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.”
I frown as I watch him. “What puts you in this mood today?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He puts the back of his forearm over his eyes.
“Tris.” I pull his arm off his face.
“Look at you getting all needy.”
“I am not getting all needy,” he snaps, insulted.
“What’s this, then?”
“This is . . .” He frowns as he tries to articulate himself. “I’m not fucking needy, Claire. I’ve never been needy in my entire life.”
“If you say so.” I smile and kiss him. I run my fingers through his hair to try to calm him. “Take me sightseeing, Mr. Miles. Show me Paris through your eyes.”
He regains his composure and rolls me onto my back and holds my hands above my head. “The only way you’re going to be seeing Paris is on the end of my dick.”
I giggle. “You’re a sex maniac.”
He bites my bottom lip and stretches it out. “We already established this.”
The candlelight flickers on our faces.
We are in Tristan’s favorite restaurant in Paris. He’s ordered for us, and I swear every time he talks to someone in French, I lose a little more of my mind.
What a dreamy day. We went to the Louvre and then to the Eiffel Tower. Then we strolled down the Champs-Élysées, a strip of gorgeous shops. We visited the Arc de Triomphe and then went to the ruins of Notre Dame. At one point, I thought Tristan was going to burst into tears. He loves that chapel and had been there many times before it burned down. I take his hand over the table. “Thank you, Tris. I’ve had the best day.”
He smiles warmly over at me.
“Seriously, like one of my favorite days ever in my entire life.”
His eyes glow with tenderness as he squeezes my hand. “I’m glad. It’s a beautiful city.”
“Oh . . . it really is,” I gush. “The Eiffel Tower and, oh, the Louvre.” I shake my head as I go over the day. “I can’t believe I’m even here, you know?”
He sips his red wine as he smiles over at me. “And it’s not over yet. I got you a surprise.”
“You did?” I smile.
“Tickets to Moulin Rouge tonight.”
My mouth falls open. “Are you serious?”
“You can’t come here and not see it.” He smiles sexily.
“Oh,” I gush over at him. “You are the best tour guide ever. You know so much about this place.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time here.”
“Do you always stay at the same hotel?”
“Always, and the same room.”
“You always stay in the same room?”
“Yes.” He chuckles. “Makes me feel more at home if I have familiar surroundings.”
“What’s it like?” I frown. “What’s it like traveling the world on your own?”
“I’m not alone. I have friends everywhere I go. I just pick up where I left off with them last time I was here.”
I watch him for a moment. “Do you have a lady friend here?”
“No one steady.”
That shouldn’t make me as happy as it does. “Where do you live in New York?” I ask.
“I have a penthouse in Tribeca.”
“Oh.” I frown.
“Where do you live?” he asks.
“I have a house in Long Island.”
“Long Island?” he gasps. “You commute every day?”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “We wanted the kids to have a house with a yard growing up.”
“Hmm.” He thinks on my answer for a moment and rests his chin on his hand with his elbow on the table.
“I don’t know if I want to go to Moulin Rouge with you,” I say, deep in thought.
“Why not?”
I shrug bashfully. “All those beautiful young girls with their boobs hanging out.”
He smiles over at me.
“I might get jealous.” I smile as I sip my wine. “You must date some beautiful women.”
He sips his wine but doesn’t reply. The question hangs in the air between us. “What was your favorite thing you saw today?” He changes the subject.
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“It was you.”
Our eyes lock.
“You were the most beautiful thing I saw today, Tristan Miles.”
The air swirls between us, and he takes my hand again over the table. “Do you know how you can really impress me, Anderson?”
“How?”
“You can strip down to a G-string, go topless, and get onstage tonight at the Moulin Rouge and dance for me.”
I giggle as I imagine the horror. “I don’t want to evacuate the establishment.”
He drops his chin back onto his hand and gives me a slow, sexy smile. “The other women would all pale to your beauty.”
I smirk at his ridiculous statement.
“On any stage,” he whispers as his eyes hold mine.
An unwelcome flutter happens in my stomach.
The air between us is electric, and I know that I shouldn’t be feeling this . . . whatever this is . . . but when he says sweet things, I can’t help but feel something in my chest.
All day we have laughed and held hands and carried on like kids in love.
I’m not sure that Tristan Miles is as hard as I once thought he was.
