The Stopover

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The Stopover Page 15

by Swan, T L


  My face falls. “What?” God, I’ve never thought of that.

  “True story,” he says as he walks around my apartment. “If I were a rapist, that’s what I would do.”

  “I don’t know whether to be impressed or terrified by your evil thought process.”

  He turns back to me, and his face softens. “Impressed—let’s go with impressed.”

  I giggle as he takes me into his arms. “Okay,” I murmur. “Impressed it is. Why have you been so cranky with me this week?” I ask softly as I run my fingers through his dark hair.

  “Because you’re fighting with me,” he whispers. “I don’t like it.” His lips take mine, and his tongue swipes softly through my lips.

  “I’m not fighting now.”

  “And look how fucking beautiful you are,” he says tenderly as he cups my face in his hands.

  Our kiss deepens, and I want him naked. In my bed and naked. I slide his shirt off over his head and unzip his pants; his lips stay locked on mine as if he’s unable to drag them away.

  His chest is broad with a scattering of dark hair, and his stomach is rippled . . . but it’s his dick that’s a standout.

  The man’s hung like a horse. I don’t know if this thing even goes down. I most definitely have never seen it soft.

  “You need to get on my bed on your back now,” I whisper as my eyes drop down his delicious naked body.

  He smiles broadly. “That’s the best thing you’ve ever said to me.” He drags me through the apartment by my hand and into my bedroom; in one quick movement, he’s unzipped my dress, and then he slowly slides it down.

  He holds my hand as I step out of it, and his eyes drop hungrily down my body. “You are so fucking beautiful, Emily.”

  My heart swells at the way he is looking at me.

  He lays me down and spreads my legs and slowly strokes himself as he stares down. I writhe as I wait for his touch. His lips take my nipple into his mouth, and my back arches off the bed. His fingers slide through the lips of my sex. He hisses in approval as he feels how wet I am. My breath quivers on the inhale. He’s just so . . .

  Jameson Miles knows how to touch a woman.

  Everything is magnified, to the point where even his blazing stare could make me orgasm.

  His lips make a delicious trail down my body, and he kisses my inner thighs with his open mouth. My hands go to the back of his head. His hands hold my legs wide open, and his thick, strong tongue swipes through me.

  My back arches in pleasure as my head tips back to the ceiling. “Oh God.”

  He licks me, slowly at first, and then as if he’s unable to control himself, he begins to really eat me. His stubble burns my sex as my body begins to ride his face. “Oh . . . so good,” I whimper.

  He lifts my legs to sit over his shoulders, and the change in position has my body trembling with need.

  “Oh God,” I whimper as my hands fist in his hair.

  “Come. I want to taste you,” he moans into me.

  I convulse and shudder deep inside my body as I cling to him. He laps me up like I’m his last supper. He pulls back and unwraps a condom and passes it to me; I slide it on him with a soft kiss to his cock.

  With his eyes locked on mine, he lifts my legs around his waist and in one strong movement slides deep into my sex.

  We stare at each other as the air is knocked from our lungs.

  “So fucking good,” he whispers as our eyes search each other.

  He pulls out and then slowly slides back in. My mouth hangs slack at the feeling of his possession.

  Nobody fucks me like Jameson Miles . . . nobody.

  I can try to deny this emotional attachment all I want, but the physical . . . I just can’t.

  He circles deep inside and then slams back in. I cry out as the air is knocked from my lungs. Then he’s riding me—deep, punishing hits—and my bed is hitting the wall so hard it may knock it down.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he moans into my neck.

  He lifts one of my legs, and I can’t hold it any longer. My body contracts around his, and he hisses as he comes with me.

  We cling to each other as we pant, and I smile up against his cheek as euphoria runs through my blood.

  Jameson Miles is my new drug.

  And I am his crack whore.

  I wake to the gentle breathing beside me, and I roll over and smile. Jameson is flat on his back and asleep. We had an incredible night.

