It’s late, just past two o’clock in the morning, and I don’t know how the hell I’m still here.
The night has flown. It feels good not having to rush home to homework and dinner and responsibilities. I think all 120 people from the conference are still here. The mood is light and jovial. I’m standing at the back of the room near the bar. There are ten of us standing in a group. They’re telling stories, and we’re laughing and having fun, and every now and then I look across the room and into the stare of Tristan Miles.
He’s watching me . . . he’s been watching me all night.
The heat of his gaze on my skin is warm like the sun. It makes me wonder if he’s this intense in bed. Because right now, he’s not just undressing me with his eyes; he’s fucking me with them.
Arousal heats my blood, and I find myself imagining what we’d be like together naked.
Like a well-oiled machine, he’s working the room. Everyone wants to talk to him; everyone wants to be near him. And I’m pretty damn sure that every woman here is fantasizing about taking him home.
I know I am.
I never would, of course. God no.
But his unapologetic flirty way is definitely appealing . . . even to those who aren’t interested.
I let my mind wander for a moment. What would it be like to have wild and carefree sex with a man like him? To know that there is absolutely no chance of a tomorrow?
To live completely in the moment.
I stare down at my straw as I circle it in my drink. My mind begins to tick as it tries to reconcile my thoughts. It’s been a long time since I had a thought like that.
Sex hasn’t crossed my mind since Wade died.
Five years next month.
I was thirty-three when I lost my husband, just coming into my sexual prime.
I lost a lot that day—and not just him . . . a major part of who I was.
Wade and I met in college. We dated for two years, and then the unthinkable happened. I became pregnant on the pill at the tender age of twenty.
Wade was ecstatic. I mean, he never had any doubts that we were going to be together. He told me on our fourth date that he was going to marry me. He was three years older than me and thought he knew everything.
I smile wistfully—looking back, I see that he did.
I get a flashback of us kissing and laughing . . . rolling around in bed, making love.
And my heart hurts.
I don’t just miss him . . . I miss everything that we did together. The way he made me feel like a woman every time he looked at me.
Arousal.
The rush of an orgasm.
I close my eyes in disgust.
Oh God . . .
I need to stop drinking. I remember now—I remember why I don’t drink. It makes me sad, like a big dark blanket that comes to rest over my shoulders. One that’s heavy and laden with responsibilities. I put my drink down on the bar. “I’m going to get going,” I announce as I wave. “See you all tomorrow.”
I head over toward the exit and catch sight of Tristan talking to three women—the same three women who have been hanging off him all night. He sees me coming and pushes himself off the wall. “Claire,” he calls as he steps into my path.
I can’t be rude in front of the girls. “Hi.” I smile over his shoulder to his groupies as they look on.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
I stare at him, confused. “Huh?”
“You know.” He widens his eyes. “To study.”
“Oh.” I frown. He must be trying to get rid of these women. “Yes, of course.”
“Lead the way.” He gestures to the door.
Oh jeez. I take off toward the door.
“But—” one of the girls says from behind us.
“Sorry, girls, rain check,” he calls as he runs to catch up with me.
We walk out into the foyer and over to the elevator.
“Thanks.” He sighs.
I roll my eyes. “I’m not your scapegoat, Mr. Miles.”
“I know.” He links his arm through mine. “We really are going to study; didn’t I tell you?”
“Does this over-the-top-flirty thing often work?” I ask as the elevator doors open, and we hop in.
He gives me a cheeky grin as the door closes behind us. “Always.”
I shake my head as I smile at the ground; his heavenly aftershave wafts around me.
“Are we drinking coffee or champagne?” he asks playfully.
“I’m going to have a cup of tea.”
“Tea?” He scrunches up his nose in disgust. “Like English granny tea.”
“Yes. Like English granny tea.”
“Oh.” The doors open, and I step out of the elevator. So does he. We walk down the corridor. Where is his room? He doesn’t really think he’s coming with me . . . does he?
“I suppose I can try it, just this once,” he replies.
“Try what?”
“Tea.”
“You are not coming with me,” I scoff.
His face falls. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not like that, because I’m too old for you, and because, well . . .” I pause as I think of the right wording. “I vowed to hate you for all of eternity.” We get to my door, and I turn to him. “This is me.”
He puts his hands into his trouser pockets. “Come on, Claire; it’s tea.” His mischievous eyes hold mine. “It’s not like I’m going to fuck you into next week or anything.”
I stare at him, shocked that he’s just said that out loud. I’m not used to men talking to me like this.
His crude words penetrate into the dark corner of my sexuality.
I feel something dormant wake up deep inside.
Five years is a long time.
The air crackles between us.
“It’s not like I’m going to make you come so fucking hard or anything.” He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “It’s not like it would be the best sex of your life or anything.”
I have no words . . . he’s stolen them.
“Admit it,” he says softly as his gaze drops to my lips. “You haven’t wondered what I’d be like in bed?” he whispers.
“No,” I lie. It’s the only thing I can think about. “Not once.”
“You haven’t wondered how big my dick is?” he breathes as he tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear and steps toward me.
Jesus, he’s hung. Only a big man would bring attention to the size of his dick.
