by T L Swan
“Suspended from school—what for?”
I roll my eyes. “For some reason, he’s under the impression that the teachers pick on him. One day he got a project back, and he thought he should have gotten a higher grade, and he got into a full-blown argument with his teacher.”
“So . . . he was cheeky?” Tris frowns.
“No.” I shake my head in embarrassment. “He opened the window and threw his assignment out of it in protest.”
Tristan’s eyes widen.
“But that’s not the worst of it. It accidently hit a janitor who was walking past and scratched his head. They thought he needed stitches. It was mortifying.”
Tristan bites his bottom lip as he tries to hide a smile.
“It was so embarrassing—you have no idea, Tristan.”
He sips his wine as he pulls a straight face. “I can imagine.”
I smile and rub my foot up his calf muscle. “Thank you.”
His eyes hold mine as his fingers draw a circle on my shoulder. “For what?”
“For making the trek out to see me every night.” I shrug bashfully. “I know you hate the couch.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Well . . . I hate being at home without you more.”
I smile and lean in and put my head on his shoulder. It’s so nice having someone . . . wonderful, actually. He kisses my forehead, and we go back to watching television and our blissful silence. He doesn’t even have to talk to me.
Him just being here is enough to make me happy.
“You know, as I was walking in here today, a bowerbird swooped at my balls.”
I sit up with a frown. “A what?”
“A bowerbird.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes at my apparent stupidity. “Everyone knows what a bowerbird is, Claire. I suggest you google it.”
I stare at him in question, and after a while he replies, “A bowerbird collects blue things, Claire.” He raises an eyebrow as he waits for me to get it.
Oh . . . he’s telling me he has blue balls. I smirk. “Whatever.”
“Tristan,” a voice calls out from the kitchen.
He smiles as his eyes widen. “Did you hear that?” he whispers.
“What?” I frown.
He raises his eyebrows as he waits for it, and eventually, the voice calls out again. “Tristan.”
“That’s the first time he’s ever said my name.”
“Harry’s never said your name?” I frown.
He gives a subtle shake of his head.
“Tristan,” Harry calls.
Tristan smiles broadly. “Yes, Wiz, what is it?”
“Can you help us for a minute, please?”
He raises his eyebrows in excitement at being needed. “Coming.” He jumps up and makes his way into the kitchen. I listen to them talking about the diameter of a part that they are trying to work out. Tristan seems to think that it’s put together backward, and they are in a deep discussion about the pros and cons of pulling it back apart and starting that piece again.
As I listen, I find myself smiling like a goofball at the television.
Happiness is to be loved by you.
“Let him in,” Tristan says over the phone. He glances over at me and gives me a sexy wink as he hangs up. “Your hairdresser is here, Ms. Anderson,” he teases.
“Oh God.” I put my head into my hands in dismay. “This seems . . .”
“Normal.” He kisses my temple as he walks past me and into the living area. “I’m going to go out for a while and leave you to it.”
“Where are you going?” I frown. It feels weird being in his apartment without him.
“I’m meeting Elliot and Christopher at a bar to watch the game. I’ll be back around six. We leave around six forty-five.”
That will give me time to wash off the makeup and hair before he gets back if I don’t like it. “Okay.” I smile.
He kisses me softly. His lips linger over mine, and I hold him tight. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”
“Just for you to come home.”
A knock sounds at the door.
He hugs me tight with a big smile. “Goodbye.” He opens the door in a rush, and we are both taken aback.
The hairdresser is male . . . and hot. Like stupid hot.
He’s European, in his early thirties, and has blue tight jeans and a black T-shirt on. He’s muscular and fit looking.
Tristan’s eyes flick to me in horror, and I smile goofily. I know exactly what he’s thinking. “Hello.” He holds out his hand to shake the man’s. “Tristan Miles.”
“Hi, I’m Marcello,” the man replies in a heavy accent as he shakes his head. “I’m here to style Claire.”
“Hello, that’s me.” I shake his hand.
He looks me up and down and rubs his hands together playfully. “Oh . . . this is going to be so fun.”
Tristan looks at him deadpan and then at me. “No . . . this is going to be completely funless for you . . . or else,” he mutters dryly.
Marcello laughs. “Oh . . . so possessive of his woman. I love that.”
Tristan’s jaw clenches, and I giggle as Marcello grabs my shoulders and turns me away from him. “Goodbye. She will be beautiful for you when you return.”
“She already is,” Tristan snaps, unimpressed. “And I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right out here.” He flops onto the couch in disgust.
I giggle. He’s actually ruffled . . . I love it.
“Through here.” I guide Marcello to Tristan’s en suite bathroom, and he puts his two big bags on the floor. He looks me up and down again. He sits me in the chair and gives me a broad smile.
“Let us begin.”
Three hours later I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I hardly recognize myself.
My dark hair is set into Hollywood curls, and my makeup is out of this world. It’s all gold and bronze with fanned eyelashes and big red lips. I look like a movie star or something. It’s . . . just wow.
