The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

“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.

I’ve died and gone to layover bad-girl heaven.

Jim fumbles with the key, and we stumble into my room. Then he throws me onto the bed

.

My chest rises and falls as we stare at each other, and the air between crackles with electricity.

“I’m not this kind of girl,” I remind him.

“I know,” he breathes. “I wouldn’t want to corrupt you.”

“But there is a drought,” I whisper. “So . . . so dry.”

He raises his eyebrows as he pants along with me. “This is true.”

I stare at him for a moment as I try to clear my arousal fog. My sex is throbbing and pleading for his body. “It would be a shame to . . .” My voice trails off.

“I know.” He licks his lips in appreciation as his eyes roam over my body. “Such a fucking shame.”

He takes his shirt off over his shoulders, and my breath catches. He has a broad, muscular chest with olive skin and a scattering of hair that runs from his navel and disappears down into his pants. His hair is dark, and his eyes are a brilliant blue—but it’s the power behind them that has me aching for him to take me. There’s an edge to his touch that I’ve never felt before.

He’s all male and pure domination. There’s no mistaking who’s in charge here.

Something about this man has opened up another side of me that I didn’t know existed. I know he could have any woman in the world he wants.

And at this moment, he wants me.

There’s no denying the chemistry between us; it’s raw, honest, and all-consuming. He’s hardly touched me, and I already know that this night is special.

Maybe fate has dealt me an ace for a change.

With his eyes locked on mine and in slow motion, he unzips his pants and pulls his dick out. It’s big and hard, and my chest rises and falls as I watch him. My heart is in overdrive. Is this really happening?

Oh. My. God.

He begins to slowly stroke himself, and my mouth falls open as I stare, transfixed.

I’ve never had a man touch himself in front of me before.

Holy fucking shit. This is off the hook.

He lifts one of his feet to the bed and really begins to let himself have it. The muscles in his shoulders and arms flex as he jerks himself hard, and my insides ripple in pleasure as I imagine it’s me doing it for him.

This is like reality porn . . . only ten times better.

What the hell am I doing here? I’m a good girl, and good girls don’t do bad things with men like this.