The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(29)

“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 you 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.