The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(82)

I walk in and close the door, and I look around. I scratch the back of my neck in confusion. “Holy shit,” I whisper. For five minutes my eyes drink in the visual sensation. Tristan’s words from lunch come back to me: “I would rather sleep on your cement lounge than be alone in my apartment.”

“You poor, stupid man,” I whisper out loud. “What could be better than here?”

I drop my bag off my shoulder with a thud. The apartment is gigantic. My house would fit in here four times. It’s an old warehouse that’s been converted. The perimeter has huge glass windows, the floor is polished concrete, and the place has a super-trendy industrial vibe. Huge colorful rugs soften the floor, and the walls have colorful abstract art everywhere. The furniture is modern and minimalistic.

“Wow.” I walk through the living area. It has a huge slouchy navy couch. A three-seater and a two-seater and two one-seaters. A big chunky timber coffee table in the middle, and a gigantic television. I walk through to the kitchen—chunky timber and metal. An island sits in the middle with stools around it. I count them—nine in total. I look to the dining table and see that it seats eighteen. God, nine stools and eighteen chairs. How many friends does he have over for dinner at once?

I open the fridge and am surprised to see that it is fully stocked with healthy food.

Hmm, he must cook. Hell, I really don’t know him at all, do I?

I walk down the hallway, past an office, a gymnasium, another living area, a bathroom. Then finally a bedroom, another bedroom, another bedroom. What the hell? How many bedrooms are there? Another bedroom, and then I get to two big double doors that open into the master suite.

My eyes widen, and I break into a stupid giggle. My kids’ bedrooms would fit into his walk-in closet. Rows of expensive suits and shoes are all lined up. Everything is neat and in rows. It looks like a high-end men’s boutique. The bedroom walls are dark navy, the linen and furniture are white, and a huge pop art abstract is on the wall in hot pinks. Huge palms tower in big white pots, and it looks just like a magazine. I run my hand through the leaves of the palm as I look around. “Wow,” I whisper out loud. “Very impressive, Mr. Miles.” I peek into the bathroom to see it’s in a white stone; it’s huge, with a circular bathtub sitting in the center. “Just fucking wow.” I walk back out to the foyer and collect my bag in a rush. “Now to make myself utterly irresistible.”

I raise my eyebrows at the challenge. “Like that’s possible.”

I lie back in the deep bath. The room is steamy, the water is hot, and my glass of champagne is ice cold.

Now this . . . is living.

Starting my weekend away with a bang. I mean, how could I resist?

I put my feet up on the end of the bathtub and slide deep into the water with a relaxed smile.

From the corner of my eye I see something, and I look up to see Tristan. His hands are in the pockets of his expensive suit, and he’s leaning up against the doorjamb as he watches me. He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “Anderson.”

I smile and slide down a little deeper into the water. “You’re late.”

He jerks his tie hard as he pushes off the door toward me. “And you look spectacular in my bathtub.”

“Are you getting in?” I ask.

He smiles darkly as he tears his jacket over his shoulders. “I am most definitely . . . getting in.” He begins to unbutton his shirt.

I giggle. “Dirty bastard.”

“At your service.” He throws his shirt to the side, and my stomach flutters at the sight of his chest. Wide and muscular, with a scattering of dark hair that dwindles down to a small trail that disappears into his pants.

I smile into my glass of champagne as I watch. This is one hell of a strip show.

He slides his zipper down, and my breath catches as I see that his cock is hard and sitting up above the waistband of his black briefs. He’s hard from watching me.

What universe is this?

He kicks off his shoes and socks and slides his trousers down in one sharp movement, and I giggle like a schoolgirl.

“What is that laugh? I’ve never heard you do that before.”

I smile bashfully, embarrassed that he caught that.

“Is that a rain giggle?” he asks with a raised brow as he steps into the water.

I frown. “Rain giggle?”

“You know, the one you do before you get dripping wet?”

I laugh out loud. “You idiot,” I scoff. “I’m in a bath. I am dripping wet.”

His eyes dance with delight. “Admit it, Anderson—some places are wetter than others.” He sits down and pulls me over him as the water sloshes over the side and onto the floor. I laugh. For the first time in a long time, I feel so wild and free.

My legs straddle his, and his fingers slide through my open sex. He’s completely right. I’m so fucking wet right now.

His eyes are locked on mine as he slowly circles his fingers through my sex. “Now this is how you should greet me every day. Naked and wet.”

My mouth falls open. Oh God, that feels good.

We stare at each other as I float above him. It’s as if we have both been waiting to touch each other all week, and we can’t control ourselves any longer. Conversation is irrelevant when we are naked together. Our bodies speak for us.

He slowly slides a finger in, then two, and I wince as he pushes a third thick finger deep into my sex. He puts his mouth to my ear. “I want you to fuck my hand,” he whispers. “You clench hard, and you fuck my fingers, Anderson.”