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?”