The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

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.

I glance over and see two girls sitting near us, transfixed and watching him with their mouths hanging open.

What must we look like? A gorgeous man sitting here making out with my hand while I act totally uninterested. Act being the operative word.

“You’re making a scene,” I murmur as I watch him.

“I can’t help it,” he murmurs against my skin. “It’s been too long.”

“How long?” I ask.

“Fifteen days.” He kisses my hand again. “Fifteen long days.”

That’s how long we’ve been apart . . . he knows how long we’ve been apart to the day. He wants to break the ice between us too. He’s missed me; I know he has. Suddenly I don’t want to play hard to get. I want him . . . hard . . . and fast.

I pull my hand away from his lips. “Buy me another drink, and then perhaps I’ll put you out of your misery.”

His eyes flicker with arousal, and his hand immediately goes up as he summons the waiter. “Yes, sir.”

“Two—”

“Four,” I interrupt him. He frowns, probably deterred by the extra time it’s going to take to drink those.

“Four margaritas, please,” he replies to the waiter.

“Yes, sir.”

“Please make it fast,” he adds.

The waiter frowns at his apparent desperation. “Yes, sir, of course.” He rushes to the bar.

We stare at each other as electricity thrums between us—no words are needed. We both can feel this magnetic pull to each other; it’s too strong to deny.

“It really . . . is good to see you, Em,” he whispers.

An hour later we walk down the hotel corridor, hand in hand. We are both quiet, lost in our own thoughts.