The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

He stares at me for an extended time as if processing my words.

I walk over and kiss him softly. “Tell Jim to pick me up at seven,” I whisper as I run my tongue through his lips. “I’m aching for him.”

Tenderness crosses his face. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I walk back down to my floor and take a seat at my desk.

“How did it go?” Aaron whispers as he types. “Did you make him beg?”

“God, I’m totally crap at playing hard to get.” I sigh.

Molly smirks. “Aren’t we all?”

I open my computer.

“Well?” Aaron whispers as he stops working. “Tell us.”

“We’re having dinner tonight,” I reply as I try to sound casual.

“Oh my God,” Molly whispers in excitement. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“I don’t know.” I frown. “Something insanely hot.”

I hold my hand over my heart as I try to will it to slow down, and I glance at the clock on the wall—6:55 p.m.

He’ll be here any minute.

I shake my hands around and pace back and forth. “Just be cool . . . don’t sleep with him. Whatever you do, don’t be easy,” I remin

d myself out loud.

I walk back to the mirror in the bathroom and reapply my lipstick. “Get to know each other, and then make an informed decision based on his personality and not how much he turns you on.” I smirk at the ridiculous girl talking to her reflection. If his dick wasn’t so perfect, I wouldn’t be thinking about it at all, then . . . would I?

My phone buzzes. “Hello,” I answer as my heart races.

“I’m downstairs,” his deep, velvety voice purrs. “What number are you?”

“I’ll come down now. See you soon.” I walk back to the full-length mirror and take one last look. I’m wearing a black fitted dress that hangs to just below my knees. It has spaghetti straps and a low back. It goes with my black stilettos and matching clutch. My long dark hair is set in big Hollywood curls and pinned back on one side. I’ve gone all out with my makeup and have smoky gray eyes and glossy red lips.

And of course, I’m waxed to within an inch of my life . . . just in case.

I take the elevator, and when I walk out through the foyer, I see him through the glass front doors of my building. He’s wearing a navy sports coat and blue jeans with a white T-shirt. He looks like he’s stepped straight out of a magazine.

My breath catches at the sight of him, and I smile as he turns toward me.

“Hi.” He smiles.

“Hi.”

His eyes roam down the length of my body as he takes my hand in his. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” I smile bashfully.

We stare at each other . . . and it’s there again. The electric current that runs between us whenever we’re alone. “What do you want to do?” he asks as his eyes drop to my lips.

I smile. Jim’s here—Jameson wouldn’t ask me what I wanted to do. “Didn’t you mention Italian?”

He leans in and kisses me, with just the right amount of suction to raise my feet from the floor. My arms go around his neck, and we stand in the street and stare at each other. “You really do turn me on, Emily Foster,” he breathes.