The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(116)

With his elbows resting on the table, he steeples his hands under his chin. His eyes dance with mischief. “Where are you flying to, Emily?”

“London.” I sip my drink. “You?”

“Dubai. My flight’s been delayed.”

“Mine too.”

With locked eyes, we both sip our drinks. The air is electric, and regardless of the love that I have for this man, there is no denying that the sexual chemistry we have is out of this world.

“Thanks for the drink.” I smile softly.

“You’re welcome.” His eyes are dark and hooded, and I can feel his arousal from here.

“What do you do for a living?” I ask.

“I’m a tour guide,” he replies without hesitation.

“Really? What kind of tours do you run?”

“Camping.”

I snort my drink up my nose as I giggle. “Oh.” I cough. “So . . . you’re the outdoor type?”

“Totally.” He sips his margarita. “I’m at one with nature.” He crosses his two fingers to show me just how close.

I try and fail to hide my broad smile. “That’s good to know. Cavemen are such a turn-on.”

His eyes dance with delight; he likes this game.

I do too.

“What do you do?” he asks.

“I’m a psychic.”

He bursts out laughing. Oh, it feels good to see him laugh again. “A psychic?” His eyes widen in surprise.

“Yes.”

“So . . . you read minds?”

“I do.”

“All right.” He looks around the bar and gestures to a woman with his drink. “Tell me what that woman’s saying over there.”

I look over and see an older woman who looks like she is scolding her husband as he drinks his beer. “She’s telling him that he had better hurry up and put on his compression socks before the flight and that he’s had enough. They won’t let him on the plane if he’s drunk.”

“Hmm.” He smirks as he looks around. “What about him?”

I look over to the man who is looking at his phone. “He’s googling prostitutes for his business trip.”

“And him?”

“Wondering if his wife is sleeping with her boss.”

His smile broadens. “You’re good.”

I cock my head. “I know.”

“And her?”

I look over at a girl staring at her phone with a worried look on her face.

“Googling fungal infections. She’s worried that she caught something from her wild and condomless Saturday night.”

His eyes dance in delight as he looks around the bar, and then his eyes come back to meet mine. “What about me?”

“What are you thinking?”

“Yes.”

Our eyes lock . . . shit, I promised myself that I wouldn’t be a drama queen tonight, and that is a surefire question to wind me up. I could go to town on what a jackass he’s been . . . and I will later. “Right now?” I ask.

“Yes.” His eyes are dark as he watches me.

“It’s good to see you.”

He gives me a slow, sexy smile and leans toward me. “It is.” He cups my face in his hand, and my heart stops. “Although that wasn’t all I was thinking.”

“No,” I breathe. “I know.”

He smiles as if fascinated, our faces only millimeters apart. “Why don’t you tell me what else I was thinking?” His eyes drop to my lips.

“You were wondering what the chocolate on my lips tastes like,” I whisper. How am I supposed to string two words together when he’s looking at me like that?

In slow motion, he leans in and licks my open lips. My sex clenches in appreciation.

Oh God . . .

“Are you flirting with me, Jim?” I whisper.

He licks me again. “I am. How am I doing?”

Goose bumps scatter up my spine, and I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay.”

“Just okay?”

I nod, breathless from his touch.

“What about when I do this?” In slow motion he kisses me; his strong tongue slides through my open mouth and tenderly caresses mine.

“That could probably work,” I murmur against his lips.

“And this?” His kiss deepens, and I feel my arousal waken from its dormant sleep.

I close my eyes as emotion rushes through me . . . this is not good. One kiss, and I’m about to burst into tears.

How could you treat me so badly?

Don’t be a wimp . . . I need to keep my emotions in check . . . at least for now.

Tomorrow is a different story, but tonight is about celebrating what we have with each other.

I pull out of his kiss. “I don’t know what kind of woman you think I am, Jim, but I can assure you—picking up camping tour directors in an airport bar is not my style.” I sit back and straighten my shirt and sip my margarita.

He rolls his lips as if amused with the game and picks my hand up and brings it to his lips. He begins to kiss it, and then he turns it over and, with his strong tongue, licks the palm of my hand.

My sex clenches in appreciation . . . fuck. I’m losing control of this situation.

Fast.