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“Holy fuck . . . he’s hot,” Marley whispers. “Shut up,” I stammer, in a panic that he will hear her. “Act fucking cool, will you?”
I hate my hand without his ring. I hate my life without his love.
He’s dead enough that I’m lonely . . . but alive enough that I can’t fathom moving on.
“Claire Anderson,” he calls from the stage. My horrified eyes meet his. “Sit back down.” “I . . .” I take another step toward the exit. “Claire,” he warns. I glance around at the 120 pairs of eyes fixed firmly on me and then back up at him. “I said sit. Back. Down.”
Screw this; I’m out of here. My only goal for today is to get a massage and drink two liters of champagne.
Tristan Miles is chocolate. Rich, delicious, and dreamy, he offers a high . . . but in the end, he is detrimental to your health and bad to the bone.
“Be a good boy, and you might get what you want.” He smiles darkly. “Or be a bad boy, and take it anyway.”
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.
“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.”
“No, it’s not okay. It will never be okay. It’s the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever witnessed. You can’t work there; I forbid it.”
“Call me in two hours,” he replies. “Why would I do that?” His dark eyes hold mine. “Because I’ve never needed to please a woman as much as I crave to please you . . . let me.”
He frowns and leans forward. “Claire . . . I’ve never just fucked you. Never once have we just fucked,” he whispers.
