For 100 Nights (100 2)

Maybe even that he loves me a little bit too.

It’s not much to cling to.

But tonight, with my hideous past looming and the troubling words of Nick’s former lover still echoing in my ears, what I have with him here and now is enough.

Chapter 17

When we step into the elevator together that next morning, Nick’s hand rests possessively on the curve of my backside. He’s dressed for the office in an impeccably tailored dark gray suit and tie, while I’m headed for the studio wearing a loose white T-shirt and faded, torn jeans cuffed over lace-up summer flats.

As the doors slide shut and we descend toward the lobby, he draws me against him, sealing his mouth over mine in a bone-melting kiss.

“I want to take you to dinner tonight,” he murmurs against my lips. “And then I want to bring you back home and devour you. From this wicked mouth to your sweet, greedy little pussy and your very delectable, very fuckable ass.”

I smile up at him. “Why, Mr. Baine, you’re making me blush.”

His gaze smolders. “And you’re making me hard, Ms. Ross.”

“After last night and again this morning, I don’t know how you could be.”

He smirks. “When I find something I enjoy, I give it my all. And making you come is most certainly something I enjoy,” he says, slipping both hands into my back pockets and pulling me into the firm ridge of his erection.

I laugh, but it dissolves into a moan as Nick squeezes my ass and licks his tongue into my mouth with deep strokes that leave me breathless. Like him, I am far from sated, even though our passion reached erotic new heights last night. If anything, I only want him more. I want him in every way, with a need that is only deepening every moment we’re together.

I would let him take me right here, right now. There’s a wanton, reckless part of me that’s tempted to beg him to, but in that same moment the soft chime of the elevator announces that we’ve reached the lobby. On a low, predatory growl, Nick releases me and we step out together.

Manny stands at the building entrance, assisting one of the residents inside. He smiles and nods to us in friendly greeting as we approach. Patrick waits beside the car, which idles beneath the glass overhang outside.

“Glorious day today, isn’t it, Miss Avery, Mr. Baine?”

“That it is,” Nick replies, guiding me out to the car ahead of him.

Manny gets the back door for us and I slide in, making room for Nick beside me. As we settle in, Patrick gets seated behind the wheel, smiling at me in the rearview mirror as he bids us a good morning. Nick gives him instructions to drop me at the studio first, lacing his fingers through mine as he speaks.

As we begin to pull out of the porte cochère, I don’t know what draws my attention to the other side of the street—not at first, anyway.

But the instant I see Rodney, my blood freezes.

He’s standing on the other side of Park Avenue, leaning casually against a building and smoking a cigarette. I feel his dark gaze on me like the steely point of a dagger. A shudder races through me, leaving me cold and unmoving with alarm.

He wants me to feel this chill.

He wants me to know that he’s this close to me and that he’s not going away. Not until he gets what he came for.

Patrick turns out onto the avenue and we make our way across the traffic to change direction and head the opposite way. Our new course takes us directly past Rodney. My lungs seize. I know he can’t touch me, but that doesn’t stop my heart from banging like a caged bird in my chest.

As the limo rolls past the spot where he stands, I force myself to look anywhere but at him. I feign interest as Patrick jokes with Nick about the score of last night’s baseball game, but I’m hardly listening. All I can hear is the heavy drum of my pulse as the hairs on the back of my neck prickle with dread.

“They’d do a hell of a lot better if they had a pitcher who was less of a prima donna,” Nick says, his thumb stroking the back of my hand where it rests on his thigh.

He’s chuckling at something Patrick says when his phone begins to ring in his jacket pocket. He fishes it out with one hand and swipes the screen to answer the call. “Nick Baine. What?” His voice goes terse with impatience. “Try again. You’ve got the wrong number.”

Shaking his head, he glances at me as he slides the phone back into his pocket. “Some jackass calling to see if my piece of shit Honda is still in the shop.”

I blanch. The odd reference cannot possibly be coincidence.

No. Far from it.

That call was no wrong number; it was Rodney. There is not a shred of doubt in my mind.