by Emerson Rose
The small elevator must be soundproof. It’s so quiet that I can hear myself breathing.
“You have a beautiful name,” he says.
A shiver races up my spine when I hear his ‘inside voice’ for the first time. It’s gravelly and deep and . . . sexy.
“Thank you. I didn’t catch yours.”
“I told you on the dance floor.”
“You did?” I search through my foggy brain, and after a few seconds of sorting, I remember him saying ‘King’.
“King? That’s your name?” I bite my lip and do my best not to giggle. If that isn’t ostentatious, I don’t know what is.
“Yes it is.” He knows I’m trying not to laugh.
“It’s all right. You can laugh. I know there aren’t many people with a name like that.”
“Is it short for Kingsford or something?” I can’t believe I’m being so brazen, teasing a man I don’t even know, but I’m tipsy. People blame a lot of things on alcohol. Now I know why.
“No, just King. My father thought the name would be commanding and bring me success.”
“And did it?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, as if success were something I could see on his face.
He raises his brows and the elevator doors open. He leads me out without answering.
If his expensive clothes and the obvious reverence of the people in this club mean anything, I think he’s done just fine with the name of King.
I look around the lounge and half expect the people to have glowing red eyes like the vampires in the Twilight movies. You could definitely film a vampire movie here. It’s so creepy.
It’s also much quieter up here, though not as quiet as the elevator. I can still hear the music from below—it’s just no longer deafening. We’re able to actually talk to each other.
“It was too loud to ask downstairs, but I would like to buy you a drink.” He holds up the bottle and glasses.
“You didn’t pay for that, so it’s not technically buying me a drink.”
“I don’t have to pay for something that’s mine. I own this club.” He winks and leads me around the edge of the room. The owner. I feel sort of stupid for worrying about him being a murderer for a second, but hey—a lot of murders are very successful people, right? Why is the owner of the most popular nightclub in Texas asking me to drink champagne with him in the VIP area of his club? Now all the veneration and dirty looks make sense. He’s a celebrity here.
Walking in these shoes is becoming more and more challenging. They’re killing my feet. I teeter and grip King’s hand a little tighter for balance. God, don’t fall down, Holland. Not right now.
“Are you alright?” He’s been one step in front of me, but he slows his pace to pull me in closer to his side.
“Uh huh. These shoes . . .” I roll my eyes and kick out my foot to show him what I mean. He frowns.
“Women put themselves through so much unnecessary torture to please men. Don’t get me wrong. Heels are sexy as hell, but if I were a woman, I’d say screw it. I’m wearing my boots.”
“Boots. Yeah, my cowboy boots are sounding pretty good about right now.”
“Hold on.” He stops right in the middle of the aisle, kneels down, and carefully sets the champagne bottle and glasses on the floor next to him. I hold his shoulder and watch him remove my shoes, in the bar that he owns, on his knees. Holy shit. Now everyone is staring and shooting daggers. He stands up, hands me my shoes, and gathers up the bottle and glasses again. Now that I’m my normal height, he is noticeably taller, and for a second, there are two of him, but they quickly blur back into one. Two wouldn’t be a bad thing. I could share a King copy with Savannah. I giggle to myself, and King tilts his head to the side and smirks. Oh Lord, I’m such a goner.
“I like your name.” I think I slurred that a little. Shit, I’m drunk.
“Thank you. I’m glad. I like yours too.”
“Your daddy’s smart.”
“Yes, he was smart. He’s been gone for two years now, but he taught me a lot.”
“I’m sorry.” We’re still standing where he removed my shoes when he makes me feel like a little kid by pressing a kiss on my forehead. It’s ironic, because he would probably consider me a kid if he knew how old I really am.
I moan in relief when I take a step without my shoes, and King glances at me sideways. His dark eyes are full of desire, or at least I think it’s desire. I’ve never really seen desire, but if I had to guess . . . yeah, that’s desire. I’ve never had someone react to my voice like that. It’s empowering and a little bit exciting and, God, I think I suddenly have a fever.
Halfway around the circumference of the club, he releases my hand and motions for me to sit in a plush, crescent-shaped booth. We sit, and I lay my phone on the cushion and toss my shoes on the floor.
“Where did you come from?” he asks, glancing at me quickly out of the corner of his eye while he opens the bottle of champagne.
“I was born in here in Austin.”
I wait quietly, watching as he expertly pops the cork and pours it into the glasses on the low cocktail table in front of us. “I wasn’t actually asking geographically. It was more of a where have you been all my life sort of question. I didn’t want it to sound cheesy, but I think that backfired.”
The corners of his lips lift slightly as he hands me a glass and taps it against mine.
“To interesting names,” he says.
I’ve seen people do this in movies, so I repeat what he’s said.
“To interesting names.” I raise the glass to my mouth, but I stop when he doesn’t do the same. He’s looking at me, but it feels more like he’s looking into me.
“What?”
“Your eyes . . . they’re haunting.”
