For 100 Days(24)

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath as I swing my legs off the side of the mattress.

The urge to run is strong. How bad would it be if I just slipped out while he was in the shower? Will he even care? Maybe he’ll be relieved. After all, neither one of us came here with any expectations beyond last night.

I glance around for my clothes, then remember in vivid detail that Nick stripped them off me in front of the windows in the other room. Just the thought of his hands on me—his mouth on every inch of my bare skin—ignites a wanton stirring inside me. I sigh with the all-too-pleasant memory. I have a feeling I’ll be reliving last night in my mind, and in other body parts, for a damn long time.

Scooting out of the bed while the shower continues to run in the bathroom adjacent to the massive bedroom suite, I pad quickly into the living room to locate my clothing. Apparently, Nick’s been up for a while or else he doesn’t sleep much at all because it’s obvious he’s been out here while I slept. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee emanates from the kitchen. And instead of finding my jeans and sweater on the floor where they fell as he undressed me, they’ve been neatly folded and placed on a sleek white leather Barcelona chair. My lacy bra and panties rest on top.

I grab both and hastily put them on. By accident, I catch my reflection in the window glass and see the bed-tossed tangle of my pale blond hair. God, I don’t even want to think about what my face looks like after sleeping in yesterday’s makeup. To say nothing of my breath.

“There’s coffee ready if you want some.”

Nick’s deep voice behind me halts me where I stand, half-dressed, my jeans pulled midway up my thighs. I wince, forcing a light tone into my voice as I look at him over my shoulder. “Oh . . . thanks. But, ah . . . I really need to go.”

Arms folded over his chest, he’s standing in the open doorway of the bedroom in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs that cling sinfully to his narrow hips and sinewy thighs. The fitted shorts do little to disguise the outline of his cock, which is strikingly large even at rest.

His black hair is damp from the shower and inky-dark. Just looking at him, I can feel the thick, silky waves against my fingertips.

I can still feel how smooth his tan skin is, how powerful his muscles feel under my hands when he’s moving above me . . . and inside me.

I clear my throat and go back to dressing. Anything to avoid his penetrating blue eyes that watch me from across the room. While I feel twitchy and self-conscious, Nick seems anything but. No, he’s utterly in control and comfortable in his own skin, qualities he’s demonstrated from the moment I first saw him.

With long-legged strides and a tight backside I can’t help but admire, he strolls past me, unfazed, while I pull my sweater over my head and try to make some sense of my bedraggled hair.

“Cream or sugar?” he asks, heading into the spacious kitchen.

“Um, both. Thanks.” As eager as I am to get away, I have to admit coffee sounds like heaven. And it won’t be a total hardship that I can continue looking at him while I drink it.

I drift after him into the kitchen and take a seat on one of the low-backed modern barstools on the opposite side of the counter. Turns out it’s the perfect vantage point for watching his back and shoulder muscles flex and contract as he pulls a pair of black mugs from a cabinet and starts filling them with coffee. I already knew he had an athletic, beautifully formed body. This morning, I have to correct that estimation. He is mouth-watering perfection.

I lick my lips, and not for the want of coffee. “Sorry I fell asleep. I didn’t mean to stay all night.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He pauses from adding cream and sugar to my cup, shooting me a heated look that makes my stomach flip. “In case you didn’t notice, I wasn’t in a rush to kick you out of bed.”

No, he wasn’t. He’d taken his time fucking me senseless, making me come over and over again until I finally lost count. He’d been tireless, insatiable.

To be fair, I was insatiable with him too. And I still am. I try to ignore the fact that my skin feels too tight beneath my clothing, my nipples erect and straining for more of his attention. Between my legs, I feel the dull, lingering ache that his cock left behind and it’s all I can do not to squirm and shift on the barstool.

“What I mean is,” I murmur, attempting to regain my composure as well as some control over the conversation, “I don’t want this to be awkward. Not for either one of us.”

“Is it?” His sharp blue eyes pierce me and don’t let me go.

It wasn’t. Not really. And I’m not quite sure what to make of that.