Not helping.
I swallow the lump in my throat as I get a vision of him naked. “No.”
He leans in and puts his mouth to my ear. “Confession.”
I close my eyes. Oh man, this is a bad . . . situation. With a bad man.
My heart begins to beat deep and slow, in time with his, as I imagine doing bad things to him.
“You’ve been on my mind.” His deep, hushed voice on my neck begins to send shock waves through my system.
“Why’s that?” I whisper, but I don’t know why I’m asking—I already know the answer.
He presses his hips forward and pins me to the wall. He’s hard and ready. My insides begin to melt.
Oh fuck . . . he feels good.
“Through three lectures and one workshop, all I’ve done is imagined you riding my cock,” he whispers darkly.
I instantly get a vision of me on top of him, naked, our bodies wet with perspiration.
His erection big and deep.
“God . . . ,” he breathes as he takes a handful of my hair and grips it hard. “We’d be so fucking hot together, Anderson.”
The elevator door pings, and Nelson walks out.
My temporary brain snap dissipates, and I push back from Tristan. “Stop it,” I whisper.
Nelson looks between us from the other end of the corridor and frowns. “Hello.”
Tristan rolls his eyes and runs his hand through his hair in frustration. “Hi,” he mutters dryly.
I turn the key and open my door in a rush, taking the momentary distraction as a godsend. “Good night, Mr. Miles.”
“Anderson,” he whispers.
I close the door in his face and click the lock. I fall against the back of it and close my eyes. I’m panting, and my body is still reeling from the feeling of him so close.
My phone beeps with a text.
Come on?
I’m leaving tomorrow.
His words repeat in my mind.
“We’d be so fucking hot together.”
I put the chain on, and I peek through the peephole to see him roll his eyes and shake his head.
He’s pissed off.
He knew he nearly had me.
Oh crap . . . that was close. Another text beeps through.
Claire, come on.
You’re killing me here.
There are no prizes for being a good girl.
You only live once.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter.
I turn my phone on silent, put it on the charger, and storm into the bathroom, and then I lock that door too. I need to get some distance between me and him.
The very last thing I’m about to do is have sex with that soul-sucking bastard. And besides, I wouldn’t even know what to do with him. I’m positive the kind of sex that I’ve had wouldn’t be the same type of sex that he has.
I’m into tender loving care, and he’s probably a world-renowned anal master.
I shiver at the thought of appearing vulnerable and sexually inexperienced to him.
I imagine him guiding me as to how he likes it, and my blood boils.
No way in hell am I giving him one inch of power over me.
“That’s it. No more,” I whisper angrily. “Cold shower.” I turn the water on with force. “That man is the devil.”
I sit and stare into space in the truth circle.
One by one we are being asked a question about ourselves that only we would know. Something that apparently burns a hole in our existence.
“Tell me, Ariana, what is the one thing that makes you angry?” Elouise asks.
Ariana frowns as she contemplates her answer, and we sit in silence as we wait. All of our questions are different, based on our psychological testing. Elouise, the psychologist who is running this part of the workshop, has tailored the session to what we did yesterday morning. We’ve broken up into small groups of fifteen and are sitting and listening to everyone in our group.
Once again, I zone out into space.
I’m flat today.
Down on myself, for many reasons.
I hate that I’m physically attracted to someone I don’t like. I hate that I let him get under my skin. I hate that I wanted him, and, most of all, I hate that the opportunity to have a wild and carefree night with him is gone. He’s gone back to New York now.
Tristan fucking Miles.
The reason I haven’t slept, the reason I had to get myself off while watching YouPorn last night.
And the reason I feel so fucking sexless today that I just want to cry.
It was nice being hit on . . . being made to feel desirable.
To feel like a woman again.
And it’s not him; it’s not about him. It’s what he represents.
A carefree time in my life that’s gone.
I’ve been thinking about it . . . long and hard—all night, actually. And if there was ever a man whom I should have slept with as a get-back-into-the-dating-game kind of thing, it should have been Tristan Miles.
He is uncomplicated and unavailable, the kind of man you have thoughtless sex with. I was physically attracted to him, and yet there was absolutely no chance that I could have developed feelings for him. He’s not the kind of man I could ever fall in love with.
It was the perfect opportunity . . . and I let it go.
Fucking great.
“Claire?” a voice asks.
I look up, dazed. “I beg your pardon?” I ask.
“Let’s talk about the hardest thing in your life,” Elouise says.
I frown.
“What is the hardest thing that you have had to do?”
I stare at her for a moment. “Little League.”
Elouise’s face falls, and everyone listens intently.
“Explain that to me.”
“Um.” I take a nervous, deep breath. “My husband . . . um . . .” I pause midsentence.
“Start at the beginning.” Elouise smiles.
“Five years ago, my husband was riding a bike early one morning.” I smile as I remember Wade in his full riding kit. “He was training for a triathlon.” I pause.
“Go on.”
“He was . . . hit by a drunk driver at five fifty-two a.m.”
Everyone watches me.
