Las Vegas Layover Read Online Free

heels. When their gazes collided, Clara glimpsed disappointment and the briefest hint of sadness before Sheri schooled her features and continued on to the first-class cabin with her usual grace.
    Sebastian’s eyes held a wicked promise. But Clara refused to be the next Sheri on his roster, a warm, willing woman whose name he wouldn’t remember a year from now. He could buy her dinner, then he’d be free to forget her without any of the warm and willing parts. Except that thought gave her a pang too.
    She swallowed hard. Spreading Aunt Betty’s ashes had just gotten a lot more interesting. And a lot more complicated.

Chapter Four
    “Pick up the fucking phone,” Sebastian snarled, knowing it was useless. He’d been trying to call Clara for hours, but he only had her room number at the Venetian. He glared at his phone for another long second, then shoved it back into the cargo pocket of his shorts.
    He’d been in a crappy mood all afternoon and tonight wasn’t looking any better. After he’d tucked Clara into a cab, he spent four hours ripping apart the engine Steve had begged him to come fix. He’d had to order a fuel control. That was flying in on the midnight plane from Denver. After he placed the order, he’d stopped to call Clara, but she hadn’t answered. Then he found a flat spot on one of the main tires when he’d moved the jet. That took another hour and a half to change. Still, he’d hoped to slip out for a couple of hours, until he’d found a false read in the avionics system.
    In short, this bird was broke dick and going nowhere. Which meant neither was he.
    Sebastian went back to loosening a wall panel near the back of the fuselage, but he couldn’t get his head on straight. Over the last six hours a barrage of daydreams filled his mind: Clara, hair damp with sweat, her perfect breasts bouncing as she rode him. Her silky white thighs wrapped around his waist as he drove into her. That lone dimple that peeked out of her left cheek when she really smiled. Each image distracted more than the last and made him hard in an instant. Damn.
    For once it wasn’t even about sex, which was fortunate, given that his night had turned into one giant goatfuck. Of course, he wanted her, but getting to know his pixie was more fun than he’d had in years.
    That particular thought made him pause. He’d never been the possessive type. Not that he shared either. He’d just never thought of any of the women he slept with as his. At least not since Pam, and he’d been a kid back then—too young and stupid to know how shit worked in the real world. All the women since had just been on loan for a night or two. Clara was different, a confounding puzzle he had to solve.
    She was such a contradiction. She was probably the most honest woman he’d ever met—which was sexy as hell. But she was also the most evasive—which was frustrating as shit.
    They’d talked through the entire two-hour flight. But she hadn’t given him a straight answer to anything. Not once.
    He asked her what it was like living near the ocean; she told him all about her baby brothers, twins who she claimed were practically part fish, they loved the ocean so much. He asked her again what she was doing in Vegas; she gave him another enigmatic line about manipulative old ladies. The worst part was, she was so funny and charming while she dodged and weaved around his questions that he hadn’t even noticed her non-answers until she was gone.
    No. Clara wasn’t just another lay. Sleeping with her would be something…more.
    He tried to focus on removing the wall panel—he was pretty sure that’s where the false read was coming from—but concentrating on anything other than Clara was hard, almost as hard as his cock.
    Where the hell was she?
    He hadn’t expected her to sit around her room waiting on him to call. She definitely wasn’t that kind of girl. But he’d left her a message with his cell number hours ago. He checked his phone again. Nine