My lashes open, and this time there is a beam of bright sunlight in my eyes, and I no longer feel Nick behind me. Rolling over, I find the space next to me empty. I glance at the clock that reads ten o’clock and suck in air. Oh no. I fell back to sleep and stayed asleep a long time. I sit up, frustrated with myself. I’m supposed to fly home today and I’ve wasted the little time I have with Nick in bed without him. Tossing aside the covers, I assume he’s up, dressed, and busy by now.
I start to get up, and my gaze lands on that card from my father, a knot forming in my chest. What does it say that I want to open it with Nick and have him spank me, to deal with the emotional explosion to follow? I wouldn’t even tell Macom about that card. Never. Ever. In a million years. And I would not invite him to spank me to deal with it. Sex with Macom was the wall Nick talked about me putting up, a big, thick emotional wall I didn’t even recognize until near the end of our relationship. Macom never knew it existed. And yet Nick knew from the moment he met me. And sex with Nick is raw and real. So damn raw and real that it is terrifyingly addictive.
I throw away the blankets and stand, feeling naked and exposed beyond the physical with Nick, and in some ways, I’m not sure I have ever felt naked and exposed with anyone. And I’ve been in some pretty intense, naked positions with Macom, that’s for sure. I’m halfway across the room when footfalls sound on the steps, and I react to that emotion, darting forward and into the bathroom, where I grab my robe and pull it on, swiping at the wild mess on my head. And oh God. Why do I look like that Ring horror chick again, with mascara under my eyes? I need new makeup.
It’s in that moment that Nick steps into the doorway, his broad shoulders consuming its width, his fierce masculinity consuming me. And while last night he was the picture of corporate power in a blue suit, refined with that hard, alpha edge of his, today, in black jeans, a black t-shirt, and biker boots, a light stubble on his jaw, his longish hair barely contained in a tie at his nape, he personifies that raw, real feeling of every touch and kiss that we share. Most definitely the ones we shared last night. I swear even the coffee cup in his hand somehow makes him sexier. I really, really think I need to lick him all over after watching him undress.
“Hi,” I say, not even sure why that’s what comes out of my mouth.
“Hi,” he says, his eyes lighting. “You’re looking bright-eyed this morning.”
I laugh and shake my head, pointing at my cheeks and then turning to the mirror, hands pressed to the counter. “This is your fault,” I say, looking at myself and then him. “I’m always naked and in bed before I get my makeup off.”
He saunters toward me, setting the cup on the counter. “I’d apologize,” he says, “but I just can’t be sorry.” His hands find my waist, and he turns me to face him, his touch somehow more electric than ever before, the collision of our eyes, which is always intense, now downright combustible. “I like you naked and in my bed too much,” he adds, a rough quality to his voice that is somehow both silk and sandpaper at the same time. And as we look at each other, there is something I cannot name expanding between us. Something happening between us. Something rich with those possibilities we’ve vowed to explore.
And suddenly, I can’t seem to catch my breath. “I…uh…” I swallow hard. “It turns out I sleep really well in your bed, when I haven’t been sleeping well really ever.” That confession is out before I can stop it, exposed all over again, and in turn, I change the subject, “Why didn’t you wake me up? My flight—”
“Your flight leaves when I say it leaves, and I didn’t wake you up because I like you in my bed.” He reaches for the coffee cup. “I made this special for you, and there are chocolate croissants on the nightstand that I had delivered from the bakery on the corner.”
“Thank you,” I say. “For an arrogant bastard, you’re very considerate.”
“Let’s keep that as our secret,” he says. “I don’t want anyone but you believing I’ve grown a heart.” I’d ask if he has, but he quickly, almost too quickly, moves on, offering me the cup. “Try it.”
I accept the cup, my gaze lowering as the brush of our fingers sends a rush of sizzling heat rushing up my arm, and I wonder if Nick feels what I feel. This crazy, fierce magnetic pull that wants me to just melt into him. I take a sip, the secret rich beverage surprising my taste buds, my gaze lifting to his. “Is that Baileys I taste?”
“You know your whiskey,” he says.
“Only the sweet-tasting, wonderful stuff, like Irish cream,” I say. “And are you trying to get me drunk? Because you know I’m a lightweight. Or if you don’t know, you’re about to if I finish this.”
“Nothing wrong with a little buzz,” he says, stroking my cheek, his tone sobering. “We need to talk, sweetheart, and I thought I’d help you relax a little in advance.”
My defenses prickle, and the fear that I’ve read him wrong, us wrong, comes at me hard and fast. “Nick, if you regret last night and that talk of a new hard rule—”
“I don’t,” he says, taking the cup from me and setting it down. “We need to talk about the winery, and I need to be your attorney for a few hours. And I know that’s not easy territory for you. It’s not going to be easy territory for us.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” he says, cupping my face. “Sweetheart, I am an arrogant bastard. A ruthless, arrogant bastard.”
“Your point?”
His lips curve. “Your point,” he says, at my obvious agreement. “My point,” he says, softening his voice, “is that all the good that is in me is here with you—hell, maybe because of you. So, I don’t just want those possibilities. I’m pretty damn sure that I need them, which means you. Stop looking for the bad. Unless you—”
“I don’t want to back out,” I say, realizing only then how much I mean that statement. “Hard rule: possibilities.”
“Good,” he says, his hands settling back on my waist. “Drink your coffee. Take a hot bath if you want, and relax. No one uses that tub, so you should. There’s no rush. I’ll be in the kitchen at the bar working when you’re ready. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, and then he’s releasing me and walking to the door, gone before I can stop him, though I’m not sure why I want to. I just do. I want to pull him back, but he disappears. I inhale as he departs and face the counter, staring at my mascara-stained face, which he actually seems to find acceptable. Macom would not have thought this was acceptable, and I think back to all the times I thought I was raw and real with Macom. I was never real with Macom, and as for raw, well, perhaps, but in a cutting, harsh way, not like what I have with Nick, which I can’t even name or truly describe.
But if that is what Nick wants, raw and real, then raw and real means he’s willing to let me see all those hidden pieces of himself I try to paint. And if he lets me see his, I’ll need, even want, to show him mine. But I’m not sure I can take that risk, even with him. Even if I want to. And I do. I want to trust Nick. Maybe I can. Maybe he can handle all of me. Maybe I need to know before I get any further in this. Or maybe not. Maybe I just need to enjoy him while I can.
CHAPTER THREE
Faith
Maybe I will enjoy him while I can.