For 100 Days(23)

“Nick.” His name boils out of me on a low moan. “Nick, please . . . fuck me.”

His reply is wordless, a tight snarl that gusts against my parted lips. He lowers his head and stares at me from under the slashes of his brows, his hooded gaze primal and ravenous. His face is taut with visible strain, his squared jaw rigid as his nostrils flare with every ragged breath.

His hands come up to rest on my shoulders. Although his touch is gentle, I can tell his control is at its limit when he gives me a little shove, pushing me down onto my back on the mattress.

I scoot toward the center, quaking with anticipation. My fingers have made his dark hair a wild crown of disheveled waves that gleam bluish-black under the twinkling city lights outside the large bedroom windows as he begins to strip out of his clothing. His hands move roughly over the buttons of his shirt as he steps out of his shoes. The shirt is tossed aside a second later, revealing broad shoulders and a muscled chest that tapers to a perfectly cut abdomen. His pants go next, followed by dark boxer briefs that barely contain his engorged cock. He finishes undressing and stands before me naked and mouth-wateringly erect.

He is handsome from head to toe. In fact, he’s magnificent.

I realize I’m gaping, trying to decide what part of him I want to lick first.

I wait for him to climb onto the bed with me, but instead he seizes my ankles and drags me back to the edge of the mattress. His palms burn me where they settle on the tender insides of my thighs. He spreads me open. Then he lowers himself between my parted thighs and feasts on me with rough abandon.

“Oh God,” I whimper, thrashing under the skill of his mouth. It’s too much, and I’m too near the edge already. Pleasure ripples from my clit to my core. I’m breaking apart. About to shatter. “Oh, fuck. Nick, please . . . I’m going to come . . .”

“Yes,” he murmurs against my wet, quivering flesh. “Many times before we’re finished here tonight.”

True to his word, he shows me no mercy now. As I splinter in ecstasy against the ruthless stroking of his tongue, I distantly register the quiet rustle of a condom being opened. Then he’s at the soaking entrance of my body, the head of his cock pushing inside me.

He’s big and I’m long out of practice. Even primed for him by a pair of pretty amazing orgasms, I arch off the mattress on a soft cry as he thrusts inside. He stretches my tender walls, filling me completely.

“Ah, Christ, you’re tight,” he hisses beside my ear as he begins to piston above me. “Feels so fucking good. So hot and wet.”

His praise is like gasoline on the fire he’s already set inside me. I hold on to his shoulders as he drives deep, impaling me with long, breath-robbing strokes. Our tempo is fierce, frenzied. There’s no stopping the pleasure that rolls through me.

I don’t want to stop it.

I just want to feel.

For tonight, I just want to be free. From my past, and from all of the old ghosts I buried there.

I slide my hands down and sink my fingers into the firm muscle of Nick’s ass as he fucks me toward the crest of another ferocious orgasm.

I reach for it, and he gives it to me and then some.

Oh, yes. Nick Baine could very easily ruin me for anyone else.

Why that thought doesn’t terrify me, I don’t want to know.





Chapter 11



A wet, distant hiss invades my senses, drawing me out of an unusually heavy sleep. I lay curled on my side in the dark in the middle of a large, rumpled bed. Nick’s bed. I can smell him on the pillow beneath my cheek. His spicy, masculine scent lingers in my hair. On my skin.

I can feel the reminder of him in every dull, delicious ache of my spent body.

Memories of everything we did together flood in, and I can’t curb the satisfied smile that spreads over my face. I can’t deny that I’m hungry for him all over again, but when I stretch my arm out to search for his warmth, I find only cold, empty sheets. I’m alone in his bed and—

Wait. Is it . . . morning?

Startled by the thought, I lift my head, my eyelids snapping open. Yep, definitely morning. Quite early, from the look of it. Outside the windows, the muted glow of sunrise is barely a halo on the horizon behind the city skyline.

I stayed the night? I close my eyes on a groan. How the hell did I sleep so long?

Apparently, multiple orgasms and several hours of tireless sex in numerous creative positions will do that to a person. Not that I would know. Until last night, there was a lot I didn’t know. Sex with Nick has been a revelation on many levels. Each one more pleasurable than the next.

But that was last night. Now it’s the morning after, with all the discomfiture that comes with it. I never sleep over, especially with someone new. I hate the awkwardness that follows—the dread of seeing each other in broad daylight and pretending we’re not reliving the night before in a haze of embarrassment or regret. I hate feeling the need for obligatory promises to call each other or get together again soon, while one or both of us act like we’re not dying to bolt for the nearest door.