“And the answer was no,” he says softly.
“To what?” I’m confused as to what he’s talking about.
“I don’t remember if I dated any beautiful women.”
I frown.
“Because,” he whispers as his eyes drop to my lips, “at this moment, all I can think about . . . is you.”
My heart beats faster as we stare at each other, and I want to go around to his side of the table and take him into my arms and kiss him.
But I can’t.
I can’t imagine that this is more than it is, that his pretty words are more than just pretty words. Because he’s a fantasy man, and we can’t be anything more than a weekend away. Our lives are too different—we . . . are too different.
I know that.
“What’s going to happen tonight when everyone sees me naked on the stage at the Moulin Rouge?” I ask.
“I’ll be fighting the men off.” He chuckles. “Probably the women too.”
I giggle and pick up my wine. I hold my glass out and clink it with his.
“To naked brawling,” I whisper.
His eyes twinkle with a certain something. “Naked anything, where you’re concerned.”
This poor, deluded man. Since when did cellulite and stretch marks become hot? I bet he never thought he would see the day. I giggle. “You must be sick of seeing me naked, Mr. Miles.”
“Anderson, I’m just getting started.”
We walk out through the departure lounge of the private part of the airport. Tristan is wheeling both of our suitcases behind him, and we walk in through large glass doors from the tarmac. One lone lady is checking and stamping passports to let us into the country. “Hello, Mr. Miles.” She smiles.
Jeez, he flies so much that the staff all know him.
“Hello, Margarete,” he says. “Where’s Boris?”
“On day shift today.”
She opens his passport. “How was Paris?”
“Parfaite.” He smiles.
She giggles on cue, and I smirk over at him.
Flirt.
She stamps our passports, and we look into the eye-scanner thingy.
This is so much more civilized than standing in the queue for an hour.
“Goodbye, Margarete,” he says as he pulls our two suitcases through another huge door. When we walk out, I look around, disoriented. Oh, we are in the foyer of the airport. I never knew that these doors into this private part of the airport were even here.
“Where are you parked?” Tristan asks.
“Over in long term, level one.”
“Okay, I’ll just drop my bag at the car and walk you up.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
We walk out through the front doors, and he walks to the left with our two suitcases and stops at a black limo. The driver gets out. “Hey, Tris,” he says.
I stop on the spot, shocked. He has a limo . . . what the heck?
“This is Claire,” he says to introduce me. “This is Calvin.”
“Hello.” He smiles.
I give a weak wave.
Calvin grabs his suitcase, and Tristan takes my hand. We walk toward level one.
“I can wheel my suitcase.”
“Let me act like a gentleman, please,” he says as he walks.
“You have a limo?” I frown.
He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “Miles Media has limos. It’s not personally mine.”
I’m suddenly reminded of who he is. A Miles.
We walk for a while, and I feel anxious. I don’t want to let him go, but I know I have to. I went to France to fill my well—I got the ocean instead.
Tristan Miles is beautiful, smart, and witty, and he makes me laugh, which is not an easy feat, and that’s just on top of the amazing sex. But more than that, he makes me feel like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. Never once, not even for a second, did I feel insecure about my body. He constantly had his arm around me or was holding my hand, kissing me. Listening to everything I said and giving me great conversation. I think we talked the entire weekend; never once did it feel forced or uncomfortable.
He’s going.
I exhale as reality begins to seep through my bones. The man I was away with doesn’t really exist. He is a very small piece of who Tristan Miles is. Sadly, my first instincts are in fact his reality, and even though we’ve had an amazing time together . . .
It ends here.
I can’t even fathom being with someone like him long term.
We take the elevator to level one, and he’s quiet too.
“This is me.” I smile as we get to my car.
I pop the trunk, and he puts my suitcase in and turns to me.
Now it’s awkward . . . now it feels forced.
“Thank you so much for a great weekend.” I smile.
He takes me into his arms. “Are you sure you can’t stay at my house tonight? It is late.”
I give him a sad smile. “I have to get home to the boys.”
He nods and inhales sharply.
We stare at each other, and it’s as if we both have something to say but are holding our tongues.
“Goodbye.”
He kisses me, long and deep. Our eyes close at the contact. He holds my face in his hands, and my feet float from the floor. “Call me when you get home so I know you got there safe?” He pushes my hair behind my shoulders.
