The Takeover (The Miles High Club)

by T L Swan

  “Did it hurt?” I smirk into my wineglass.

  “Why don’t you let me help you?”

  “And how would you do that?”

  “I could buy fifty percent of Anderson Media and take over half the debt. We could work together. I could even be a silent partner, if that’s what you prefer.”

  “What?” I frown. This is the first time he’s ever mentioned anything like this.

  “I’m serious. I have the contacts, and we could really build it up for the boys.”

  I stare at him.

  “And then”—he sips his drink casually—“when you got back on your feet, you could buy my portion back from me.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Of course, anything for you. You know that.”

  I frown and sip my drink.

  “Claire Anderson,” the familiar voice says from behind my back.

  Fucking hell.

  I turn and see Tristan standing beside the table. “Oh, hi,” I stammer. I look between Gabriel and Tristan as they glare at each other.

  “Drinking on a school night?” he asks.

  “She’s on a date with me,” Gabriel snaps.

  Tristan smiles sarcastically and pulls up a stool, as if undertaking a silent dare.

  “Is that so?” He sits down and turns his attention to me.

  The blood begins to drain from my face . . . get me out of here.

  “Ah, Tristan, do you know Gabriel?” I ask nervously.

  Tristan smiles and puts his hand out to shake Gabriel’s hand. “Hello, I’m Tristan Miles.”

  Gabriel glares at him but doesn’t shake his hand. “I know who you are.”

  Tristan smiles broadly and winks at him. “No handshake?”

  Arrogance personified.

  Fuck.

  He’s my son’s boss. I have to be civil, and he knows it. Bastard.

  “Tristan, if you don’t mind . . . we are in the middle of a business meeting,” I reply.

  “I thought you were on a date?” he replies calmly.

  “She is. We are,” Gabriel fires back.

  Tristan steeples his hands in front of him, as if amused. His eyes are alight with troublemaking mischief.

  “What do you want, Tristan?” I snap.

  “I need to talk to you, Claire.”

  “About?”

  He sips his drink, clearly amused at his bastardly arrogance. “Fletcher.”

  “What the fuck do you want to talk about Fletcher for?” Gabriel snaps.

  Tristan turns his attention back to Gabriel. “Do you mind with the coarse language? Fletcher is my intern, and I need to speak to his mother. So if you don’t mind . . .”

  “Fletcher is . . . ?” Gabriel’s face falls. “Fletcher is working for Miles? Why, Claire?” he gasps.

  “He wanted to work for the best.” Tristan smiles sweetly. His eyes hold Gabriel’s in a silent dare.

  I haven’t seen Tristan Miles in full swing yet. He’s so arrogant that it’s a joke, and I hate to admit it.

  It’s fucking hot.

  “You want to talk to me now?” I ask.

  “Yes. Now.” He looks over at Gabriel. “Goodbye. This particular meeting is of a private nature.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Gabriel snaps.

  Tristan’s eyes come back to mine. “I could always come to see you in your office tomorrow, Claire . . . on your desk.”

  “You mean at her desk,” Gabriel replies.

  Tristan gives me a slow, sexy smile. “I know what I meant.”

  Oh . . . fuck a duck.

  I feel the blood drain from my face. He’s going to let Gabriel know that we’ve been together. Shit. I need to diffuse this situation right now before there’s an all-out fight. “Gabriel, just give me ten minutes to speak to Tristan about Fletcher. Why don’t you go and order us some more drinks?”

  They glare at each other for what feels like forever, and finally Gabriel stands. “You have five minutes,” he warns him.

  Tristan smiles, unfazed by the threat, and then he turns his attention to me. His face drops, and he stares at me flatly.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He sits forward, unable to hide his anger. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m having a drink with a friend.”

  “You’re friends with Gabriel Ferrara?” he scoffs.

  “Yes, I am, actually,” I fire back.

  He sips his drink as he glares at me. “What kind of friend, Claire?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “So let me get this straight: you don’t want to see me because of what I do for a living . . . but you are—”

  I cut him off. “I don’t want to see you because you’re a coward.”

  “How the fuck am I coward?”

  “One meeting with my children, and you run for the hills,” I blurt out before I put my brain-to-mouth filter on.

  He clenches his fists, barely able to control his anger. “You told me you didn’t want to see me before I even met your children. Do not fucking lie to me, Claire,” he growls.

  I sit back, affronted. I hate that he can see through me.

  “I know who the coward is here, Claire, and it isn’t fucking me.”

  “You arrogant prick. Have you ever considered that maybe I just don’t like you?”

  “No. I haven’t. Because I know you do.”

  I screw up my face in disgust. “I know that you think that every woman in the world is in love with you, but I can assure you, Mr. Miles, I am not.”

  His eyes hold mine, and he gives me a slow, sexy smile, as if he knows a secret.

  “What?”

  He leans in so that only I can hear him. “I know for a fact that if I wanted to take you home, I could have you riding my cock all night.”

  I get a vision of myself naked and on top of him, his thick body deep inside of mine, and my body clenches in appreciation.

  “The hell you could,” I sneer.

  He leans closer and puts his lips to my ear. His breath sends goose bumps down my spine. “It wouldn’t bother you that I didn’t like your children if you didn’t want me.”

  I clench my jaw, annoyed with myself for saying that out loud. “Fuck you.”

  He smiles darkly. “Admit it, Anderson; you think about me . . . just as much as I think about you.”

