The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(18)

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.