“Claire Anderson,” he calls from the stage. My horrified eyes meet his. “Sit back down.” “I . . .” I take another step toward the exit. “Claire,” he warns. I glance around at the 120 pairs of eyes fixed firmly on me and then back up at him. “I said sit. Back. Down.”
“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 love you, Tristan,” she whispers. I get a lump in my throat as my eyes search hers. “A . . . great deal, actually.” “It’s about fucking time, Anderson,” I whisper.