Haunting? I’ve been told my eyes were a lot of things, but never haunting. They’re an interesting shade of grey, which is odd for someone with a black daddy and a white mama, who both have brown eyes. I’ve always thought they were a little big for my face, but haunting? That’s new.
“Um, okay. Is that a compliment?”
I watch the lump in his throat waver when he swallows the entire glass of champagne in one drink. When it’s gone, he nods.
“Yes, most assuredly a compliment, Holland. What do you do?”
What do I do? What do I do . . . shit, he means for a job or a career. I’m only nineteen. I don’t have a career yet; I haven’t even been to college, but I sure as hell can’t tell him that.
“I’m a musician. I play the violin.” Not a lie at all. He never asked what I do to earn money, and I do play on a professional level. I’m surprised when his face lights up.
“Impressive. What symphony are you with?” He would ask that. I just successfully dodged his first question without lying, but now I don’t have a choice. I have to . . . sort of.
“I’m hoping to be with the New York Philharmonic soon. I’m moving to New York in the fall.” Half-truth, half little white lie; works for me.
“You have to play for me sometime.” He means another time, as in he wants to see me again. My tummy flops and I down my champagne.
“Sure.” I rub the palm of my free hand on my thigh. He’s watching me again—I feel it, but I can’t look directly at him. I just lied to him—a stranger, essentially, but I lied just the same, and that’s not like me.
“I’d like to do something, Holland. I need to go out for a smoke, but I’m going to kiss you first.”
I give my eyes to him now. He wants to kiss me. He wants to kiss me! He wants to put his mouth on mine. I nod my head up and down because I can’t speak. I would very much like for this beautiful man to give me my first kiss I can’t believe this is happening.
He scoots toward me until there is no one else—nothing else, just King and me—in this moment right now. I watch him remove the glass from my hand and set it on the table next to his. He cups my face and watches his thumb brush against my lips. When he meets my ‘haunting’ eyes, a shockwave like I’ve never expe
rienced races through my body. I blame alcohol for the overwhelming urge to climb into his lap and straddle his hips. I want his hands all over my skin. I want . . . his lips meet mine, and his hand slides behind my neck into my damp hair, pulling me closer—but not close enough. I don’t think there is a close enough. He leads and I follow. I more than willingly allow him to guide me wherever he wants to go. Kissing, kissing and more gentle kissing. My pulse begins to whoosh in my ears with every beat of my heart as I push my fingers through the soft curls at the nape of his neck. His tongue slowly slides past my lips. Oh, God. This feels so good, so very good. How do people ever stop doing this? How have I never started doing this?
His hand slides down my neck to the bare skin at the small of my back, and his fingers easily dip below the low waistline of my jeans. I pull away for a breath, but a moan escapes instead. Did I really just moan? The kiss deepens, and I have no control over what happens next—it just happens. King pulls me into the straddling position I was dying to be in just seconds ago and slides his hands under my ass. He pulls me flush against his chest and effortlessly stands to carry me across the bar, tangled with and clinging to his body without breaking the kiss. My eyes are closed while he carries me through a crowd of strangers, and for the fourth or fifth time tonight—hell, in my lifetime—I don’t care what’s happening. I don’t care what other people are thinking or what they’re saying. I’m only interested in pleasing one person other than myself, and his hands are plastered on my ass. I want this, whatever this is. I’ve been saving my body for a magical moment, a moment I always thought would be after college when I’m married and successful, but nope, that’s not happening. This is happening.
King moves fluidly around the tables and chairs, avoiding people—or perhaps they are avoiding us. I don’t know, because my eyes are closed and his mouth is consuming mine in a Gone with the Wind-worthy kiss.
When he stops, a loud buzzing sound startles me and I tighten my legs around his waist and fist his hair with both hands, but he doesn’t let go. My lips have found a home they never want to leave.
Click. Two steps through a door, and he has my back pressed against a wall. He takes advantage of having his hands free and pushes his fingers through my hair. This kiss is quickly approaching a nine on the Richter scale for the most earth-shattering kiss in history.
It’s quiet here—wherever here is—so quiet I can only hear our jagged breathing and the sound of our tongues exploring each other’s mouth. My heart is pounding against my chest so hard that I’m sure King can feel it. I think that’s my heart, anyway—maybe it’s his—it’s hard to tell where I end and he begins.
I can feel King’s hard length growing between my legs, causing a mixture of panic and need to materialize from nowhere. I’ve never been intimate with a man. These feelings are so foreign that I’m not sure what to do with them. Now that we’re alone, it all feels too real. Part of me wants him to just take our clothes off, and the other part would be happy staying just like this, kissing and touching and moaning. Oh, never mind. I need his skin on mine. Who am I kidding?
I open my eyes, intending to communicate this latest decision to King, but instead I blink and then blink again, opening them wide trying to see. Everything's so blurry. It’s no use. I’m buzzed, or maybe a little more than buzzed. I think I may be full-on drunk.
We’re alone, totally isolated from everyone in the club. King opens his eyes and stops kissing me. His lips hover over mine, just barely touching, breathing in my tiny, panting breaths that aren’t oxygenating my brain nearly enough. He narrows his eyes and presses one last, gentle kiss on my swollen lips before pulling away.