  The tender, witty guy was back . . . with no sight of the asshole CEO.

  I lean up onto my elbow as I watch him. His dark hair hangs over his forehead, his big red lips are slightly open, and his eyelashes flutter as he sleeps. He has one arm behind his head, and the other is splayed on his stomach.

  He’s beautiful—everything about him physically is beautiful. Last night I got a little peek that maybe he’s as beautiful on the inside as well. Stop it.

  You’re getting clingy and attached.

  Jameson is not the kind of man you get attached to.

  He inhales deeply as he wakes, and slowly his eyes open and focus on me. “Hey, beautiful,” he whispers in a husky voice as he cups my face in his hand.

  I smile and lean over and kiss him. “Good morning, Jameson.”

  “Call me Jay.”

  I frown in question.

  “My friends call me Jay.”

  “So we’re friends?”

  He pulls me over his body onto his chest. “No, you’re my fuck bunny.”

  I smile as I kiss his chest beneath me.

  “What’s planned for today?” he asks.

  “Nothing.”

  He frowns as if trying to focus his eyes, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ll get my driver to pick us up, and I’ll make us some breakfast at my place.”

  I lean up onto my elbow and look down at him. “What’s wrong with here? I’ve got breakfast things you can cook.”

  “Nothing. I just feel more comfortable at my place. We will hang there today.”

  “I’m more comfortable here, Jameson,” I reply, slightly annoyed.

  “What?” He winces. “How could you be?”

  I sit up, affronted. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap.

  He rolls his eyes. “Here we go a-fucking-gain.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You asked that question twice,” he replies dryly. “Do you have to argue about every fucking thing that we do?”

  “I’m not arguing. I’m just saying I want to stay here today. Your apartment may be fancy, but it doesn’t impress me.”

  He stares at me for a moment.

  “And for the record, I don’t argue about everything. I was annoyed that your masseuse is on personal terms to message you the way she did.”

  He rolls his eyes and puts the back of his forearm over them. “Here we go.”

  “Will you stop saying that?” I snap as I get out of bed and put on my robe. “I was just lying here thinking how gorgeous you are, and then you go and open your big mouth and ruin the whole thing.”

  “I’m thinking the same thing,” he snaps as he gets out of bed. “And stop going on about Chloe—it’s not a relationship.”

  I stop still. What the hell does he mean by that? “What do you mean, it’s not a relationship? Do you and she have sex?”

  He bends and picks up his jeans, ignoring me.

  “Jameson.” I put my hands on my hips as I watch him.

  He pulls his jeans on and zips them up. “Sometimes.”

  “You have sex with her?” I gasp.

  “I have a standing appointment on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She doesn’t come for sex, but sometimes it just happens. She’s touching me, I’m oiled up . . . it just happens.”

  My mouth falls open. “Did you have sex with her this last week? Since you’ve been with me?”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “Stop rolling your fucking eyes at me,” I snap.

  “No. I didn’t have sex with her th
is week.”

  “Did you have your regular two massages?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you had someone else’s hands all over your body?” I fume.

  “Like you did last night on the dance floor. Stop looking for a fucking fight, Emily. You are pissing me off.”

  “Well, you’re pissing me off. Get out.”

  “I’m already fucking leaving,” he barks.

  “Go and have a massage today, you big sleazebag.”

  He shakes his head in disgust. “You know what? You’re perfect for this fake news job. This drama thing is right up your alley.” He throws his shirt over his head and then sits on the bed to put his shoes on.

  Rage fills me, and I pick up one of his shoes and throw it to the other side of the room.

  “So tough,” he huffs.

  I narrow my eyes as fury boils in my blood. “Yeah, like your Chloe’s vagina. How many clients does she fuck each week?”

  “She isn’t my Chloe.”

  “You know what? Make her your Chloe, because I have no intention of taking her sloppy seconds.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you sleep with me and only me, or you get out of my life.”

