“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.