“Okay.” I smile up at him.
With one last big hug and another kiss, he lets me go, and I climb into my car.
He puts his hands into his jeans pockets as I pull out, and with one last sad wave, I drive off. My eyes watch him in the rearview mirror as I drive toward the exit of the parking lot. He’s standing still and watching my car disappear.
“Goodbye, Tristan.” I sigh. All good things come to an end . . . damn it.
Why do you have to be him?
An hour later I pull into the driveway at home.
I sit and stare at it for a while. There’s a bike on the porch and a basketball left on the ground near the hoop. Shoes are scattered everywhere, and no matter how many times I tell them to pack their crap away, it always looks like this.
I smile at the familiarity. I’m home.
I pick up my phone and text Tristan.
Arrived home, safe and sound.
xoxox
I climb out of the car, and the front door flies open. Patrick and Harry come flying out. “Hello.” I laugh. They both nearly tackle me to the ground as they wrap their arms around me.
“Hello, my darlings. I missed you.” I cuddle them both and squeeze them tight.
“Did you bring us presents?” Patrick asks.
“Yes, hello, Mom,” I correct him.
“Hello, Mom,” Patrick repeats.
“Mom, Fletcher is out of control,” Harry says. “He didn’t rinse the dishes before he put them in the dishwasher, and now it’s clogged.”
“Oh.” I frown as I pop the trunk.
“Him and Grandma are trying to fix it now.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” I mutter as I grab my suitcase. Harry takes it from me and starts to pull it up the driveway.
“Let me do it,” Patrick says.
“No,” Harry snaps. “You’re too little.”
“I am not too little,” Patrick yells at the top of his voice as he swings a punch at his brother.
Harry pushes Patrick, and he falls over. “Oww. Mom, he pushed me!” he yells.
I roll my eyes. Ugh. I haven’t missed their bickering. “Shh, it’s late,” I whisper. “Keep your voice down. Poor Mrs. Reynolds will wake up.”
I glance up at the window next door. If the truth be known, Mrs. Reynolds is already watching us. She knows what happens in the street before it actually happens.
We walk up to the front porch. “Why are everyone’s shoes everywhere?” I ask. “The shoebox is for shoes.”
For God’s sake. I stop and throw all the shoes into the shoebox as the boys continue dragging my suitcase into the house. We must look like slobs to the rest of the street.
Every day, fifteen pairs of shoes are scattered everywhere. Every single night, I put them all back into the shoebox. Yeesh.
I walk into the house and through the living area out to the kitchen and frown as I take in the sight.
The dishwasher is pulled out from the wall, and Fletcher is on his back underneath it.
There are tools scattered all over the kitchen floor, and he is shining the flashlight on his phone up into it. “Hi, Mom,” he calls. “I’m fixing the dishwasher.”
“Great.” I frown at my mother. “Does he know what he’s doing?” I mouth.
“No.” She widens her eyes and shrugs. “He doesn’t.”
God.
“How was it, love?” Mom smiles as she pulls me into a hug.
“It was wonderful. Thank you so much for watching the kids.” Woofy, our dog, comes flying around the corner with a huge cone on his head. “What the heck happened to Woofy?” I ask.
“Oh, he chased a squirrel under a metal fence and cut his back,” Mom says.
“Oh no. Is he okay?” I bend and pull my faithful friend’s face to mine. “Are you okay?” I ask him.
“Yes, but he got stitches, and now he needs to wear a cone so that he can’t chew them out.”
“Ugh, why didn’t you tell me over the phone?”
“Because we wanted you to relax. I’m going to take a shower, and then I want to hear everything.” She disappears upstairs.
“Okay.” I exhale heavily as I look around at the chaos.
“Where are my presents?” Patrick asks.
“They’re wrapped up. You can have them tomorrow. I have to unpack my entire suitcase to find them, and it’s too late now,” I say.
“Aww.” He frowns as he puts his hands on his hips in disgust. “I’ve been waiting up for this.”
“I thought you were waiting up for me.” I smirk as I tickle him and pull him into a hug.
“I was, really—I was just pretending.” He corrects himself for being insensitive.
I glance over and see Harry sitting on the couch. He never demands my attention but needs it more than anyone. I go and sit beside him, and Patrick flops on my lap.
“What have I missed, Harry?” I ask.
