For 100 Days (100 1)

“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.

When I don’t respond, he walks over with the two cups of coffee and places mine in front of me on the counter. As he sets it down, my gaze snags on his right hand and wrist. More specifically, on a web of heavy scars that slash across the back of his hand and up his forearm.

I hadn’t noticed them last night. I’d been too nervous at the gallery to focus that closely. Later, here at his penthouse, it had been too dark and I’d been too blinded by pleasure and desire. Now that I have seen them, I can hardly tear my eyes away from them.

Horror swamps me instantly . . . followed by sadness.

He must have suffered a terrible accident of some sort. A long time ago, by the look of it. The scars are so severe, I have to guess the injury had nearly severed his hand and fingers.

When I look up, he’s staring at me in unreadable silence. I’m sure my own gaze is not so hard to decipher. I feel my expression sag in shock, in sympathy and anguish for whatever happened to him. He doesn’t invite my compassion, though. Certainly not my questions. His darkened, unblinking eyes seem to forbid it, in fact.

But he doesn’t pull away. He lets me take my fill, even while his grim face refuses to let me in.

I glance down, sipping the sweetened coffee to give me an excuse to break the tension. I’m also thankful to have something to do with my hands while I weather the weight of his inscrutable stare.

Finally, he speaks. “Tell me if that’s not how you like it.”

I manage a faint shake of my head. “No, it’s good. It’s perfect.”

He lifts his mug and his eyes hold me over the rim. “Creamy and sweet. My favorite combination as well.”

It’s a flirtatious statement since he’s drinking his coffee black. Although his voice is casual and calm, I know there’s something ugly behind his detached, unaffected exterior. Something much uglier than any physical scar I’ve just seen.

He’s damaged. When I recognize that in him, I feel something shift and soften inside me. I want to know what other scars he’s carrying, but I understand it’s not my place to ask. He wouldn’t tell me even if I did. I know this with the same certainty that I know I wouldn’t tell him about any of mine.

Maybe in time he might trust me enough.