“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.
All bets are off.
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?”