The Casanova (The Miles High Club #3)(63)

I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but never that.

She drops to sit on the sand and taps the ground beside her, and we both open our ice creams.

She stares at hers. I watch as a lone tear rolls down her cheek and I don’t know if this was the right thing to do.

I put my arm around her and we both eat our ice creams, me in silence, her through tears.

I can feel the memories and love swimming around in her psyche as they overtake her.

She makes me wish I was a plumber too.

The moonlight streams through the window and I slowly peel off Kate’s dress.

Something’s different with her; something changed between us when I bought her that ice cream.

Her walls came down and I see a new vulnerability in her.

It’s overpowering, intoxicating, and I want her more than ever if that’s humanly possible.

Our lips are locked as we kiss tenderly, our hands undressing each other as fast as we can.

Naked . . . I want to be naked.

She pulls my shorts down and my cock springs free, and I lie her down on the bed.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are to me?” I whisper.

She smiles up at me and my heart constricts.

“Hang on.” I go to retrieve my condoms.

“El . . . don’t,” she whispers.

“Don’t what?”

“Put on a condom. I want all of you tonight.”

We stare at each other and . . . Fuck me.

This woman . . .

I lie down over her, the urge to be close so overbearing that I couldn’t control it even if I wanted to.

We kiss and hold each other and, with an intimacy I’ve never known, she takes me.

And holds me.

And ruins me forever.





KATE

The plane pulls to a halt on the tarmac and I want to just throw myself onto the floor and kick and scream.

I’m not getting off this plane, you can’t make me.

Elliot lets out a deep sigh as he stares straight ahead. He looks over at me as he leans against the headrest. “We’re home,” he says.

“Yep.” I fake a big, fat smile. “Yay.”

He chuckles and leans over and kisses me. “I know.”

The stewardess—what the hell is her name, anyway? I still haven’t caught it—comes from her little room, retrieves our luggage, and takes it to the door, and then the two captains come out and disengage the door. “Lovely to fly with you.” Elliot smiles, and shakes their hands. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, have a good night,” one of them replies.

A bag attendant boards the plane and takes our bags. “Just these three?” he asks.

“Yes please,” Elliot replies.

He disappears back down the stairs.

“Thank you.” I smile as I make my way out of the door; I’m hit with an icy wall of snow. Everything is white and miserable.

Fucking freezing London . . . ugh . . . why do I come from here?

Elliot walks out behind me and winces. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

“Why aren’t I Spanish?” I say.

“Because you’re English,” Elliot says as he takes my hand. “Careful,” he warns. “The stairs are slippery.” He slowly leads me down and into the car that’s waiting, a black Audi, not the Bentley.

The driver is female and she smiles and opens the back door. Huh . . . who’s she?

“Hello,” Elliot says as he gestures for me to get into the car first.

He climbs in behind me and closes the door.

The driver gets in and turns. “VIP parking on level 1A?”

“Yes, thank you,” Elliot says as he takes my hand and brings it over to his lap.

I frown in confusion and he kisses my fingertips. “I got Andrew to bring my car. I wanted to drive you home myself.”

“Oh.” Maybe he’s going to stay over?

I inwardly deflate. It’s probably so that Andrew doesn’t have to see my sad face when I get out of the car. “Great,” I lie.

Five minutes later the driver pulls up in an underground parking lot and, sure enough, there, parked in pole position, is Elliot’s black Mercedes sports car.

I wonder who brought Andrew home after he dropped the car here—did he catch a bus or did someone pick him up? What happens in these situations, is there a driver for the driver?

Elliot puts my things into the trunk and ten minutes later we’re on the road to my place.

He’s quiet and pensive, with both hands firmly on the wheel, and I’m staring through the windshield, internally wondering if I can tie him up and throw him in the trunk, perhaps hijack his plane and force them at gunpoint to take us back.

I feel a distance creeping between us already: he isn’t my playful El here in London, he’s Elliot Miles . . . the hard-ass CEO of Miles Media.

And the reality is, we don’t really know each other.

Which is crap; if he wanted casual and didn’t want anything from our relationship, why did he have to be so damn sweet and affectionate? Is he even aware that he did it?

Talk about mixed messages.

It didn’t matter in the Canary Islands because we both knew the small amount of time that we had together was finite. Tied in a nice little bow, a week’s escape from reality.