Page 3 of Seven Night Stopover

He’d told himself he was okay with it, that the CFR—catch-fuck-release—mantra he’d adopted with regard to his sex life served him well.

So what the fuck if sometimes the mantra rang hollow? Or that the sex barely scratched the deep, clawing hunger he’d locked away under concrete and titanium?

It was the way it needed to be. The only way itcouldbe.

Except when midnight rolled around, he was staring at the indigo-colored invitation.

Rising from his desk, he strolled to the window, envelope in hand, and gazed out at the blazing nightlife that pulsed through Miami, the place he’d made his home for the last eighteen months.

February in Miami was a hell of a lot different than February in New York, but once he’d accepted that New York wasn’t bigenough to contain both him and Ashley, the choice had been easy.

He caressed the envelope. He’d ignored his phone’s incessant reminders to confirm his next CFR, this one with an accomplished pianist he’d met at a client luncheon on Monday. Her curvy, petite frame and large blue eyes had tweaked his interest, but even as his mind had clocked her generous attributes, it’d immediately drifted to who would replace her come next week.

The hollow feeling in his gut expanded. It grated to admit his friends were right. Finding risky and cutting-edge opportunities to invest in had become 99 percent of his life, with a marathon sex session with a decent lay who knew the score thrown in once a week.

It didn’t even satisfy him anymore that King’s Ransom, his venture capitalist business, had made him billions, more money than he would be able to spend in one lifetime. He could make money in his sleep.

That is, if the other 1 percent didn’t keep him awake at night.

He glanced at the envelope and drew out the invitation.

Seven Nights. Seven Highs.

An Experience Not for the Faint-Hearted.

He read the brief description, and his pulse began to throb. A heady combination of extreme sports, unique cultural experiences and uninhibited sex.

He allowed the forbidden door to crack open a cautious inch, granted himself a tiny glimpse into the vault he usually kept slammed shut.

Sucking in a breath, he clawed his fingers through his hair and realized they were trembling.

His ex-therapist would no doubt have informed him that he was at breaking point, that denying his needs was taking a physical toll on him, if he’d still been seeing her. She’d been right about more than a few things. Certainly, she’d been right that the weekly sexual escapades with faceless women would eventually cease to satisfy him. Just ashe’dbeen right to warn her he’d never see her again if she kept up the sexy come-ons and he fucked her. She’d kept them up. He’d fucked her on every surface in her office. And then walked away.

Which was a shame because she’d been marginally useful on the rare occasions he needed to unburden. She would’ve been useful now. Because he was stroking the edge of his endurance. And something had to fucking give.

The inner door creaked wider, and he tensed. But the words hammered relentlessly through his brain.

Seven Nights.

Seven Highs.

Could he do it? Take what he needed and walk away after? If the cracks were showing enough for his friends to be worried, he was in deep shit.

Seven Nights.

Seven Highs.

He could carry on as he was, ignoring the ache shredding his gut and the need fucking with his brain. Or he could grow some balls and do something about it.

2

Leia Michaels zipped the empty suitcase, put it away and looked around the large luxury cabin on the jumbo A380 she’d boarded half an hour ago. The privacy-loving freak in her had declined the services of her personal valet and unpacked her own clothes.

She was well aware that at some point she would have to let others serve her. The experience wouldn’t be the same if she insisted on doing everything for herself, as Warren, her guardian, had warned her.

And considering he’d curbed his objection when she’d splashed out on this insanely extravagant trip, the least she could do was make sure she got her money’s worth.

She steeled her spine against the gut-clenching knots she’d come to associate with separation anxiety.

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