The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(55)

let’s go to Hawaii for the

weekend.

We can practice tantric sex.

A stupid grin crosses my face before I can cover it up.

Stop it.

I bring my focus back to Gabriel. “Look,” I say guiltily. “It’s only twelve months, and I know that it isn’t ideal, but it will be good for him to get out of his comfort zone. And besides, he’s giving them a run for their money, so he might not even last without being fired.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you would react like this.”

A text bounces in, and I pick up my phone off the table to shield it from Gabriel’s eyes. It’s a cartoon Kama Sutra image of people in a sexual position with the heading ROCK-A-BYE BOOTY.

I glance over and see Tristan’s shoulders bouncing as he laughs and watches me.

Oh hell.

“I’m not impressed at all, Claire. I don’t like him being around them,” Gabriel continues, completely distracted.

“You know as well as I do they are good businesspeople,” I argue. “I wasn’t impressed at first, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.” My phone beeps with a text, and I open it discreetly on my lap. It’s another cartoon Kama Sutra drawing of a woman crouched between a man’s legs, his dick in her mouth. The heading is THE MOTHERLOAD.

What the hell?

I burst out laughing. I glance up, and Tristan’s eyes are alight with mischief as he chuckles.

“What is so funny?” Gabriel snaps.

“Oh, Marley is having boyfriend trouble. She’s just relaying their latest tiff,” I lie.

“No wonder,” he mutters into his drink. “That woman is a nutjob.”

A waitress arrives at our table. “Here you go—two mimosas.” She carefully puts the two drinks down in front of us.

“What are these?” Gabriel frowns.

“On the house,” the waitress replies. “Enjoy.” She walks off, and I stare at the drinks in front of us.

Don’t look over at him . . . don’t look at him . . . don’t look at him. That’s what he wants.

I cannot believe the gall of this man.

Most men would be rattled seeing a woman out with another man.

Most men aren’t Tristen Miles.

He’s unrattle-able . . . is that even a word? And I hate to admit it, but confidence in a man is very fucking appealing.

Gabriel picks up his mimosa and takes a sip. “Hmm, not bad.” He shrugs.

I smirk as I stare at my clueless friend. If he knew who bought that drink, he would be choking on it. “I’m just going to go to the bathroom,” I say.

I get up and make my way through the bar and into the ladies’ bathroom. I take my time and mentally prepare myself to ignore Tristan for good.

I need to stop this flirty game we have going on.

But he’s so fun.

No . . . enough is enough.

I open the door, and before I know it, someone grabs my hand and pulls me around the corner and pins me to the wall.

“Tristan,” I whisper.

His lips drop to my neck. “Hello, Anderson, fancy meeting you here.” He smiles against my skin as his teeth skim my neck.

“What are you doing?” I whisper as goose bumps scatter up my arms.

“Accosting you in the hallway—what does it look like?” He bites me hard, and I tingle to my toes.

“What if I really was here with Gabriel?” I stammer.

“Then I’m about to steal his girl.” He smiles as he takes my face in his hands.

My God, he’s so naughty.

“Stop it,” I breathe.

“No.” He kisses me, soft and slow. His tongue gently coaxes mine to come out and play. My eyes close in pleasure. Damn it, why does he have to kiss so well?

“Tris,” I breathe as I feel my resistance begin to wane.

“One last time.”

He sucks on my tongue, and I go weak at the knees.

“We shouldn’t,” I whimper as my hands go to his muscular behind.

“We totally fucking should.” He pins me to the wall, and I feel his rock-hard erection up against my stomach.

My insides begin to liquefy . . . fucking hell, he’s so damn hot that I can’t stand it.

Burning inferno.

“Go out there, and tell him you’re going home.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you are going home. With me.”

“Tristan.”

“Or I can come and drag you from the table. It’s your choice.” He shrugs casually. “I need you.” He grabs my hip bones and drags my body over his hardened cock. He does need me; every cell in his body needs me. I can feel it.

His hands are in my hair, and our kisses become frantic. Deep, long, and passionate.

Oh hell . . .

I need you too.

“Last time,” I pant against his open lips.

“For real.” His eyes are closed in pleasure.

What must we look like?

He’s fighting this too. He knows we are wrong for each other, but the physical attraction between us is just too strong.

One time . . . one time won’t hurt . . . will it?

The damage is already done. One more time won’t hurt, surely?