The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)

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.