For 100 Days (For 100 Days #1)
by Lara Adrian
ebook, 375 pages
Published May 24th 2016 by Lara Adrian, LLC
ISBN139781939193124
Pleasure has a price . . .
Just when everything in my life is falling apart, I find a chance to turn it around--to step into someone else's glittering world, if only for a little while. I become someone new, no longer the woman defined by an ugly past, but a woman freer and bolder than myself. A woman who isn't afraid to explore every passion, even at its darkest, with a mysterious and seductive man who believes my mask is real.
Handsome and commanding, enigmatic and irresistible, billionaire Dominic Baine is an obsession I cannot afford and should not risk. He ushers me into consuming new pleasures and addicting new desires, until the line between my real life and the fantasy one I've stolen with him begins to blur.
I know I cannot keep my truth from him. I know my past will not stay buried forever. But before I can make it right, everything comes crashing down. I have deceived this powerful, dangerous man . . . and now there is a price to be paid.
Excerpt:
“Do you always charge forward without looking to see what’s in front of you? Or am I just the lucky one?”
His voice is even deeper than I’d imagined it, smooth and polished, but dark. I sense a challenge in the rough-edged growl, one that vibrates through me like a caress on bare skin.
He doesn’t smile as he says it. Not so much as a quirk in the sculpted line of his mouth. Nor does he do anything to make me feel at ease as I stare up at him in awkward, slightly tipsy, silence. Then again, all this man’s presence has done is unsettle me since I first laid eyes on him.
“Um,” I stammer belatedly. “Neither.”
His eyes don’t let me go. “Yet here we are. Déjà vu all over again, as they say.”
It takes me a moment to realize that he hasn’t removed his hand from my back. His touch lingers possessively and far too intimately for my liking, let alone for our surroundings.
And yet I do like it. I can’t seem to ignore the scorching presence of his palm where it rests just above the waistband of my jeans. I can feel everything—the breadth of his large hand and the strong lines of his fingers splayed across my lower spine branding me through the thick layer of my sweater. Each second of contact with him makes my nerve endings come alive, tingling with the need for more of his touch . . . to feel it everywhere on me.
Shit. If he can incinerate my defenses with a hot stare and a casual touch in public, I’m afraid to think what this man can do to me if we were alone. Or, rather, I should be afraid.
The emotion that swamps me as the flood of erotic possibilities fills my head is anything but fearful. It’s desire, plain and simple. As I stare up at him with that realization, the ache for more blooms even deeper inside me.
He’s devastatingly handsome, no doubt about that. But it’s the raw sexual energy radiating off every square inch of him that renders me stupidly silent in his presence.
With effort, I manage to mentally shake myself out of my daze. Heat rushes into my cheeks as his gaze continues to hold me captive. The intensity of his focus on me is blatantly sensual. It makes the crowded room seem too small and much too warm. As much as I’d like to think my sudden blush is purely from embarrassment, I know better.
Judging from the shrewd gleam in Mr. Baine’s eyes, he knows better too.
I’m making a fool out of myself.
Again with this man.
I groan inwardly, cursing the champagne. The crystal flute clutched in my hand, I move aside, just far enough to break the contact. “No more charging forward without knowing what’s in front of me. Or rather, who.” I give him a little salute with the empty glass. “Sorry. I’ll be sure I’m more careful in the future. You have my word.”
I’ve given him the opportunity to move on, but he doesn’t. I decide it will probably be wise for me to go instead, and I start to take the first step away.
“No need to apologize,” he says. Without asking, he takes the champagne glass out of my grasp and hands it off to a passing caterer. It’s an inexplicably intimate gesture, presuming he can look after me as if we are familiar with each other. His expression is equally intimate as his gaze bores into mine. “A little recklessness isn’t a bad thing. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a virtue.”
“I’m not reckless.” The denial blurts out of me on a frown.
Of all the foolish things I am or have ever been, reckless isn’t one of them. I never would have survived my childhood if I had been.
I pause, using the opportunity to take full measure of him in his crisp, long-sleeved black button-down shirt and dark, tailored pants. I already know he’s athletic, so I can only guess his body is as strictly disciplined as the rest of his flawless appearance. His chiseled face is clean-shaven, every inch of him impeccably groomed. Even those rebellious raven’s-wing waves seem tamed tonight.
And the way his piercing stare refuses to release me—just as his hand had lingered as if he had the right—I sense this man allows very little to escape his control.
Too late to keep the thought from turning carnal in my mind, I clear my throat and shrug as if he isn’t making me wonder what he’d be like in bed. I tilt my head to better assess him. “You don’t exactly strike me as the reckless type either, Mr. Baine.”
Now, at last, that sensual mouth curves into a slow smile. “We’ve only just met. Give me time.” He extends his right hand to me. “And call me Nick.”
