Page 1 of Claiming Atlas

Chapter One

Atlas

If Las Vegas isn’t the cure, I don’t know what is. I need a distraction, something—orsomeone—to take my mind off this constant feeling of unrest.

I’m bored out of my fucking mind.

And that’s a problem.

What kind of prick travels the world doing what they love, what they dreamed of their whole life, andstillisn’t happy?

Me. I’m that kind of prick.

I rise, stretching my legs. I never have been able to sit still for very long. Virgin Atlantic offers the perfect solution for restless people like me: you just can’t beat a bar on an airplane. It gets you out of your seat and fills your belly with booze. What could be better?

Pussy. A good fuck is better than a belly full of booze. But I’m in the mood for both.

A woman sits at the bar, her nose in a book and her jet black hair pulled tightly into a bun. Her red pinstriped suit jacket dips in at the waist, then spans out above a plump ass in a matching skirt. I let my gaze dip lower to her feet below the barstool. Black high heels cap off perfectly pale legs, crossed neatly at the ankles. A black pinstripe stretches up the back of each leg, disappearing into her skirt.

I’m going to reinstate my mile high club membership on this flight.

“Can I help you?” the in-flight bartender asks, drawing my attention away from the woman at the bar.

I raise my bottle of Dom in the air and wink as I bring the bottle to my lips. He scowls his disapproval, then resumes his work behind the bar. I take a long drink, step up beside the woman and set the bubbly on the bar, then slide it toward her. Sharing is caring.

She glances up from her book long enough to acknowledge the champagne bottle, giving me an unobstructed view of her blood red pout. Lips so luscious they could lure a celibate monk to the dark side. She frowns at my bottle of Dom, but she somehow manages to make the motion look sexy. “No, thank you. I’m good with myglass.” She taps the base of the flute with her fingernails as if to show me that champagne belongs in a glass.

Her bright red fingernails match her lips, but unlike her soft, full lips, her nails are long and slightly pointed like claws. She’s the perfect contradiction, all sharp edges and plump clouds. I’d like to fuck her until those nails tear into the skin of my back. I lick my lips and bring the bottle to my mouth once more. “Where are you headed?”

“Las Vegas.” She says this with such boredom, like I must be a total moron since this plane is set to land in Vegas in an hour. Hey, she could have a connecting flight at McCarran. How the hell am I supposed to know?

“Cool.” I crane my neck to see if there’s anyone more suitable to talk to in economy. The curtain is closed, but I could always just walk back there. It’s a flight to Vegas, for fuck’s sake. There’s got to be at least one more hot chick on this plane. Maybe I can get Red to drag his ass back to coach and recruit some clientele—

The woman clears her throat.

I look back at her and her blue-gray gaze meets mine, one eyebrow raised.

I flash her a wide grin. “I’m Atlas Reynolds.” Extending my hand, I wait for her eyes to widen at the mention of my name. Everyone knows who Banging Cade is.

She glances down at my hand, then back up at me. “Your nails are black. Are you a mechanic?”

I look down at my hand still hanging between us, then bring it up to inspect my nails. Black polish is stuck around the edges of my fingernails. I was still half-drunk when I scratched it off this morning. I laugh and settle my hand around the bottle. “No, I am not a mechanic.”

She reaches for my free hand and startles me when she wraps her fingers around my palm, turning my fingertips toward her to look them over. “Not a mechanic, so that’s not grease.” She inspects my hand further, and her brow furrows as she looks up at me through thick black lashes. “Nail polish?”

I nod, smirking.

“Black nail polish... callused fingertips...” she whispers the words as she trails her soft, completelyun-callused fingers over mine. Her touch sends a spark straight up my arm and right down into my dick. “Should ‘Atlas Reynolds’ ring a bell?”

She says my name like it’s an invitation.

I haven’t been laid since the night of our gig in Boston, and that was like, six whole days ago. I swallow hard. She catches the movement and a slight smile cracks that stony façade. She’s into me. That uptight suit and bun-thing had me fooled, but this chick is down to fuck, and my first night in Vegas is going to be just the distraction I need.

I lick my lips and clear my throat. She’s running her fingers over my palm and down my arm, and this might be the most torturous thing I’ve ever experienced. Each gentle graze of her fingertips might as well connect directly with my cock.

“Can I get you another glass of champagne, Miss?” one of the stewards asks as he steps behind the bar. When she doesn’t respond, he looks at me, then at our hands, then at the side of this woman’s head. His lips twitch, but he doesn’t say another word. He starts to step out from behind the bar—

“A blanket,” she says, her eyes locked on mine. “It’s a bit chilly in here, don’t you think?” She releases my hand and reaches for the bottle of champagne on the bar. “And another bottle of Dom.” She raises her brows as she brings the bottle to her lips, and I nod.

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