The Casanova (The Miles High Club #3) by T.L. Swan

Daniel is hilarious, and we’ve been out to dinner every night, because apparently, he doesn’t ever feel like anything home-cooked.

We have champagne taste on a beer budget.

He’s announced that, by default, we are his official best friends now, seeing as he has nobody else in town. He even asked me to go to an event next week that he’s been invited to. I’m going as his date, but there is no date, it’s not like that between us.

I do have to admit though, he’s great company.

Oh, and surprise, surprise . . . nobody has messaged me on my dating app.

Just like I knew they wouldn’t.

I smile as I wriggle into my netball uniform.

I’m in the bathroom stall in my office building, work has finished for the day, and I’m playing netball at six-thirty, and there isn’t enough time to go home and get back into town.

I slide it down over my shoulders and cringe as I look at myself. “Oh . . . yuck,” I whisper. “This is hideous.”

Skintight, bright red, the dress sticks to my body like super glue and it’s super short.

I walk to the mirror to stare at my reflection. I look like a netball player in some sicko porn gang team skit.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Ugh, who picked these uniforms?” I sigh as I rearrange my boobs. “So ugly.”

I shrug my shoulders. Oh well. I pull my hair up into a high ponytail and make my way back to my office. It’s too early to go yet, so I’ll finish up some odd jobs while I wait.


I glance at my watch. Jameson and Tristan are here and have gone downstairs with Christopher. I’m just finishing up these reports and then we’re heading out. Running the London arm of Miles Media, one of the biggest media companies in the world, has its trials and tribulations. I get to be the boss, but with that comes a never-ending sense of responsibility.

My brother Jameson is the CEO of the United States company, and I oversee UK and Germany. We run France together. It’s a stressful role, but one that I enjoy immensely.

They’ve been ages, what the hell are they doing?

I click onto the security camera to see if they’re close; a collage of pictures comes up on my computer screen. I glance through them to see that they are on level one, and am just about to click out of it when something bright flashes in the bottom left of the screen, catching my eye.

What’s that?

I click to enlarge that screen for a closer investigation.

It’s a woman wearing a high ponytail—she’s in a bright red, Lycra sports dress . . . It’s fitted and all-in-one and has a little short flared skirt . . . Huh?

She has her back to the camera and is standing at a photocopier.

I study the screen to try and make out where the footage is from. It looks like . . . a photocopy room, maybe. I can’t quite place it, is she a cleaner or something? No, a cleaner wouldn’t be photocopying.

I’m confused.

I turn up the audio of that camera and I hear music; a man’s voice comes on.

“Good evening, you’re listening to Disco with Dave.”

The radio is playing.

“I’ve got your number tonight, groovy people. Get ready to party with the best disco tunes of all time,” his voice continues.

A song comes on, it’s catchy and familiar, although I can’t place it.

The woman in the short Lycra dress begins to wiggle her behind to the beat; she double-bumps to one side and then the other.

Hmm, interesting.

Leaning on my desk, I press my index finger along my temple as I watch her moving to “Ring My Bell.”

She’s really dancing as she photocopies and I smirk; my eyes drop to her long legs, which are muscular and shapely. Her waist is small and the curve of her hips is accentuated by the way she sashays from side to side.

Hmm . . .

I run the side of my finger over my lips and sit back, totally distracted by the hot ass bumping in the red dress.

The way she bounces to the beat is so joyful . . . She’s dancing like nobody is watching. Only I am, and it’s very . . .

She drops one of her papers and bends over with straight legs to pick it up; I get a full view of her tight ass in her tiny red Lycra shorts.

My cock twitches, my eyebrows rise in surprise, and I sit forward in my seat, my interest officially piqued.

She rolls her hips and a wave of arousal runs through me; I begin to hear my pulse in my ears. The way she dances and moves is so . . .