The Billionaire's Insatiable Hunger

Chapter 92

“Company plane.”

I stay silent as I think.

“Well?”

“Thank you for the roses,” I whisper to change the subject.

“That’s okay. They were being thrown out from reception, and I didn’t want to waste them. My good deed for the day.”

I smile at his appalling lie.

“Come on, Anderson; don’t make me beg.”

“Fine.”

“Fine... as in it’s a chore?” He scoffs. “At least act enthusiastic.”

“I can’t wait to spend the weekend underneath you, Mr. Miles.”

He laughs out loud. “That a girl. I’ll call you tomorrow with the flight times.”

“Okay.”

“Oh... and, Claire,” he says, as if it’s an afterthought.

“Yes.”

“Do your Kegel exercises tonight. I want that p***y nice and tight.”

I burst out laughing. “You are an idiot.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Goodbye, Tristan.” I smile.

The phone goes dead.

I throw my phone onto the stack of towels and put my hands over my mouth.

I was supposed to say no.

Oh jeez, that did not go to plan.

The plane pulls up to a slow halt on the tarmac at the Paris airport, and my nerves are at an all-time high. I already know that this is the stupidest thing I have ever done, and I haven’t even done it yet.

Anastacia, the flight attendant, smiles warmly. “I hope you had a good flight?”

“Yes. I did, thank you.”

I look around to see if I’ve left anything. The plane is, in one word, ridiculous. Luxurious on all fronts, and if I had forgotten for one moment who Tristan is, I have been promptly reminded.

A Miles.

Heir to the most successful media empire and from one of the wealthiest families in the world.

And a week ago... I hated his guts... and maybe I still do.

But there’s something about him that makes me want more.

I feel foolish being here. All it took was a few jokes and a little pity, and I fell into his arms and did the unthinkable. If I wanted a future with him, I would leave and play a little hard to get.

But I don’t.

I know what this is—one weekend away from routine, a sleazy conference encounter. And that’s okay with me. The reality of the situation is actually more than fine.

It’s a relief.

I don’t have to impress him, I don’t have to believe anything he says, and I most definitely don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not.

He’s fun and comfortable, and surprisingly he fits like an old shoe. His s****l prowess is just an added bonus.

My stomach drops as a wave of guilt runs through me for being here, for being sexually active with another man.

For loving every hard inch of him and then craving more.

It was supposed to be just one night.

I think back to what Marley said to me before I left. Shouldn’t I be living life for Wade and me?

If it were me who’d died, I would never want Wade to be untouched and unhappy.

I would want him to be happy and fulfilled as a man.

After we go home to New York on Sunday night, Tristan and I will never see each other again, and I can go home reinvigorated with enough s*x in the tank to last me another five years. To be honest, I’m kind of proud that I’m doing something for myself for once.

This is so unlike me.

“The car is waiting for you, Mrs. Anderson,” Anastacia says.

“Thank you.” I walk down the stairs and out onto the tarmac. A black car is waiting.

The driver smiles and opens the car door. “Merci,” I say as I get in.

He goes around to the driver’s side, gets in, and pulls out.

Tristan called earlier, and he couldn’t pick me up because his meeting ran late. He’s meeting me at the hotel. I smile as I think back to taking his call when I was sitting with his groupies, and none of them had any idea that he and I had hooked up.

It all feels so naughty.

So not who I am.

I clutch my handbag on my lap with white-knuckle force. My breath quivers as I try to calm myself down.

This is the craziest, most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done.

Half an hour later we pull into the hotel, and I peer out the window at the sign.

FOUR SEASONS HOTEL GEORGE V

Jeez, looks fancy.

“Arrived safely.” The driver smiles over at me.

I take my purse from my bag.

“No, no, it’s all taken care of,” he says as he gets out of the car. He retrieves my suitcase from the trunk and wheels it up to the doorman. He introduces me. “Mrs. Anderson.”