  He puts his hands on his hips in outrage. “I’m not looking for a relationship.”

  “Good. There’s my answer. Get out.”

  “You know what? This little Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde thing you’ve got going on here is a real turnoff.”

  “And your overshared dick isn’t?” I shriek. “You’re an insult to my intelligence, Jameson. Go home to your fancy apartment in your fancy car and have sex with whoever you want.” I wrap my robe around me in disgust. “I’m too good for you anyway.”

  He glares at me. “Why are you such a fucking bitch?”

  “Because you’re a self-centered asshole. Get the hell out!” I scream. I pick up a pillow and throw it at him.

  He brushes past me in a rush. “Nobody treats me as bad as you do, Emily!” he yells as he storms toward the door.

  “Because you pay them!” I screech. “Good thing you’ve got lots of money, Jameson. You’re going to need it. Nobody would put up with your shit for free.”

  He turns and glares at me. “That’s a low blow.”

  I fake a smile. “Have a nice life, asshole.” I turn and walk into my bathroom and lock the door.

  Screw him.

  Chapter 11

  I turn the spoon upside down, put it into my mouth, and suck the Nutella from it as I stare at the television.

  It’s four in the afternoon, I’m still in my pajamas, and I’ve had a shitty day. After I woke up in a dream lying next to the most gorgeous man on the planet, Jameson Miles the asshole CEO decided to make an appearance and ruined everything.

  To be honest, I’m regretting not going to his place for breakfast, but then, on the other hand, I’m glad I didn’t because I wouldn’t have found out about Chloe, his masseuse.

  They fuck.

  I hate that it bothers me. I hate that I can feel myself getting attached to him when he clearly isn’t feeling the same.

  I dig into my jar of Nutella again. The smooth chocolate melts on my tongue, offering a momentary distraction.

  I stare at the television in a daze, a horror movie. My favorite rom-com category is scratched from the viewing repertoire. My mind goes back to the first time I met Jameson, when he told me that he didn’t believe rom-coms were true.

  Maybe he was on to something? Maybe I’m just a romantic fool?

  Does he have feelings for Chloe? Who cares? He’s an asshole.

  I need to cut this out. Stop thinking about him. He’s a self-absorbed player who sleeps with whoever he wants, whenever he wants. I look around my shitty apartment, and sadness fills me. If he liked me, it wouldn’t matter where we were—he would want to spend time with me regardless. But he couldn’t get out of here quick enough.

  My mind goes over our fight this morning.

  “Nobody treats me as bad as you do, Emily.”

  “Because you pay them. Good thing you’ve got lots of money, Jameson. You’re going to need it. Nobody would put up with your shit for free.”

  “That’s a low blow.”

  Did I go too far? Was it a low blow? Probably, but what does he expect? And I can’t believe that nobody treats him as badly as I do. If he treats other women the way he treats me, surely they wouldn’t put up with it? Nobody is that stupid . . . are they?

  “I’m not looking for a relationship.”

  I punch the pillow on my lap in disgust. Six words have never made me feel so cheap.

  Monday morning, I ride in the elevator to the top floor. We scheduled this meeting last week so that I could meet the private investigator, but it’s the last thing I want to do now.

  I want to forget Jameson Miles, forget I ever met beautiful Jim . . . or Jay, or whatever the heck I’m supposed to call him. I’ve come to the realization that they’re a package deal, and unfortunately, I can’t have Jim without Jameson, even though it’s only Jim I want. So I’m doing what’s best for me. I’m cutting ties; I’m not falling into the pattern of sleeping with Jameson without strings in the hope that I get a glimpse of Jim every now and then.

  It would be easy . . . too easy.

  But I already know my poor heart couldn’t take it. I’m not wired for casual sex.

  It’s just not who I am.

  I’m going to be professional and try to concentrate on my job. If I didn’t have to see him, it would be so much easier, but it is what it is. I need to learn to deal with it. He’s not going anywhere, and I really want this job.

