The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(32)

I laugh out loud and pull her from the stool. “And just by chance, you’re a mother. How convenient.”





Chapter 8

It’s late, and we’ve been at it for hours. The arch of Claire’s back as she lies beneath me tells me she’s close. I’m wet with perspiration and holding myself up on straight arms as I drive her into the mattress.

She whimpers beneath me, and I tip my head back and close my eyes in ecstasy.

Her wet body is rippling around mine, sucking me in, and the sound of skin slapping is echoing through the room.

This is when she’s at her best; this is when she has me in the palm of her hand.

On an orgasm high, worn down, and unable to filter what she says.





Vulnerable and soft.


“Tris,” she whispers as she reaches out to pull me down to her. “I need you.”

Our lips crash together, and it’s not just my balls that are about to explode.

It’s my fucking head—this woman fries my brain.

She clenches hard, and we both moan as the wave of an orgasm crashes between us.

She clings to me as we pant and half laugh; our heart rates race together.

I go to pull out, and she clings to me. “No, Tris,” she whispers. “Stay inside of me.”

“Just let me roll you over, baby.” I kiss her softly. “I can’t hold myself up any longer.”

I pull out and roll her onto her side away from me and lift her leg and slide back in. I wrap her tightly in my arms. She smiles sleepily as I kiss her temple. “That’s better,” she whispers. I kiss her neck as I hold her tight.

We fell asleep like this last night, too, our bodies joined. As one.

Claire Anderson.

The high of the orgasm she gives me isn’t half as good as the high after it.

When I’m holding her in my arms like this, intimacy is running between us like a river, and just for a moment . . .





She is mine.





Claire

I wake with a huge stretch and a smile. God. It’s been years since I’ve slept this well.

I roll over to see Tristan on his back. One arm is behind his head, and the other is scrolling through his phone. The white sheet is pooled around his groin, and his rippled stomach is on display.

What a sight to wake up to. “Good morning.”

He smiles and leans over to kiss me. “Morning.” His hand lingers on my jaw as he smiles sexily over at me.

“Why are you awake so early?” I ask.

“Been up for hours. Couldn’t sleep,” he mutters as he returns to his phone and keeps scrolling.

“Why not?”

“All your snoring. It’s like sleeping with a boar cuddling your back. It gives a new meaning to a wild night.”

I giggle and rub my eyes as I try to wake myself up.

“What’s your name on Instagram?” he asks as he concentrates on his phone.

“Huh?” I glance over at him.

“I’ve been looking for you for a good hour. What’s your name?”

“You woke up early to stalk my Instagram?” I frown.

“Name,” he replies flatly as he continues to stare at his screen.

“I have a private account.”

“And?”

“And . . . it’s private.”

His eyes flick over to me. “You’re not going to give it to me?”

“No.” I smile. “I have like fifty followers, and they are mostly family. It’s me and my kids, personal stuff. Nothing exciting, I can assure you.”

He sits up on his elbow. “What? And I can’t see it?”

I smile at his outrage. “Tristan, why would you want to?” I sit up and climb out of bed. “It’s just my kid stuff. Sports, birthdays, pets . . . crap like that.”

“Well . . . maybe because I spent half the night inside your body, I assumed I would be able to see what your kids look like.”

I smile at his annoyance. “No. You can’t, actually.” I throw my robe on around my shoulders. “My kids are off limits and not up for discussion with you.” I walk into the bathroom and close the door. “Trust me, Tristan,” I call through the door. “It’s not like all your girlfriends’ Instagram accounts. Stalk them instead.” I go to the bathroom and come back out to find him still on his phone. He’s glaring at it, as if he’s annoyed.

“What are we doing today?” I ask.

“Hmm,” he grunts, unimpressed. “I’m going to steal your phone, take a shot of my cock, and post it on your”—he holds his fingers up to air quote—“‘private Instagram’ with the heading Paris, hashtag loving-the-cock.”

I giggle. “That’s a great hashtag.”

He throws his phone to the side and rolls me over onto my back. “You wound me, Anderson.” He kisses me. “Why can’t I see your kids?”

I run my fingers through his dark stubble. “You know why.” I kiss him softly. “We aren’t like that.”

He stares down at me for a moment and then blinks, as if processing my words.

“Well?” I ask. “What are we doing today?”

“Stuff,” he mutters dryly as he rolls off me onto his back. “Lots of stuff.”