For 100 Days (100 1)

If I thought for one second I would see Nick Baine again after tonight, aside from random passings through the lobby here and there these next four months, I might be tempted to take off my mask with him now. There’s a part of me that wonders if he can see through it anyway.

Inexplicably, I want him to try—the way he’d done back at the gallery in front of Beauty.

Dangerous thinking, especially when I can’t risk letting anyone get too close. I won’t risk it.

Especially with a man like Nick.

I tilt my head for a better look at the city below, and to escape the weight of all my secrets. Between the champagne that’s still swimming in my stomach and the vertigo-inducing height of the penthouse, I have to press my hand to my abdomen to ward off the feeling that I could fall. “What floor are we on?”

“Ninety-three,” he replies, his breath sifting in my hair. “Welcome to the top of the world.”

My words, served back to me in seductive invitation. He’s directly behind me now, having moved there soundlessly. As awestruck as I am by the incredible view, the feel of his warmth at my back—the knowledge that he’s close enough to touch me again—is a distraction to my senses that I can’t deny.

“Do you like it?” he murmurs, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders.

“Oh, yes.” I sigh the words as renewed heat chases through my veins.

He makes a low noise in the back of his throat as he frees the loose knot of my scarf and pulls the gauzy fabric away from my neck. My heated skin feels chilled, exposed. But only for a moment.

Skating one of his hands toward my neck, he gathers up my hair, sweeping it over my other shoulder to bare my nape to him. His mouth presses against that sensitive skin in a slow, sensual kiss. I moan with the pleasure of it, with the twisting anticipation of what’s to come.

His tongue teases my skin, one hand stroking my hair, the other moving around to the front of me to caress my breast over my sweater. His touch, his kiss, the warm, hard press of his athletic frame at my back . . . it’s all making me crazy with need. I suck in a ragged breath, my sex clenching with every heartbeat, my arousal turning molten all over again.

I can’t take the torment. He’s had me on the verge of coming since he touched me in the alley outside the gallery. Before then, if I’m being honest with myself. He’s had me thinking about getting naked with him since that first hot clash in the lobby downstairs.

I want to touch him too. I want his bare skin on mine. I want to feel his hard flesh inside me where the ache is becoming anguish. Dammit, I need to.

With trembling fingers, I reach down for the button on my jeans, intending to speed this along before I completely lose my nerve. Or my mind.

I fumble for less than a second before his hand closes over mine, stilling me. “I’ll do that.” He draws my hand away, bringing it to my side. “When I’m ready.”

I frown at the soft, but stern, correction. I’d expected him to pounce on me in frantic lust once we arrived

in his place. I thought we’d fuck, fast and furious, no need for foreplay after the steam we’re still carrying with us from the gallery.

I’d been prepared for that.

But not for this. He’s taking his time.

No—he’s not. He’s taking control.

Part of me bristles at the idea. He can’t know how deeply that unsettles me—the thought of surrendering my will to him or to any man—but right now it’s impossible to disapprove of anything Nick’s doing. My body is his, even if my thoughts flinch in rebellion.

Slowly, his body intimately close behind mine, he reaches for the hem of my sweater and slips his warm hands beneath it. The first skate of his palms on my skin makes me tremble. I pull air into my lungs, then release it on a shaky sigh as his touch moves higher, over my stomach, then up my rib cage to the filmy satin of my bra.

He cups my breasts, kneading both in his hands, his thumbs flicking over my erect nipples. I can’t bite back my moan as he caresses me into a state of quivering, shameless desire. I want more. Need more.

My sweater is gone in an instant, peeled off me and discarded beside us on the floor. He removes my bra with sure, agile fingers. Then he slowly turns me around to face him.

“Beautiful,” he utters in a thick rasp.

His face is all shadows and hard angles in the subdued light of the city behind us. But I see the flare of hunger in his eyes as they roam over me in slow, appraising study. He lifts one of my breasts in his palm, then bends his dark head and takes my nipple into his mouth. Pleasure arrows straight to my sex as he sucks and teases me with his tongue.

I bring my hands up to his hair and tunnel my fingers into the silky waves, holding on as he leaves one breast to torment the other. The ache between my thighs coils tighter with every flick of his tongue and each sharp, unexpected nip of his teeth. By the time he releases me, I’m panting swiftly, squirming where I stand and desperate to alleviate the yearning of my body for his.

Nick’s breath is racing too. He exhales a curse that sounds like a growl as he catches my mouth in a scorching kiss. His hands slide down to the front waistband of my jeans. I feel the pop of the button, the hard yank of the zipper. Then the caress of his strong fingers as he shoves the denim over my hips, along with my panties.

I reach for him, but he sinks down in front of me to remove my leather boots and peel my jeans the rest of the way off my legs. I’m naked in front of him now, and although I can’t ignore the sense of vulnerability that rushes over me, I feel no shyness whatsoever. How can I, when his gaze rakes my nude length with a hunger that I can feel in every electrified nerve ending in my body?