The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(17)

The group remains silent, and I glance up to see Tristan standing to the side of the circle. His hands are in his pockets, and his haunted eyes hold mine.

I drop my head, wishing I could take the personal words back.

I don’t want Tristan Miles to know me, to know anything about me or my children and our daily struggles.

I’m keeping my distance. My attraction to him is just that—a physical attraction.

It means nothing.

“Okay, moving along. Richard. Tell me about your childhood.”

It’s just around ten o’clock at night when we are walking back from the restaurant.

The group is sleepy and subdued. Unlike last night, everyone is tired.

Today was a hard day and—I hate to admit it—a little cathartic. I had a lot of soul-searching moments and listened to a lot of the others have them too.

An unexpected bond has formed between me and my little group. I’m feeling deep and emotional and somewhat raw. It was unexpected, if I’m honest.

Tristan was at dinner but was sitting at another table with the other lecturers. He was chatting and talking and deep in conversation with another man.

He hasn’t been annoying me today, or flirting. In fact, he hasn’t come near me since he heard my little truth bomb this morning. It’s all a bit real for him, I think.

Even for me, sometimes.

We arrive at the hotel, and I see a convenience store up ahead. I might get some chocolate. A cup of tea and something sweet will end the day on a high. “I’m just going to grab something from the store. See you all in the morning,” I say.

“See you,” my group calls as they disappear into the hotel.

I cross the street and grab my chocolate and look through the books they have. Hmm. What can I read? I don’t read romance anymore, and horror is scary when my kids are on the other side of the world.

Nope . . . nothing interests me. Oh well, it was a nice thought.

I pay the cashier and head back over to the hotel. “Claire!” I hear from the side street next to the hotel.

I glance over and see Tristan standing in the dark. “Hi.” I clutch my chocolate tightly in my hand.

“I just wanted to see how you were,” he says.

See how I am . . . like a victim?

My face falls, and an unexpected surge of anger rises in my stomach. I hate that he heard my admission of weakness this morning. “I’m fine.”

“Do you want to go and get some granny tea?” He gestures up the street to a café. He’s not using it as a code for sex; he really means tea tonight.

Suddenly, I’m angry at his change of direction with me. I can handle flirty and fun.

This . . . I cannot.

“No,” I snap. “I do not.” Infuriated, I storm off, and then, unable to help it, I turn back to him. “You know what? Fuck you,” I say.

“What?”

“Don’t you give me that look, Tristan Miles.”

“What look?” he gasps.

“That pathetic look of sympathy,” I sneer. “You can look at me sexy; you can look at me with distaste. But don’t you fucking dare feel sorry for me.”

He stares at me.

“The one person in the world that I don’t want pity from is you.”

He steps forward. “What do you want?”

“I just want to be treated normal,” I snap. “Not like poor Claire Anderson the widow.” I throw my hands up in the air. “Like a normal woman who you don’t know.”

I feel like I’m about to explode, and I suck in deep breaths to try to calm myself down. My eyes search 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.