“Are you okay? Is this okay?” His hands relax in my hair and his thumbs caress my temples.
“Where are we?” I whisper. I squint my eyes, trying to look around the dimly lit living room that is annoyingly tilting ever so slightly to the left.
“My apartment. I live here right now.”
“In a bar?” I tuck my chin against my chest and look at him through lazy lids and thick lashes.
“Yes.” He chuckles and touches the tip of his nose to mine. He lives above a bar. What kind of person lives above a club? I straighten my legs and slide down the wall. King moves closer, supporting me until my bare feet touch the floor. With no heels on, I’m now face to face with a lovely sternum and pecs wrapped in a fitted sapphire blue shirt. I try to take a step away from him to explore this apartment over a club, and I stumble. His arms steady me for the second time tonight.
“You’re not used to drinking, are you?”
“Um, no. Actually, I never drink.” I shake my head back and forth like a bobble head doll—or maybe more like a person with Parkinson’s disease—and it makes me dizzy.
“I think you should sit down.” He frowns and takes my elbow to lead me to a large couch.
“That’s a king-sized couch ya got there.” I giggle at my little joke, and we don’t sit so much as collapse onto the couch, facing each other on our sides. My giggles keep coming, and after a while, I can’t decide if they’re a result of my drunkenness or anticipation of what’s coming next . . . probably both.
He props himself up on his elbow and lifts his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head. Then he smiles down at me, and I reach out to stroke the scruff on his angular jaw. I examine it closely, smoothing it out and then ruffling it up, and I realize he’s searching for my eyes again. He’s the only thing that’s in focus. Everything else in the room is hazy and unclear.
I know I’m drunk and all, but I am positive there is a higher level of connection going on between us than normal. I’ve never been this close to a man other than my father, so I have nothing to compare this moment to, but something tells me it’s important, unique. I continue to stroke his face, bringing my other hand up to explore as well.
His hand covers one of mine. Bringing it to his mouth, he kisses my sensitive palm, flooding me with more new feelings and emotions. His warm, sultry eyes are trying to read my mind, but he’s frustrated. Does he know? How could he know? Does he feel my innocence . . . my inexperience?
“When I saw you on the dance floor tonight, I was taken with the way you seemed to feel the music.” He kisses the tip of each of my fingers one by one between his words, causing tiny electric jolts to shoot up my arm to my chest.
“I never leave Ecstasy’s VIP floor, but something about you called to me. I had to see if you were real,” he says, following his hand with his eyes as it drifts to my hip and then down my thigh, until he hooks it behind my knee and pulls my leg over his.
We’re so close, I’m having trouble focusing with all the heat swirling between us. I flop onto my back and pull my leg off of his.
“I’m real, all right . . . real drunk.” I flop my arm over my eyes and the giggles return.
“Holland, before we go any further, I want to make sure you’re protected. I just flew in this afternoon, and I don’t have anything on me.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about for a second. Protected from what? He doesn’t have what . . . oh, birth control . . . he means birth control. I’ve had endometriosis since I started my periods when I was thirteen. That counts, right? I hope so, because I’m not stopping this now.
I peek out from under my elbow and melt into the cushions of King’s king-sized couch when I see him smiling at me. It’s a beautiful smile, full of perfect, white teeth and full, soft lips. I think I may love this man’s smile. I nod to answer his question.
“You’re sweet.” He blinks slowly, and those amazingly long lashes seem to brush against his cheeks.
“You said that before.”
“Yes. Yes, I did, and I was right. You’re very sweet.” He leans over me until his lips softly brush against mine. An unfamiliar heat smolders just below the surface, waiting for a fire to catch. Our kisses bloom into so much more than mere kisses, and he celebrates every curve and dip of my body as our heartbeats synchronize. My head spins as he kisses a trail down t
he side of my neck. He nudges the strap of my tank top with his lips until it slides off of my shoulder, causing gooseflesh to spread across my skin. His warm, roaming mouth commands control of me. I can’t even breathe. A whimper slips from my lips, and I can’t organize two thoughts in a row to even know what this feels like. Something intense and exhilarating deep inside has been awakened, and I can’t stop it—I can’t even slow it down. I need him closer to me. I need his skin against mine.
His shirt is unbuttoned—I think I did that. When I push it off of his shoulders, he moans. He slides his hand across my bare midriff under the hem of my tank top, working the damp material upward. Our mouths part just long enough for him to pass it over my head and toss it somewhere behind me. A powerful aura flows from every pore of his body into mine when our skin connects. We gasp for breath, panting into each other’s open mouth, and we pause for several pounding heartbeats before King slows our pace. His fingers trail over the curve of my hip until he skims my breast, testing my boundaries.
I’ve never done this before. Do I really want to now? I’m filled with alcohol, and I can’t think straight with King’s energy surrounding me. My body has no doubt as to what should happen next, and honestly, my head isn’t far behind, but there is still part of me—the sensible part that is being crowded into the corner of my mind—that is saying this is too much, too fast.