I’m in a black lace strapless bra and panties with a garter belt and Tristan’s oversize white shirt open and over the top. I’ll put my dress on soon. Tristan is getting ready in the other bathroom. I heard him come home about half an hour ago. My eyes roam over my face and hair and down over my curves in the sexy lingerie, and I smile at my reflection. I’ve never seen myself look like this, and damn it, I’m going to make more of an effort moving forward.
Tristan loves me motherly . . . but hell, he deserves sexy. And I’m going to try my hardest to be that for him.
He loves me.
It’s funny, you know—Tris has never said those elusive three words. But he doesn’t have to. I already know that he loves me. Every action, every message, every effort he makes to get along with my sons only cements our feelings. The tenderness in his touch is like an open book, and words are irrelevant between us.
Despite our different worlds and rocky beginning, we have a beautiful relationship, and I am utterly in love with the beautiful man that he is.
The door opens, and he comes into view. He frowns and inhales sharply, as if seeing me for the first time. “Claire,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
He’s wearing a black dinner suit, a crisp white shirt, and black bow tie. His dark hair has a slight curl to it, just enough to give it that perfect just-fucked style. He has the squarest jaw and dark-pink and full kissable lips, and his big brown eyes hold mine as he steps forward and takes me into his arms.
Without saying a word, he takes my face into his hands and kisses me. His tongue explores my open mouth, and his hands undo the tie on the dressing gown.
I smile against his lips. I love that he has to touch me.
He steps back. His eyes roam down my lingerie-clad body, and when they rise to meet mine, they are blazing with desire. “Fuck,” he murmurs.
As if something snaps inside of him, he pushes me back to the counter and lifts me to sit on top of it. He lifts my foot onto the countertop, and he
stands between my open legs as his lips take mine. “You look fucking edible, Anderson,” he murmurs against my lips.
As he kisses me, I open my eyes to see that his are closed.
He’s completely lost in the moment, right here with me.
His hand roams over my breasts and down my stomach, down over my garter belt, and down to my panties.
“Are you wet for me?” he asks.
He puts his hand down the front of my panties and finds that sweet spot between my legs. His eyes flicker with arousal as he slides three thick fingers deep into my sex.
My back arches as he holds me tight. “We need to go,” I whimper.
He watches me as his fingers again slide in deep. “No.” He pumps me hard. “You need to come.”
My head tips back as his strong fingers get to work. The sound of my arousal sucking him in and out echoes around the room, and his dark eyes watch my helpless face.
He’s rough, so rough . . . and I shudder as my foot on the counter lifts and hangs in the air.
His kiss is aggressive, his fingers strong. My legs are up on his chest.
But it’s his eyes that get me . . . locked on mine, with such a tenderness behind them.
“I love you, Claire,” he whispers. My heart collapses.
Sensory overload—the best kind of sensory overload. Emotional and physical.
He kisses me softly, with a strong pump of his hand, and all my senses crash as I come hard.
With one hand, he holds my face to his; with his other he tenderly lets me ride out the high.
“You love me?” I whisper.
“So much.” He smiles against my lips.
My heart free-falls from my chest. God . . . I love this man.
He unclips my garter belt and then slides my panties down, and I hover somewhere in heaven as I watch him . . . and then he does the unthinkable.
He drops to his knees in front of me and spreads my legs.
My breath catches. What’s he doing?
With his dark eyes locked to mine, he pulls me apart and licks me with his long thick tongue.
My body convulses. His eyes close in pleasure as he cleans me up.
My orgasm on his tongue.
I run my fingers through his hair as I watch him. He’s in a black dinner suit on his knees before me—a new arousal takes me over.
Deep and dangerously dark.
Holy hell . . . Tristan fucking Miles.
Chapter 20
The limo pulls into the large circular driveway, and I feel the nerves in my stomach dance. As if reading my mind, Tristan leans in and kisses my temple. “You look beautiful, Anderson.”
I blow out a deep breath. This meet-the-family thing is nerve-racking. The driver opens the door, and Tristan gets out and takes my hand to help me. The driveway and foyer are a hive of activity as the cars roll in one after the other. Beautiful people in black-tie attire are everywhere, and I am so glad that I let Marley talk me into getting that stylist.
My dress is black and fitted, and it has a big thick band that wraps around the top of it from the waist up, creating a strapless look. It’s understated and sexy. Tristan loves it and told me I’m to wear it every day. He even made our driver take photos of us before we climbed into the limo.
He leads me up the stairs and into the ballroom. People are doing double takes as they see us together. “Hi. Hello. Hello, Roger,” Tristan greets people as we walk through to the seating chart.
I smirk over at him.
“What?” he asks.
“You think you’re a rock star or something.”
“I am a fucking rock star, Anderson. When will you get with the program and realize it?” He gives me a sexy wink, and I smile broadly, happy to admit that I’m officially a groupie. He reads the board and looks for where we’re sitting. “Over here.”
My stomach flutters as I look to where he gestured and see his entire family sitting at the table.
Fuck . . . the blood drains from my face.
Meeting the family is always intimidating.
