loud.
I tap the woman on the arm. “She’s not paying me,” I whisper. “I’m seducing her for free.” I cross my fingers on my chest. “And I’m not chewing. It’s all licking.”
Claire really loses it and laughs hard, and I find myself laughing too.
I fall serious and watch her laugh for a moment, because what I told the woman is not even true.
Claire Anderson is seducing me.
“Answer my question,” she says.
“I’m thirty-four.”
“And you’re still single?” She frowns as she contemplates my age. “How is that possible?”
I sip my drink. “I don’t know.” I shrug. “I’ve had four serious relationships over the course of time.”
“And they didn’t work out?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“You’re very nosy, Anderson.”
She giggles. “I know. You ask me a question next.”
I smile and clink my glass with hers. “I’ll start thinking of one now.” I narrow my eyes, as if concentrating.
“Well?” she prompts me. “Answer my question first.”
How do I say this . . . I’m fucked up, and something is wrong with me?
That I’ve been searching for something for years, but I have no idea what it actually is?
Just tell her the easy version.
“I don’t know, to be honest. The girls I went out with were all beautiful—perfect, actually.” She watches me intently. “But when push came to shove, I didn’t want to fight for it.”
“Meaning what?”
“Well, as history repeats, I seem to have a time limit for relationships.” I smile at her fascination. “Like a use-by date.”
“A use-by date,” she scoffs. “What does that mean? How many times you have sex with them?”
I laugh at the double meaning. “No, not that . . . for God’s sake.”
She puts her hand on my thigh.
“I seem to meet someone, and then we fall into a routine and . . .” I pause.
“What?”
“She falls in love with me and wants to move in and have marriage and babies, and I, for some reason, find something wrong with her and begin to back off.”
She listens intently.
“I don’t know what it is.” I sip my drink. “I don’t know why I’m like this. The second girlfriend I had was probably the one. I adored her. Was sad for years when we broke up.”
“But you didn’t love her?”
“I don’t know.” I put my hand on top of hers on my leg.
“So she left you?”
“No. I left her.”
“But if you were sad for years about it, why didn’t you just go back to her?”
“I didn’t want to.”
She frowns as she watches me.
“I mean, what is love?” I bite my bottom lip as I think; how did we get onto this deep subject? “I mean, define being in love with someone, Anderson. Because I can’t; for the life of me I can’t.”
“Well.” She thinks for a moment. “I think it’s just like having a best friend who you want to fuck.”
I smirk. “That sounds pervy.”
“It is a bit.” She giggles.
I watch her for a moment. “What was your husband like?”
Her shoulders instantly slump. “He was . . .” Her demeanor becomes sad. “He was a great man. Proud.” Her focus shifts from me to a spot over the bar. “I miss him every day.”
I squeeze her hand in mine. “What kind of wife were you?” I ask.
She smiles at my change of the subject. “I was a great wife.”
“Really?” I fake shock. “I find that hard to believe.”
She laughs. “Maybe just an all right wife.”
“And you have kids?” I ask.
“Uh-huh, three boys.”
I scrunch up my nose. “I can’t actually believe that.”
“Why not?” she scoffs.
“I’ve never been with anyone who has kids before.”
“What? Never?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It’s weird, come to think of it. I have a very specific type of woman that I’m attracted to.”
She laughs and holds her hands up in the air. “Wait, let me guess.”
I chuckle as I hold my hand up for another round of drinks. I’m feeling very inebriated. “Please do.”
“Hot body.”
I tip my glass in agreement.
“Young
.”
“Affirmative.”
She narrows her eyes at me as she thinks. “I’m saying blonde.”
“You’re nailing me here.” I chuckle. “Every time.”
Her eyes dance with delight. “So she has to be a natural blonde with a hot body and younger than you.”
“Pretty much.”
“What else does she have to have?”
I roll my lips as I think. “I like trendy girls.”
“Trendy girls,” she scoffs. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know why, but I like girls who are into fashion.”
“Like . . . models?” She frowns.
“No, not necessarily models, but girls who are into dressing nice and look after themselves.”
“Handbags.”
I smirk with a shrug.
“You like girls who look good on your arm.”
“Possibly.” I chuckle at her analogy. “Why, what do you like in men?”
She raises her eyebrows as she thinks. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what I like. I only had two boyfriends before Wade and then . . . you.”
I smile over at her. I like that there’s not many. “And what did you like about me?”
“Well.” She falls serious. “I wanted to turn you.”
“Turn me.” I frown as I take a big gulp of my drink. “Into what?”
“A motherfucker.”
I snort, and my drink dribbles onto my chin. “What?” I splutter.
“I want to go down in the history books as the woman who officially turned Tristan Miles into a motherfucker.”
I laugh out loud as I take a napkin and wipe my face.
This woman is hilarious. I grab her in a headlock and nearly pull her off her chair. People around us all watch our drunken behavior. “If I had known how fun it was to fuck around with an aged duck, I would have been doing it long ago,” I whisper in her ear.
She laughs and punches me under my coat and pulls out of my grip. She fixes her hair in an overexaggerated way. “I’ll have you know I’m not even old, Mr. Miles.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m thirty-eight.”
I smile. “Only four years older than me.”
“Why, how old did you think I was?”
“At least”—I smirk as I think of a number—“sixty.”
“Tristan!” she cries.
I grab the back of her head and drag her in to kiss me. She smiles against my lips. “Don’t try and sweeten the last comment with those magic lips,” she whispers.