  Damn it, Emily, why do you always take the hard way? Why do you always fall for the wrong guy? The last man had no motivation, and this man has too much. Both men didn’t care enough to go the extra mile for me. Maybe my expectations are too high from my book boyfriends in my romance novels—maybe Jameson was right on that one. But damn it, I want the fucking fairy tale for once.

  The elevator door opens, and I walk out and through reception. “Good morning, Emily,” Sammia says.

  “Morning.” I smile.

  “Just go through to his office.”

  “Thanks.” I walk down the corridor and knock on his door.

  “Come in,” his deep voice calls.

  I close my eyes and brace myself. I drop my shoulders and open the door. I stop on the spot. Shit.

  The room is full of men.

  “Come in,” Jameson says, devoid of emotion. “Take a seat.”

  “Thanks.” I drop nervously into the seat near the end of the large rectangular table.

  Jameson sits at the head, and Tristan, Elliot, Christopher, and an older man are on Jameson’s left. Then there are another six men I have never seen before.

  Jameson’s eyes hold mine. “This is Emily Foster,” he introduces me.

  “Hello,” the men all say.

  I smile awkwardly as I look around the table.

  “Emily, this is my father, George.” He gestures to the older man.

  “Hello,” I whisper nervously.

  “Hello, dear.” He smiles warmly; he’s in his sixties and looks like an older version of Jameson and Elliot. Gorgeous and distinguished with those piercing blue eyes.

  “This is Martin and Gerrard, Max and Barry,” Jameson says as he points around the table. “And on the end are Calvin and Jake.”

  “Hello.” I force a smile. I’ll never remember all these names.

  “This is the corporate investigation team,” Jameson continues. “Jake will be the eyes on the floor, and the other five men will be assessing the data that’s collected.”

  I watch him as he talks, devoid of emotion, and my heart cracks a little. He’s completely unrattled by me . . . by us.

  There is no us.

  “Okay.” I smile as I look around at the team. “Nice to meet you all.”

  “We are going to hit the ground running this morning,” he continues. �
�Emily, you are going to show Jake around, and then you will be reporting directly to Tristan in regards to the stories you are putting forward.”

  My heart drops, and I nod. My eyes go to Tristan, and he smiles warmly.

  He knows why I’ve been designated to him. I feel like throwing myself on the floor and having a crying tantrum. “Thank you. That’s great,” I lie.

  For the next fifteen minutes, I sit in my chair and stare at the CEO as he runs through the day’s events with a controlled detachment. He’s assertive, hard, and fiercely intelligent, and the room hangs on to his every word.

  And he fucks his masseuse on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

  I don’t know how I got myself into this messed-up situation, but it has to end.

  Well . . . it’s already ended, so I don’t need to bother anyway.

  “Thank you; that wraps it up. I would like a report on my desk at four thirty every afternoon,” he tells the men from the investigation company.

  “Yes, sir,” they reply as everyone stands. I wait at the back, unsure whether to leave or not.

  “Emily, just a minute, please,” Jameson asks.

  My heart flips. “Yes.”

  “Can you take Jake down to your floor under the guise that he’s new and that you two are going through a training program together?”

  My eyes search his.

  He stares at me blankly, cold as ice.

  “Sure.” I turn to Jake and smile. “Are you ready now?”

  “Show me the way,” Jake says playfully. “After you.”

  I turn and walk out of the office with my heart dripping into my high-heeled pumps. Well, that’s the end of that.

  He’s done. I wish I were. I’ll get there—I always do.

  I sit in the café at the bench seat by the window and stare at the limo waiting outside Miles Media from across the street. It’s been a long week, and today was especially flat.

  It’s Thursday, massage day.

  I get a vision of Jameson oiled up on the table and another woman roaming her hands over his body; my stomach clenches as I picture it so clearly. My mind’s playing evil games with me and showing me the worst reality-porn scenario in history.

 

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