His voice is even deeper than I’d imagined it, smooth and polished, but dark. I sense a challenge in the rough-edged growl, one that vibrates through me like a caress on bare skin.
He doesn’t smile as he says it. Not so much as a quirk in the sculpted line of his mouth. Nor does he do anything to make me feel at ease as I stare up at him in awkward, slightly tipsy, silence. Then again, all this man’s presence has done is unsettle me since I first laid eyes on him.
“Um,” I stammer belatedly. “Neither.”
His eyes don’t let me go. “Yet here we are. Déjà vu all over again, as they say.”
It takes me a moment to realize that he hasn’t removed his hand from my back. His touch lingers possessively and far too intimately for my liking, let alone for our surroundings.
And yet I do like it. I can’t seem to ignore the scorching presence of his palm where it rests just above the waistband of my jeans. I can feel everything—the breadth of his large hand and the strong lines of his fingers splayed across my lower spine branding me through the thick layer of my sweater. Each second of contact with him makes my nerve endings come alive, tingling with the need for more of his touch . . . to feel it everywhere on me.
Shit. If he can incinerate my defenses with a hot stare and a casual touch in public, I’m afraid to think what this man can do to me if we were alone. Or, rather, I should be afraid.
The emotion that swamps me as the flood of erotic possibilities fills my head is anything but fearful. It’s desire, plain and simple. As I stare up at him with that realization, the ache for more blooms even deeper inside me.
He’s devastatingly handsome, no doubt about that. But it’s the raw sexual energy radiating off every square inch of him that renders me stupidly silent in his presence.
With effort, I manage to mentally shake myself out of my daze. Heat rushes into my cheeks as his gaze continues to hold me captive. The intensity of his focus on me is blatantly sensual. It makes the crowded room seem too small and much too warm. As much as I’d like to think my sudden blush is purely from embarrassment, I know better.
Judging from the shrewd gleam in Mr. Baine’s eyes, he knows better too.
I’m making a fool out of myself.
Again with this man.
I groan inwardly, cursing the champagne. The crystal flute clutched in my hand, I move aside, just far enough to break the contact. “No more charging forward without knowing what’s in front of me. Or rather, who.” I give him a little salute with the empty glass. “Sorry. I’ll be sure I’m more careful in the future. You have my word.”
I’ve given him the opportunity to move on, but he doesn’t. I decide it will probably be wise for me to go instead, and I start to take the first step away.
“No need to apologize,” he says. Without asking, he takes the champagne glass out of my grasp and hands it off to a passing caterer. It’s an inexplicably intimate gesture, presuming he can look after me as if we are familiar with each other. His expression is equally intimate as his gaze bores into mine. “A little recklessness isn’t a bad thing. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a virtue.”
“I’m not reckless.” The denial blurts out of me on a frown.
Of all the foolish things I am or have ever been, reckless isn’t one of them. I never would have survived my childhood if I had been.
I pause, using the opportunity to take full measure of him in his crisp, long-sleeved black button-down shirt and dark, tailored pants. I already know he’s athletic, so I can only guess his body is as strictly disciplined as the rest of his flawless appearance. His chiseled face is clean-shaven, every inch of him impeccably groomed. Even those rebellious raven’s-wing waves seem tamed tonight.
And the way his piercing stare refuses to release me—just as his hand had lingered as if he had the right—I sense this man allows very little to escape his control.
Too late to keep the thought from turning carnal in my mind, I clear my throat and shrug as if he isn’t making me wonder what he’d be like in bed. I tilt my head to better assess him. “You don’t exactly strike me as the reckless type either, Mr. Baine.”
Now, at last, that sensual mouth curves into a slow smile. “We’ve only just met. Give me time.” He extends his right hand to me. “And call me Nick.”
Lara Adrian Bio:
LARA ADRIAN is a New York Times and #1 internationally best-selling author, with nearly 4 million books in print worldwide and translations licensed to more than 20 countries. Her books regularly appear in the top spots of all the major bestseller lists including the New York Times, USA Today, Publishers Weekly, Indiebound, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, etc. Reviewers have called Lara’s books “addictively readable” (Chicago Tribune), “extraordinary” (Fresh Fiction), and “one of the best on the market” (Romantic Times).
Writing as TINA ST. JOHN, her historical romances have won numerous awards including the National Readers Choice; Romantic Times Magazine Reviewer’s Choice; Booksellers Best; and many others. She was twice named a Finalist in Romance Writers of America’s RITA Awards, for Best Historical Romance (White Lion’s Lady) and Best Paranormal Romance (Heart of the Hunter). More recently, the German translation of Heart of the Hunter debuted on Der Spiegel bestseller list.
With an ancestry stretching back to the Mayflower and the court of King Henry VIII, the author lives with her husband in New England.
Visit the author’s website and sign up for new release announcements at http://bit.ly/LaraAdrianNews
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