The Stopover (The Miles High Club, #1)(6)

Why? “No.”

He smirks as he watches me, and it’s obvious he’s imagining something.

“What?” I smile.

“I wish we were on a private jet.”

“Why is that?”

His eyes drop to my lips once more. “Because I’d break that drought of yours and initiate you into the Miles-High Club.”

I get a visual of climbing on top of him, right here, right now. “It’s Mile-High Club . . . not Miles,” I whisper.

“No . . . it’s Miles.” He smirks as his eyes darken. “Trust me—it’s Miles.”

Something inside me snaps, and suddenly I want to say something crazy and out of the ordinary. I lean forward and whisper in his ear, “You know, I’ve never fucked a stranger before.”

He inhales sharply as his eyes hold mine. “Do you want to fuck a stranger?” he murmurs as arousal thrums between us.

I stare at him. This is so out of character for me.

This man makes me . . .

“Don’t be shy,” he whispers. “Tell me, if we were alone right now . . .” He pauses as he chooses his words. “What would you give me, Emily?”

My eyes search his, and maybe it’s the alcohol or the lack of sex or the fact that I know I’ll never see him again . . . or perhaps I’m just a total ho. “Me,” I breathe. “I would give you me.”

Our eyes lock, and as if forgetting where we are, he leans forward and cups my face in his hand. His eyes are so blue, and a wave of arousal sweeps through me at his touch.

I want this man.

I want all of this man . . . every last drop.

“Hot towel?” Jessica the flight attendant asks.

We jump back from each other, embarrassed. What must they think of us? They’ve been watching us flirt shamelessly for the entire trip.

“Thank you,” I stammer as I take the towel from her.

“There’s a snowstorm in New York, and we’re going to circle for a while to see if we can land,” she says.

“What happens if we can’t?” Jim asks.

“We will fly on to Boston and have an emergency layover for the night. You will be accommodated in a hotel, of course. We’ll know in the next ten minutes. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Thank you.”

She walks off to the other side of the plane and out of earshot, and Jim leans over and whispers, “I hope New York freezes the fuck over.”

Nerves dance in my stomach. “Why is that?”

“I have plans for us,” he whispers darkly.

I stare at him as my brain misfires. I’ve been prick teasing like a pro, but I’m really not that kind of girl. It’s easy to be brave and slutty when there’s no chance of anything happening. I begin to perspire. Why did I get so damn tipsy? Why did I tell him about my drought? That’s supposed to be kept private, fool.

“Another drink?” Jim whispers.

“I can’t—I have a job interview this afternoon.”

“That won’t be happening.”

“Don’t say that,” I stammer. “I want this job.”

“Good evening, passengers; this is the captain speaking.” A voice comes over the loudspeaker, and I close my eyes. Shit.

“Due to a snowstorm in New York, we will be flying on to Boston tonight and staying there. We will return to New York early in the morning. Sorry for any inconvenience this has caused, but safety is our priority.”

My eyes meet Jim’s, and he gives me a slow and sexy smile and raises his eyebrow.

Oh no.





Chapter 2

“Don’t look so excited.” He smirks.

“Jim . . . ,” I stammer. Oh hell, how do I say this? “I’m not really the kind of girl who . . .” My voice trails off.

“Who fucks on first dates?” he says, finishing my sentence.

“Yes.” I wince at the crudeness of that statement. “I just don’t want you to think . . .”

“I know. I wouldn’t,” he replies curtly. “I don’t.”

“Good.” Relief fills me. “I was being flirty when I thought we were getting off and never seeing each other again.”

“Right.” He smirks in amusement.

“Not that I don’t think you’re great,” I add. “Because if I were that kind of girl, I would totally be into you. We would be fucking like . . .” I pause as I try to think of an analogy.

“Rabbits?” he offers.

“Yes.”

He holds both hands in the air. “I understand; platonic humans only.”

I smile broadly. “I’m so glad you understand.”

Seven hours later

He slams me up against the wall as he struggles to pull my skirt up over my hips, and his open mouth ravages my neck. “Door,” I pant. “Open the damn door.”

Oh God . . . I’ve never felt this chemistry with anyone before. We’ve laughed and danced and kissed our way around Boston, and somehow he makes me feel at ease. It’s as if I do this type of thing every day, and it’s completely natural. The weird thing is, it feels right. The spontaneity of the situation I find myself in has me feeling all brave. This man is witty and funny and dirty as all hell, and in my opinion—which, in truth, could be totally screwed over with alcohol consumption at the moment—he’s worth the risk . . . because I know I will never get the opportunity to be with a man like him again.