Page 83 of White Lies

I’d hurried into the house, and once there, I’d taken in the stunningly gorgeous house, the pale wooden floors, the high ceilings, layers of beautiful decor and fixtures as complex as the man and all he made me feel. I’d turned to face him.“It’s a beautiful house, Nick. It smells like you.”

“And how do I smell, Faith?”

“Like control. Like sex. Woodsy and sexy.”

“And you, sweetheart, smell like—”

“Amber and vanilla,” I’d said before he could say roses. Or flowers. Because the last thing I wanted to be reminded of that night was the garden at the winery—my mother’s garden.

“Yes,” he’d confirmed, “you do. And I’m obsessed with your scent. I’m obsessed withyou.”

“Obsessed,” I’d said. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It is dangerous.”

Dangerous.

I blink with that word, and in contrast to the reaction you’d think that word would evoke, I snuggle a little closer to Nick, my hand on his where it rests on my belly. And yet as I shut my eyes again, that word echoes in my mind, and I don’t know why.

Dangerous.

Dangerous.

Dangerous.

Sex is safe. It’s just sex. It’s just fucking. Or it was with Macom. It was supposed to be with Nick. But now there is a new hard rule: possibilities, and possibilities are dangerous. They expose me in ways I don’t know if I want to be exposed. And yet I crave every one I might have with Nick. In other words:Nick is dangerous.

Letting him get too close isdangerous.Maybe that’s what I’ve been trying to capture in my paintings of him. Nick Rogers is dangerous. He has secrets. He’ll discovermy secrets. He once told me that he wanted to see the woman behind the wall. The real me, stripped bare and not just exposed.Willinglyexposed. Will I ever be willingly exposed?

Do I dare?

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. 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 itwith Nickand 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 thatThe Grudgehorror 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 on the nightstand there are chocolate croissants 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 zing 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 liqueur,” he says.

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