The man in a white doorman uniform smiles and nods. “This way, Mrs. Anderson,” he says.

“Merci,” I say to my driver as he returns to his car.

“Au revoir,” he calls.

The man leads me to the reception desk, and I look around. Everything is beige marble, and big exotic artwork lines the walls.

Huge vases of pink fresh flowers are everywhere, and I mean everywhere. It looks like an over-the-top wedding venue.

“May I help you?” the lady at reception asks.

“Yes. I’m here to see Tristan Miles.” I clutch my bag.

She types into her computer. “Your name, please?”

“Claire Anderson.”

“Yes,” she replies. “He’s expecting you. Do you have identification, please?”

I pass over my license, and she studies it and types my license number into the computer. She passes me a key. “You are in the Eiffel Tower Suite on level seven,” she says. “We can take you up if you would like?”

“No, that’s okay.” I smile. “I can go myself.” I take the elevator to level seven. Frigging hell, this hotel is next level. Even the damn elevator is fancy.

I let out a low, deep breath. I’m suddenly nervous. I fix my hair in the mirror, and the doors slide open.

Holy hell.

Lush carpet, chandeliers, and insane luxury... and this is just the corridor. I walk down until I get to the room number on the key. Do I knock?

No. Just go in.

I swipe my key and am hit in the face with a visual sensation. I feel the blood drain from my face.

It’s huge—not a room at all. A whole apartment of over-the-top wealth. A perfectly decorated beautiful space of creams and whites, with french doors going out onto a terrace that overlooks the Eiffel Tower. It’s like a movie, only better.

Holy... hell.

Huge silver-gilded mirrors hang on the walls, and there are white lounges... white? How the heck do they keep white lounges clean? I look around nervously. “Hello?” I call.

I can hear talking out on the terrace, so I put my handbag down and walk to the door. White overlong drapes hang on the french doors.

“Nous devons obtenir une réponse à ce sujet puis-je advancer a ce sujet cette semaine,” I hear. I peer out.

Tristan is on the phone out on the balcony... speaking French. What the heck? Well, I guess French is among the five languages he supposedly speaks. He glances up and catches sight of me and gives me a breathtaking smile. He holds one finger up to signify he will be just a minute.

I get a flashback of the first day I met him, looking perfect in his expensive suit and pacing with his hand in his trouser pocket as he speaks on the phone.

Déjà vu.

I drop my head as I remember that I don’t like who he is and what he does for a living.

God, Claire... what are you doing? Couldn’t you have found somebody else to get back in the game with?

“Je dois conclure,” he says to whomever he’s speaking to. He smiles as he watches me and gives me a sexy wink. “One moment,” he mouths.

I roll my eyes as I act impatient, but I’m not really. I could listen to him speak French all day. “Come on,” I mouth back.

“Malade, je vais vous envoyer un message dans la matinée. Je vais avoir besoin du rapport d’ici lundi s’il vous plait,” he says in his deep sexy voice.

“Hurry,” I mouth to tease him.

He bites his bottom lip to stop his smile and holds up his hand to signify that he’s going to smack me.

“Promises, promises,” I mouth back.

He walks past me into the apartment. “Oui, s’il vous plait,” he says.

He reappears with an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne with two champagne flutes. He holds the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he pops the cork and fills the two glasses.

He leans in and kisses me softly and then hands me a glass of champagne.

“Thank you,” I mouth.

He kisses me again, as if unable to stop, and I can hear the other person, a woman, speaking a million miles a minute to him in French.

“Who is it?” I frown.

“My PA,” he mouths. He moves his head from side to side, as if she is taking too long to say what she’s saying. “Oui, oui, nous en parlerons lundi. Je dois y aller. Au revoir,” he replies.

He listens as she keeps speaking, and he rolls his eyes impatiently.

I smile as I sip my champagne. The cool, crisp taste dances on my tongue. Oh yeah. I eye the glass of bubbles—this is the good stuff.