The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(17)

“Hello.” I smirk.

“Hi,” she whispers. She looks nervous.

I hold out my hand and gesture toward my office. “Please come through.”

She walks in front of me, and my eyes drop to her backside. She’s wearing a black fitted dress, sheer stockings, and high-heeled pumps, and her hair is in a bouncy ponytail . . . just ready to drag down to my . . . stop it.

“Take a seat,” I say as I sit down at my desk.

She takes a seat and clutches her bag on her lap as her eyes find mine.

I swivel on my chair as I watch her. She’s as gorgeous as I remember, and a potent sexual aura oozes out of her like a concealed weapon.

Long dark hair, brown eyes, and big fuckable lips. I’ve thought of her often—she was impossible to forget.

Nobody has ever ridden my cock the way she did, not before, not since. Not ever.

The hickey on my neck wasn’t the only thing she branded me with that night.

“You wanted to see me?” she asks softly.

The sound of her voice has a physical effect on me. I remember her sex talk and what a turn-on it was to hear her sweet voice say such dirty things.

“Yes.” I stare at her. “I did.” Emily was the first woman I have been with in a long time who had no idea who I was. Strangely enough, I didn’t need to be anyone that night.





Being Jim was enough.


“What about?”

I sit back in my chair, annoyed with her attitude. The majority of women gush over me—this one, not so much.

“What are you doing in New York?” I ask her to try to make polite conversation.

“You asked me that yesterday,” she snaps. “Get to the point.”

“I am asking you again now. Stop with the fucking attitude.”

She narrows her eyes as if annoyed.

I sit forward in my seat. “What is your problem?” I sneer.

“You. You are my problem.”

“Me?” I ask, affronted. “What did I do?”

“Do you have something work related to talk to me about or not, Jim?”

I glare at her. “You’re very rude.”

“You’re very rich.”

“And?”





She shrugs.


“What does that mean?” I snap.

“Nothing.” She straightens her back. “If you don’t have anything work related to talk to me about, I’ll get going.”

I clench my jaw as I stare at her; the air crackles between us. “Can I see you tonight?”

Her eyes hold mine. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a professional, and I have no intention of mixing business and pleasure.”

I clench my jaw to stop myself from smirking. My interest in her is growing by the second. “What makes you so sure it would be a pleasure?”

“History has a way of repeating itself,” she whispers as her dark eyes drop to my lips.

I get a vision of her naked and on top of me in my chair, and I inhale sharply as my cock begins to thump. “History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it,” I say.

“Quoting Winston Churchill now, Mr. Miles?” she breathes.

I smirk, amused by her intelligence. “You must look at the facts because they look at you.”

“I never worry about action, but only inaction,” she fires back without hesitation.

“Exactly, so as a fellow Churchill tragic, I demand you have dinner with me tonight.”

She smiles and stands. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m washing my hair.”

“Why would you want to wash it when you could be getting it dirty?”

She shrugs casually. “I’m just not interested in you. You’re not my type.”

I stare at her as her words roll around in my head. Ouch.

I purse my lips as my eyes hold hers. That’s the first time I’ve ever been flat-out rejected. “Very well; your loss.”

“Maybe.” She turns to leave. “Nice to see you again, though. You must be very proud of your achievements.”

I rise and open the door in a rush. She looks up at me, and I clench my hand at my side to stop myself from touching her. “Goodbye, Emily.”

“Goodbye,” she breathes as the air swirls between us. “Thanks for giving me a job.” She smiles.

I nod once. It’s not the only job I have for you.

She turns and walks out and into the elevator, and I slam the door and storm back into my office.

I’m not her type . . . since when?

I hold the remote up to the security television screen and turn it back on. “Get me the fortieth floor,” I ask the voice control.

It flickers, and then a picture comes up with the fortieth floor. I watch as she steps out of the elevator. “Follow her.”

The camera follows her as she walks up the aisle and then to her seat at her desk.

“Camera above that area,” I command.

The screen flickers, and she comes into view. The office is empty, and she takes out her phone and begins to scroll. She crosses her legs, and I sit forward as her thigh becomes visible through the split. I watch her as arousal swirls between my legs.