For 100 Days(67)

He shrugs, yet there is something in his eyes that seems anything but nonchalant. “I survived. The scars are just a reminder of my stupidity and arrogance. Anyway, I doubt I could find many people to feel sorry for me now.”

I do, but I don’t say the words. I know he would reject my sympathy. He sure as hell doesn’t want pity. But my heart aches for what he must have suffered. The horror of the accident. The pain of the recovery. The permanent reminder of all of it.

I reach across the table and rest my hand over his damaged one. He doesn’t pull away, but the look he gives me is flinty and forbidding. It’s shuttered, as if he’s given me all he intends to right now and if I push, I’ll never hear anything more.

I’m spared from the temptation when our dinners arrive. They are every bit as delicious as our appetizer, and, for a while, Nick and I content ourselves with savoring our meals. Nick orders a bottle of white wine for us even though a quarter of the bottle of champagne still sits on ice in the bucket beside our table.

We chat about small things as we eat and drink our wine. To my delight, halfway through our meal, a five-piece Cuban band arrives and sets up nearby. I guess the youngest of the musicians to be in his fifties, with the rest of the group seeming at least a decade or two older than him.

The men begin playing a sultry song that sets my sandaled foot tapping beneath the table and my shoulders swaying slightly to the melody. When I catch Nick watching, a wave of self-consciousness sweeps over me.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He considers me for a moment, then sets his napkin next to his plate and stands up. He holds his hand out, palm up. “Come with me.”

“Uh, what?”

“Dance with me.”

We’re not the only ones who’ve decided to enjoy the music on the small area of the patio cleared for dancing, but I still feel every pair of eyes on us as Nick waits for me to take his hand and join him. Reluctantly, because I can’t imagine refusing, I ease up from my seat and place my hand in his.

He leads me over and draws me against him, his hand resting lightly at my back, the other clasped loosely around mine. Neither one of us are going to win any rumba awards, but then, it’s not as if we’re trying to impress anyone. We move together, gazes locked, bodies brushing to the rhythm of the sexy song.

It feels good to be close to him, moving with him as one. His eyes hold me captive in flickering light of the tiki torches, his scent intoxicating me even more than the wine. I want him desperately, and I can sense his arousal, too, even before I feel the growing evidence of it at my hip.

His hand slides down my spine, then over the curve of my ass. I know what he’s thinking as his touch lingers there, possessive and unapologetic. My bare flesh trembles beneath my short skirt, every inch of me aching for him.

Nick lowers his head beside mine, and his lips graze the shell of my ear. His words send desire jolting through me. “Let’s get out of here.”





Chapter 27



We speed through the city on our return to the beachfront penthouse. Nick’s left hand is draped over the wheel, his right hand resting on the Aventador’s gear shift as the agile roadster prowls Miami’s brightly lit, teeming streets. I’m vaguely aware of the envious looks we inspire along the way, but all of my attention is fixed on the sexy-as-sin man seated beside me.

I’m leaned toward Nick as best I can in the deep bucket seat, my hand splayed over his powerful thigh. Each flex of his muscles as he accelerates or downshifts makes me hotter to have him. Every brief, fevered glance he sends my way makes my stomach flutter eagerly and my sex coil with hungered anticipation of the moment I can have him inside me again.

“Are we almost there?” I ask, hearing the rasp of desire in my own voice.

“Oh, baby, we’re not even close.” Nick slants me a dark, devilish look. “The apartment, however, is only ten minutes away.”

I smile at his teasing and decide to do a little of my own.

“Ten whole minutes? I’m not sure I can last that long without touching you.”

I run my palm higher on the inside of his firm thigh until my hand grazes the bulge of his erection. I caress between his legs, cupping his balls and relishing the sudden kick of his breathing. His shaft swells even harder under my roving touch, his thigh muscles quivering as I move my fingers over him. His reaction makes me bolder, so I lift my arm out from under the shoulder strap of my seat belt and pivot closer, my caress growing shameless.

As we roll to a red light at an intersection crowded with people, my mouth is only inches from his ear. “I’m not sure I can last ten more minutes without tasting you, Mr. Baine.”