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.

“You love me?” I whisper.

“So much.” He smiles against my lips.

My heart free-falls from my chest. God . . . I love this man.

He unclips my garter belt and then slides my panties down, and I hover somewhere in heaven as I watch him . . . and then he does the unthinkable.

He drops to his knees in front of me and spreads my legs.

My breath catches. What’s he doing?

With his dark eyes locked to mine, he pulls me apart and licks me with his long thick tongue.

My body convulses. His eyes close in pleasure as he cleans me up.

My orgasm on his tongue.

I run my fingers through his hair as I watch him. He’s in a black dinner suit on his knees before me—a new arousal takes me over.

Deep and dangerously dark.

Holy hell . . . Tristan fucking Miles.

Chapter 20

The limo pulls into the large circular driveway, and I feel the nerves in my stomach dance. As if reading my mind, Tristan leans in and kisses my temple. “You look beautiful, Anderson.”

I blow out a deep breath. This meet-the-family thing is nerve-racking. The driver opens the door, and Tristan gets out and takes my hand to help me. The driveway and foyer are a hive of activity as the cars roll in one after the other. Beautiful people in black-tie attire are everywhere, and I am so glad that I let Marley talk me into getting that stylist.

My dress is black and fitted, and it has a big thick band that wraps around the top of it from the waist up, creating a strapless look. It’s understated and sexy. Tristan loves it and told me I’m to wear it every day. He even made our driver take photos of us before we climbed into the limo.

He leads me up the stairs and into the ballroom. People are doing double takes as they see us together. “Hi. Hello. Hello, Roger,” Tristan greets people as we walk through to the seating chart.

I smirk over at him.

“What?” he asks.

“You think you’re a rock star or something.”

“I am a fucking rock star, Anderson. When will you get with the program and realize it?” He gives me a sexy wink, and I smile broadly, happy to admit that I’m officially a groupie. He reads the board and looks for where we’re sitting. “Over here.”

My stomach flutters as I look to where he gestured and see his entire family sitting at the table.

Fuck . . . the blood drains from my face.

Meeting the family is always intimidating.

Meeting the Miles family is next-level terrifying. His father is one of the most respected men in New York, and his older brother, Jameson, is known for being one of the biggest assholes in the world. I catch a glimpse of Christopher and Elliot, and I feel slightly better—they’re really nice and not at all what I imagined. I’m glad that I at least know them. “Hello.” Tristan smiles broadly as we approach the table. “This is Claire Anderson.” He presents me like a prized pig.

“Hello.” I smile awkwardly.

“This is my father, George. My mother, Elizabeth. This is Jameson and Emily, and you know Elliot and Christopher.”