Meeting the Miles family is next-level terrifying. His father is one of the most respected men in New York, and his older brother, Jameson, is known for being one of the biggest assholes in the world. I catch a glimpse of Christopher and Elliot, and I feel slightly better—they’re really nice and not at all what I imagined. I’m glad that I at least know them. “Hello.” Tristan smiles broadly as we approach the table. “This is Claire Anderson.” He presents me like a prized pig.
“Hello.” I smile awkwardly.
“This is my father, George. My mother, Elizabeth. This is Jameson and Emily, and you know Elliot and Christopher.”
They all stand. George shakes my hand. “Hello, Claire, lovely to meet you.”
His mother kisses my cheek. “Hello, dear, so glad you could join us.”
I smile awkwardly, and Emily grabs me into an embrace and chuckles. “I am absolutely thrilled to meet you,” she gasps.
I giggle into the embrace . . . okay, she isn’t what I imagined.
Jameson smiles and then leans in and kisses my cheek. “Lovely to meet you, Claire. I’ve heard so many good things.” He gives me a genuine smile, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Oh, thank God . . . he’s not as scary as I thought.
“Just so you all know, I am Claire’s favorite Miles. Just putting it out there,” Christopher says as he raises his champagne glass to me.
“Actually, I am,” Tristan replies deadpan as he pulls my chair out.
I smile and take a seat next to Emily.
Tristan sits beside me and takes my hand on my lap for reassurance.
I love him.
“So, Claire,” George addresses me as the group listens in. “You own Anderson Media?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Very impressive.”
“Thank you.”
He smiles warmly. “I knew your husband. He was a good man.”
“He was.”
“I attended his funeral. It was a beautiful service.”
I smile sadly, wishing the conversation hadn’t gone this way.
Tristan squeezes my hand, and I gratefully squeeze it back.
Elizabeth changes the subject. “So you have children?”
Oh fuck . . . this is the night from hell. “Yes.” I smile. “Three boys.”
“How do they like Tristan?” Christopher laughs. “I hope they’re giving him a run for his money.”
“It would be payback if they did,” George mutters dryly. “He was a coot of a kid.”
The group laughs, and I feel a little more at ease.
“Do you want to go and get a drink?” Tristan asks me.
“Yes, please,” I answer a little too eagerly.
“I’ll come,” Emily says. She’s attractive and lovely—naturally beautiful and refreshingly unpretentious.
We stand and make our way to the bar. “What do you want, babe?” Tris asks.
“Fucking anything,” I whisper back.
“Okay, drunk and disorderly in front of my parents, coming right up,” he replies.
I grab his hand and pull him back to me as he goes to walk off. “On second thought, one drink. Don’t let me drink any more than that. Being drunk here is my worst nightmare.”
He and Emily chuckle, and he turns to her. “What do you want, Em?”
“Bubbles, please.”
Tristan disappears to the bar, leaving me alone with Emily. “It’s pretty nerve-racking meeting them, isn’t it?” Emily says.
Relief fills me—she’s normal. “God, I know. I’m so nervous.”
She takes my hand. “Don’t be; they’re really lovely. Not at all what you think.”
“Thanks.” I smile gratefully. “So . . .” I frown. “You’re married?”
“Yes, Jay and I got married three months ago.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” She smiles. “Still in the honeymoon phase. Tristan told me that you li
ve on Long Island?”
“Yes, it’s a ways out of New York but great for the boys.”
“Oh, well, we live in New Jersey.”
“Really?” I ask in surprise.
“We stay in New York maybe two nights a week at most. I wanted to get Jay out of the city and into a more relaxed lifestyle.”
“He’s stressed?” I frown.
“God.” She rolls her eyes. “Massively. His workload is ridiculous. He’s a lot better since we got married, and he works from home on Fridays now.”
I stare at her in a state of shock. This is not what I expected at all. The Miles Media group has always seemed so invincible . . . never in a million years would I imagine the CEO is battling stress, although it’s totally understandable that he is.
Tristan reappears with our drinks and puts his arm around me and kisses my temple. “Are you all right?”
I nod. “Thanks.”
“Well, there’s an ugly face if I ever saw one,” I hear a deep English male voice say.
We all turn to see two men walking toward us. One is blond and gorgeous. The other is tall, dark, and handsome. “Hey.” Tristan laughs out loud as he pulls them into an embrace.
My eyes flick to Emily, and she laughs too.
The three men laugh, and then Tristan introduces us. “Claire, please meet Spencer Jones and Sebastian Garcia, my friends from London. And you both know Emily. Jameson and Sebastian met in Italy at college.”
“I’ve been trying to get rid of them ever since.” Sebastian smiles with a wink.
Tristan puts his hand on my shoulder and pulls me close, and Emily laughs. “How are my favorite London villains?” she asks.
It’s obvious she knows them quite well.
“Very well,” Spencer replies. He has this boyish-charm thing going on. He turns his attention back to Tristan. “Where have you been?”
“I’ve been here,” Tristan replies. He tips his champagne glass toward me. “With Claire.”
Sebastian’s eyes come to me, and then he snaps his fingers, as if remembering something. “Did you two meet in France?”
“This is her.” Tristan smiles broadly. Wait . . . what? He’s told them about me?