“Everything,” he says, clearly unimpressed. “You’ve been gone too long, and I don’t want you going away again. I was getting out of control at school with you not here.”
I smile and mess up his hair. “Okay, no more trips.”
“Do you promise?” he asks.
“I promise.”
Fletcher climbs up from underneath the dishwasher and turns it on. “I fixed it, Mom,” he announces.
I smile. Fletcher likes to fix things. I think he thinks that’s what he should do as the man of the house. “Thanks, buddy.” I hold my arms out for him, and he comes and hugs me. “I missed you.” I squeeze him tight. “Thanks for taking care of everyone.”
I’m not joking; I’m really not going away again. I missed them desperately.
The dishwasher begins to churn, and Fletcher smiles proudly. “Told you I fixed it.”
“I never had any doubts.” I smile.
“Harry and Patrick, upstairs to clean your teeth. I’ll come up in a moment. You have school tomorrow.”
They moan and walk upstairs.
Fletcher packs up all the tools into the toolbox. “I’m taking them out to the garage.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
He disappears outside.
I go to the bathroom and then turn the television channel. I’m walking over to the fridge when I feel something wet on my foot. Huh?
I glance down, and my eyes widen in horror.
Water is flying out of the bottom of the dishwasher; the entire floor is flooded, and it is running into the next room.
“Ahh!” I yell. “Fletcher. Turn the water off.” He doesn’t reply, and I run to the linen closet and grab whatever I can to stop the house from flooding. “Fletcher!” I scream as I throw blankets onto the floor. “Quick.”
He appears, and his face falls in horror as he sees the flooding.
“Don’t just stand there!” I yell. “Turn the water off.”
He runs outside.
The water is spurting out of the bottom of the dishwasher now like a fire hose.
The kitchen is four inches deep, and the living area carpet is all wet too.
What the fuck did he do? “Ahh,” I cry as I try to make a dam so it won’t go farther.
The water turns off, and I pant as I work fast to try to stop the carnage.
Fletcher comes running back in. “What do I do?”
“Get some towels; help me mop this up, honey.” He runs off, and we get to work.
“What the hell happened?” I hear Mom cry. I look to the top of the stairs and see my mother sopping wet and wrapped in a towel with a headful of shampoo. “I can’t rinse off the shampoo. The water stopped. What am I supposed to do now?” she cries.
For fuck’s sake.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Back to reality.
It’s Monday morning, and I walk into the office. I can hardly wipe the satisfied grin from my face.
“Well, hello there.” Marley smirks as she looks me up and down. “Look at you, all glowy and shit?”
I pull her into a hug. “Thank you for forcing me to go. You were right; I really needed it.”
“You liked it?” She frowns in surprise.
“I loved it. I even booked in for next year.”
“Yes.” She pumps her fist. “I fucking knew you would love that motivational shit.”
“Who knew?” I smile and walk past her into my office and take a seat.
“Do you want a coffee?” Marley calls.
“Umm . . .” I frown as I dig my phone out of my bag.
“You’re going to need it. You have like a thousand emails to answer.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, okay, thanks.”
I plug my phone in to charge, and the screen lights up.
Five missed calls, Tristan.
Shit, when did he call me? I scroll through to the missed calls. Last night.
Hmm. I was so exhausted after I mopped up the lake-size flood in the house, and by the time the emergency plumber left, I didn’t even check my phone.
Oh well. I turn it on silent, put it down, and boot up my computer. I smile broadly. I honestly feel like I haven’t been here for a month. So rejuvenated.
My stomach growls, and I glance at my watch. Eleven thirty. Marley was right; I haven’t even come up for air this morning.
A knock sounds at the door, and I glance up at it. Where’s Marley?
“Come in,” I call.
I keep reading an email, then glance up to see Tristan standing there. Navy suit, pale-pink shirt, and crimson tie—looking as gorgeous as can be. “Tristan,” I stammer. “What are you doing here?”
He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “Well, you’re not answering my calls, so I had no choice.” He walks over to me and bends and kisses my lips.
I jerk back from him. “What are you doing?”
“Kissing you hello.”
“Don’t.”
“Why not?” He frowns.
“Tristan.” I stare at him for a moment. He can’t be serious. “The dirty weekend was just that. One weekend. I don’t want anything with you.”
