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.