  Shocked by his admission, I swallow the lump in my throat. “You think about me?” I whisper.

  “All the fucking time. You’re driving me insane.”

  Electricity buzzes between us . . . and I hate that it does.

  “On that note”—he stands—“I’ll let you get back to your date.”

  Don’t go.

  “It’s not a date. He’s just a friend,” I blurt out.

  Our eyes lock. “Prove it.”

  The air between us is heavy with anger and want; it’s a heady combination.

  “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.”

  I get a vision of his head between my legs, his thick tongue taking what it needs from me, and arousal begins to heat my blood.

  I don’t want to want him . . . but God, I really do.

  This isn’t good.

  Without another word, he turns and walks off, back to his friends on the other side of the bar.

  I stare into the space he just left. Every cell in my body is tingling, every inch of me craving what he has to give.

  Good God, the devil really does wear Prada.

  I’m totally fucking screwed.

  Chapter 12

  I take deep breaths as I try to ignore the feelings that Tristan Miles arouses in me.

  Maybe that’s it—it’s just a bad-boy thing.

  Yes, all women experience this at least once in their lives. I’m just doing it a little later than most.

  Of
course.

  That is totally it. Why didn’t I realize this before?

  I know I shouldn’t want him, and so therefore I do. Maybe if he were the perfect model citizen, I wouldn’t even want him at all.

  I sip my wine in celebration about my epiphany. God . . . and I thought I really liked him. Stupid idiot. This is actually a relief.

  My phone vibrates on the table as it receives a text. Tristan. Here we go.

  Let me guess,

  Gabriel Ferrara is offering to

  help you financially?

  I frown. What? Angered, I text back.

  Gabriel is a good friend.

  I’m offended.

  Stop texting me before I block you.

  A reply bounces back.

  If you block me, who’s going to

  nail you through the mattress tonight?

  I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling. I write back.

  I am on a date with another man.

  I wouldn’t get too cocky if I were you.

  An answer bounces back.

  You don’t like him,

  I know you don’t.

  I roll my eyes; the arrogance of this man is next level.

  Okay Siri,

  if you say so.

  I smirk as I hit send.

  Siri?

  I glance over to see him sitting on a stool, smirking back as he texts me.

  Bastard. I like this game, and I really shouldn’t. I reply.

  Well you seem to know everything,

  so I assume you moonlight as Siri.

  I look over to see him smile broadly as he reads my text. I bite the inside of my cheek as I act uninterested.

  Lose the prick

  and come buy me a drink.

  I giggle before I can stop myself. Of all the nerve.

  I don’t buy random men drinks.

  Jealous?

  I glance over to see him smiling as he texts back.

  Of him?

  You must be joking.

  And you will do whatever I say.

  Make it Scotch.

  My eyes glance over to the bar at Gabriel as he waits. This is insane. I feel so naughty. I write back.

  You are delusional and strange.

  When I’m delusional I just

  imagine I’m in Hawaii

  drinking Mimosas.

  Scotch is not a dream drink.

  Gabriel walks back through the crowd with our two drinks and places them on the table. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.”

  He takes a seat. “Are you serious?”

  “Gabriel.” I sigh. Here we go—an hour-long lecture. “Fletcher wanted to work for them.”

  “Why wouldn’t he come and work for me?” he snaps. “I’m offended. Ferrara Media is where he should be.”

  “He applied without me even knowing. I have to let him choose his path.”

  “With him?” he snaps again.

  My phone beeps with a text. I glance at the screen.

  That’s a great idea,

  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?

  “Go out there, and tell him you’re leaving,” he says as he straightens my skirt and tucks in my blouse.

  “I’m finishing my drink, and then I will.”

  He kisses me tenderly; his lips linger over mine. “Stay at my house.”

  “No, I have a room booked.”

  “Where?”

  “The Edison at Times Square.”

  “Meet you there. Tell the desk that your husband is picking up a key.”

  I nod, unable to verbally agree to this lunacy. My voice box must know that this is a bad idea.

  He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, smiles, and kisses me once more. He really is a gorgeous man—there’s no denying it.

  “It’s good to see you, Anderson,” he whispers.

  I smile softly up at the forbidden fruit . . . it’s so good to see you.

  His dark eyes hold mine. “I can’t fucking wait to get you naked.”

  He turns and, without another word, walks back out into the bar as if nothing has happened.

  I stare after him. My hair is messed up, and my body is tingling from head to toe. My chest rises and falls as I try to regain my composure. Jesus, what did I just agree to?

  Tristan fucking Miles.

  I switch the channel on the television and glance at the clock. Where is he?

  It’s been over an hour. I raced back to my hotel room, showered, and got all irresistible, and now he hasn’t even come . . . what if he doesn’t show up?

  My eyes widen in horror as a possibility comes to mind. What if he was just pulling a power play to prove that he can have me if he wants me? No . . . he wouldn’t.

  Oh my God, he totally would . . . it’s Tristan. What did I expect?

  I hear the door click, and I quickly rearrange myself in the bed.

  He’s lucky.

  The door opens, and he closes it behind him. He turns, and then his eyes float over my naked body. He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “Anderson.”

  I’m lying on the bed, naked, my legs slightly parted. If I’m going to do this whore-bag thing, I’m going hard core. Don’t mess with me tonight, fucker; you have something I need.

  You’re going down . . . literally.