The Takeover (The Miles High Club 2)

Jesus, what the fuck does that mean?

Chapter 4

It’s late, just past two o’clock in the morning, and I don’t know how the hell I’m still here.

The night has flown. It feels good not having to rush home to homework and dinner and responsibilities. I think all 120 people from the conference are still here. The mood is light and jovial. I’m standing at the back of the room near the bar. There are ten of us standing in a group. They’re telling stories, and we’re laughing and having fun, and every now and then I look across the room and into the stare of Tristan Miles.

He’s watching me . . . he’s been watching me all night.

The heat of his gaze on my skin is warm like the sun. It makes me wonder if he’s this intense in bed. Because right now, he’s not just undressing me with his eyes; he’s fucking me with them.

Arousal heats my blood, and I find myself imagining what we’d be like together naked.

Like a well-oiled machine, he’s working the room. Everyone wants to talk to him; everyone wants to be near him. And I’m pretty damn sure that every woman here is fantasizing about taking him home.

I know I am.

I never would, of course. God no.

But his unapologetic flirty way is definitely appealing . . . even to those who aren’t interested.

I let my mind wander for a moment. What would it be like to have wild and carefree sex with a man like him? To know that there is absolutely no chance of a tomorrow?

To live completely in the moment.

I stare down at my straw as I circle it in my drink. My mind begins to tick as it tries to reconcile my thoughts. It’s been a long time since I had a thought like that.

Sex hasn’t crossed my mind since Wade died.

Five years next month.

I was thirty-three when I lost my husband, just coming into my sexual prime.

I lost a lot that day—and not just him . . . a major part of who I was.

Wade and I met in college. We dated for two years, and then the unthinkable happened. I became pregnant on the pill at the tender age of twenty.

Wade was ecstatic. I mean, he never had any doubts that we were going to be together. He told me on our fourth date that he was going to marry me. He was three years older than me and thought he knew everything.

I smile wistfully—looking back, I see that he did.

I get a flashback of us kissing and laughing . . . rolling around in bed, making love.

And my heart hurts.

I don’t just miss him . . . I miss everything that we did together. The way he made me feel like a woman every time he looked at me.

Arousal.

The rush of an orgasm.

I close my eyes in disgust.

Oh God . . .

Here we go.

I need to stop drinking. I remember now—I remember why I don’t drink. It makes me sad, like a big dark blanket that comes to rest over my shoulders. One that’s heavy and laden with responsibilities. I put my drink down on the bar. “I’m going to get going,” I announce as I wave. “See you all tomorrow.”