“He died at the scene. He was thirty-six.” I twist my fingers together on my lap. “And I thought that was going to be my worst day.” I smile as I try to make sense of what I’m about to say. “But I was wrong.” I stay silent for a moment.
After a while, she prompts me, “Go on, Claire.”
“Watching my three sons grow up without a father, day in and day out, is far worse.” My eyes fill with tears. “Every Saturday,” I whisper, hardly able to push the words past my lips. “Every Saturday . . . we go to their games. And when they do something good, they look up into the stands to see me.” I stare straight ahead as I pause.
“Take your time, dear.”
“They’re so proud, and then I watch their little faces fall when they remember that their dad’s not here to see it.”
Elouise nods quietly.
“So yeah . . .” I shrug. “Little League is the hardest thing about my life.”
The group remains silent, and I glance up to see Tristan standing to the side of the circle. His hands are in his pockets, and his haunted eyes hold mine.
I drop my head, wishing I could take the personal words back.
I don’t want Tristan Miles to know me, to know anything about me or my children and our daily struggles.
I’m keeping my distance. My attraction to him is just that—a physical attraction.
It means nothing.
“Okay, moving along. Richard. Tell me about your childhood.”
It’s just around ten o’clock at night when we are walking back from the restaurant.
The group is sleepy and subdued. Unlike last night, everyone is tired.
Today was a hard day and—I hate to admit it—a little cathartic. I had a lot of soul-searching moments and listened to a lot of the others have them too.
An unexpected bond has formed between me and my little group. I’m feeling deep and emotional and somewhat raw. It was unexpected, if I’m honest.
Tristan was at dinner but was sitting at another table with the other lecturers. He was chatting and talking and deep in conversation with another man.
He hasn’t been annoying me today, or flirting. In fact, he hasn’t come near me since he heard my little truth bomb this morning. It’s all a bit real for him, I think.
Even for me, sometimes.
We arrive at the hotel, and I see a convenience store up ahead. I might get some chocolate. A cup of tea and something sweet will end the day on a high. “I’m just going to grab something from the store. See you all in the morning,” I say.
“See you,” my group calls as they disappear into the hotel.
I cross the street and grab my chocolate and look through the books they have. Hmm. What can I read? I don’t read romance anymore, and horror is scary when my kids are on the other side of the world.
Nope . . . nothing interests me. Oh well, it was a nice thought.
I pay the cashier and head back over to the hotel. “Claire!” I hear from the side street next to the hotel.
I glance over and see Tristan standing in the dark. “Hi.” I clutch my chocolate tightly in my hand.
“I just wanted to see how you were,” he says.
See how I am . . . like a victim?
My face falls, and an unexpected surge of anger rises in my stomach. I hate that he heard my admission of weakness this morning. “I’m fine.”
“Do you want to go and get some granny tea?” He gestures up the street to a café. He’s not using it as a code for sex; he really means tea tonight.
Suddenly, I’m angry at his change of direction with me. I can handle flirty and fun.
This . . . I cannot.
“No,” I snap. “I do not.” Infuriated, I storm off, and then, unable to help it, I turn back to him. “You know what? Fuck you,” I say.
“What?”
“Don’t you give me that look, Tristan Miles.”
“What look?” he gasps.
“That pathetic look of sympathy,” I sneer. “You can look at me sexy; you can look at me with distaste. But don’t you fucking dare feel sorry for me.”
He stares at me.
“The one person in the world that I don’t want pity from is you.”
He steps forward. “What do you want?”
“I just want to be treated normal,” I snap. “Not like poor Claire Anderson the widow.” I throw my hands up in the air. “Like a normal woman who you don’t know.”
I feel like I’m about to explode, and I suck in deep breaths to try to calm myself down. My eyes search his. “At least when you’re an asshole, I know what to expect.”
He rushes me and grabs my face in his hands and kisses me. His tongue swipes through my lips, and he pushes me up against the wall.
“Believe me, Claire Anderson . . . the last thing I feel when I look at you . . . is pity.”
His tongue dances against mine, and his grip on my face is near painful.
I’m forced forward as he pulls me onto his cock. I can feel it as it hardens.
My insides begin to liquefy . . . oh God.
Something snaps inside of me, and I begin to kiss him back.
I kiss him with everything I have, and God it feels good. Deep, erotic . . . and so long awaited.
He pulls back and looks at me as he holds my face in his hands. His breathing is labored. “What is that kiss, Anderson?”
I stare up at him as my chest rises and falls.
“That’s not a granny-tea kiss.” His hands grip my face harder, and he licks my open lips. My insides clench at the dominance of his action. “That’s a hungry kiss,” he whispers darkly and then licks my lips again. The way he’s licking my open lips with no regard for what my tongue is doing is making me want him to lick me somewhere else. Every muscle deep inside of me clenches as I imagine his head between my legs.
“Are you hungry, Claire?” he breathes.
Fucking starving.
I put my hand on the back of his head and pull him down to me. I kiss him again. Harder this time, more urgent, and it’s as if some kind of sexual rubber band has been stretched beyond repair and has finally snapped in a spectacular fashion.
I don’t want to be a sad widow anymore . . . just for tonight, I want to be a woman.
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.
