Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
My cheeks hurt from laughing, and the heat of the alcohol haze warms my face.
This is our sixth winery, the final destination of our tour, and it’s just ten o’clock at night.
With each winery, we’ve gotten sillier and sillier. The bus pulled up out front here, and we all nearly fell out of it as we laughed out loud. We’ve had such a fun day.
Who knew this conference would be fun? I most certainly wasn’t expecting it.
My eyes go to the man sitting alone at the bar. Tristan.
We’ve only spoken in a group today, and although our eyes lingered on each other across the circle, not a word has been said about our kiss last night.
“Let’s keep going for dessert and port,” Jada says. “We’ll go to the brewery.”
The group laughs and starts chattering as they make plans to move on, but my eyes stay firmly fixed on him as he sits alone.
Screw it . . . just go talk to him. There’s no harm in talking to him, and besides, I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps he has a different side than what I first perceived.
Although, that could just be the wine talking. The group continues to chatter and laugh, and I take a deep breath and walk over to him at the bar. “Is this seat taken?” I ask.
His eyes come to me, and a trace of a smile crosses his lips. “Be my guest.”
I sit down on the stool beside him at the bar, and the waiter approaches me. “What will it be?”
“I’ll have another glass of champagne, please.”
“Sure.” His eyes flick to Tristan. “Another scotch?”
“Please.” Tristan stares straight ahead, with his hands clasped in front of him. “Took your time, Anderson,” he says.
“What does that mean?”
He glances at his fancy watch. “It’s ten p.m.”
“Well, if it’s too late to talk, I’ll leave,” I tease. I go to stand.
“Sit. Down.” He smirks. “You’re lucky it’s a quiet night.”
The bartender puts the champagne down in front of me, and I pick it up as I try to hide my smile. “Who’s lucky?”
He chuckles and taps his glass on mine. “To Épernay.”
“To Épernay,” I whisper. Our eyes lock, and I sip my champagne. It’s cold and bubbly and starts a fire inside of me.
With his eyes fixed firmly on mine, he licks the scotch from his lips. “You should probably stop looking at me like that.”
Electricity buzzes between us as everyone else in the room disappears.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to fucking eat me.”
My stomach flutters. “That’s very presumptuous, Mr. Miles.”
“Call me Tristan.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling. I like this game. “I’ll call you whatever I like,” I mouth.
He inhales sharply and rearranges his crotch.
Watching him touch his dick does something to my insides, and my sex begins to throb.
“What makes you think that I want to eat you?” I whisper.
His eyes drop to my lips. “Because I want to eat you, and it’s manners to reciprocate.”
I giggle at his audacity. “I don’t have very good manners, I’m afraid.”
In slow motion, he picks up his chunky crystal glass and smiles as he puts it to his lips. “So . . . this martyr thing works for you?”
“How am I a martyr?”
“Well.” He shrugs casually. “You keep telling me that you’re not attracted to me, and yet . . .”
“And yet what?” I whisper.
“And yet I can feel it,” he murmurs. “Your body is calling for mine.”
Our eyes lock as the air leaves my lungs.
“Every time I’m close to you, I can sense our bodies talking to each other. Don’t tell me you can’t feel it, because I know you can,” he whispers.
We stare at each other for an extended moment, the air swirling between us.
“Are you going to give her what she needs?” he asks as he lifts his glass to his lips.
I drop my head, rattled by his sixth sense. “I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not someone I . . .”
“Like?” he asks, amused.
I hold my tongue, not wanting to be rude.
“Relax, Anderson; you’re not someone that I would like either. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
I smile, relieved.
“But . . . what happens on tour stays on tour,” he adds.
My stomach flutters at the prospect of having secret sex with this man.
His focus moves to straight in front of him, as if he’s pondering something, and then he smiles darkly and takes a sip of his drink.
“What?” I ask.
“Well, you do know that one day, we are inevitability going to . . . fuck.”
I stare at him as a million pornographic pictures come to mind.
“An attraction like this doesn’t go away, Anderson.”
Goose bumps scatter up my arms; he does feel it too.
“So, as I see it . . . we can use the time away to our advantage.”
“Or?” I ask.
His dark eyes meet mine. “Or we can go back to New York until I eventually wear you down—for then I will fuck you on your desk. It will be hard and wet and messy, and who knows who might walk in on us.”