his. “At least when you’re an asshole, I know what to expect.”
He rushes me and grabs my face in his hands and kisses me. His tongue swipes through my lips, and he pushes me up against the wall.
“Believe me, Claire Anderson . . . the last thing I feel when I look at you . . . is pity.”
His tongue dances against mine, and his grip on my face is near painful.
I’m forced forward as he pulls me onto his cock. I can feel it as it hardens.
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.