by Emerson Rose
“Holland.” He moans my name between kisses, cutting my last thread of restraint. The niggling thought in the back of my mind evaporates—poof! Gone. My trembling fingers work to unbutton his jeans, and King moves to straddle me. His eyes are much darker now; all of the warm chocolate brown from earlier is gone, replaced by black desire and heat. He straightens up and laces his fingers with mine, spreading my arms out to my sides and baring my half-naked body. As his eyes wander over my skin, I can feel him memorizing me, burning every tiny birthmark and scar into his brain. His hungry gaze travels from my eyes to my mouth, where he lingers longest, and then to my breasts. I squirm under his stare right before his eyes settle on my tummy, where a diamond sparkles just above my navel. When our eyes connect again, I sense a moment of hesitance mixed with his passion, and I want to tell him not to stop.
“King,” I whisper, and he gently places one finger on my lips to quiet me. His powerful, chiseled body hovers over my soft curves, kissing and tasting, taking his time until he lands on a spot behind my ear that makes me quiver.
“Spot number one,” he murmurs in my ear and moves to press a long, lingering kiss with his velvety lips in the hollow of my throat. I moan and pull my legs around his hips, pressing my heels into the small of his back.
“Spot number two.” He pulls away and looks at me with satisfaction.
“That’s going to be a good one.” He smiles and stares at me for what feels like forever, and I think, my God, I need so much more, and he’s never going to move. But he does. He drags his tongue over the arc of my collarbone to my shoulder, where he stops to softly nip my skin between his teeth. When I gasp and tighten my grip on his hips with my legs, he informs me that this is indeed “Spot number three.” I’m dying to find out how many spots he’s going to assign numbers to.
He’s adoring me . . . cherishing every inch of me, and I just want him to rip my clothes off and take my virginity. God, just take it please. I groan and arch my back. Lifting my hips, I beg him without words to move faster, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he positions himself so that we are nose to nose. His eyes are closed, and I can feel his warm breath on my lips. He inhales a deep breath and slowly exhales, as if he’s trying to stay in control. When he opens his eyes, he reaches up to brush a stray piece of hair off of my forehead.
I’m seeing three of him now, and I can’t decide if this is a bad thing or a good thing. Supporting the weight of his body with his elbows on either side of my head, he slowly shakes his head back and forth, blurring my three Kings together into a blob until he stops and they all blend back into one.
“You’re so beautiful. There’s something different about you.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes to look deeper into mine.
“It’s something special—an innocence, a freshness I’m not used to feeling with women.” I worry my lip and wait for him to realize that I’m younger than I’ve advertised myself to be, but if he’s on to me, he doesn’t say anything. He leans back with his ass propped on his heels, and I fidget under his powerful gaze. He places his hand, palm down, between my breasts and drags it lazily over my hypersensitive skin to the jeweled button of my painted-on jeans.
“Spot number four?” he asks, feathering his fingers along the top of my jeans.
“Yes,” I whisper so quietly that I’m not sure he heard me until he bends to kiss spot number four.
“This is okay?” he asks, rising up off of me after shocking my entire system with a simple touch of his lips.
“Yes, please, King.” My words are his undoing. Something clicks, and slow adoration finally turns into a frenzy. He can’t peel my jeans off of me fast enough. He has to tug to get them past my ankles. Stupid tight jeans. When I’m completely bare, he stands at the edge of the couch, holding my eyes while he lowers his zipper. Now I’m nervous. This is real. He is real. It’s going to be real. He lowers his jeans and boxers, and I peek at his naked body but quickly close my eyes before I can completely process the vision. I end up feeling him more than seeing him at first. The quick look I did get of his lean, athletic body sends lightning bolts to my core and butterflies to my belly.
King moves over my quivering body, and I feel his knee gently nudge my legs apart at the same time his lips kiss spot number four again. I gasp as he forges one last trail of kisses along the inside of my thigh. I don’t know what to do with my hands or my feet or anything until his tongue touches me there. Holy shit! That is, without a doubt, spot number five. I grab his hair in my hands, arch my hips toward his mouth, and scrunch my toes so hard they hurt.
“I was right. You really are sweet.” He growls before abandoning my center to gently nip at the inside of my thigh, and I wonder how this could possibly get any better.
I’m sure I’m about to find out the answer to that question when King returns his mouth to mine and slides inside of me. Every muscle in my body tenses. I inhale sharply and squeeze my eyes shut. He stops. This stops. Everything stops, and I’m glad, because that wasn’t at all what I expected. I don’t know what I expected, really, but it wasn’t sharp, searing pain—that’s for sure. Everything else felt so amazing, but this . . . this takes my breath away.
“Holland?” His voice is full of question and concern, and I know it’s time to think fast. Thankfully, that moment of shock has sobered me up a little.
I open my eyes and do everything in my power to relax and let him in. I have to convince him this isn’t my first time, so I slide one hand behind his neck and the other around his waist and pull him closer. He enters me completely—slowly, painfully . . . at first. He stops again when he has penetrated me fully. His neck is strained and his eyes are wide.
“I can’t move for a second, Holland. You’re so tight that this won’t last long if I do.” He pants with restraint. I’m not sure what he means. It’s my first time, but I could use some time to accommodate his size, so I stay stone still and wait for him to do . . . whatever it is he’s trying to do or not do.
Mechanically, I know what’s next. As inexperienced as I am, I’ve always gotten As in science. I know how things work. What I was never schooled on is the pain. I’m struggling to relax, and King senses it. His lips are on mine again, and he kisses me senseless for a long time, alternating between my mouth and my neck, behind my ear—spot number one—and occasionally a few between my breasts. He does all of this without moving inside of me, but I feel him twitch and swell when our kisses intensify. Finally, when I’ve relaxed enough, I press my heels against the small of his back, urging him to move, asking for more. King doesn’t disappoint. He slowly drags his hips back, sliding out. I feel the release of pressure combined with the desire for its return. King closes his eyes. His head falls back, and the muscles of his jaw twitch with restraint. When he enters me again, I gasp and dig my nails into his biceps. His eyes open, his lips part, and the way he looks at me with a mixture of concern and confusion reminds me that this wouldn’t even be happening if he knew I was only nineteen. I scramble to think of something that would make him believe I’m more experienced, but I’ve got nothing but my instincts to work with.
“What are you thinking?” He pushes deeper into me, and I clench my teeth when he holds the position, waiting for me to answer. I smile and slide my hands up his biceps to his shoulders, and then I place them on either side of his face.
“I’m thinking that I want you to kiss me.” With every intent of distracting him, I guide his mouth to mine.
It works. With his mouth busy, he glides in and out, and I start to feel less of the pain and more of the incredible pleasure of the rhythm.
I wonder if I weren’t drunk, would I be embarrassed or inhibited? I mean, I’m naked on a stranger’s couch, allowing him to take something from me that I’ve been taught to cherish and only give to a person I love. I’m not embarrassed, though, or inhibited. Not at all. I want this as much as he does. Maybe I’ll change my mind when I’m sober, but it’s too late to turn back now. My mental pondering is thrown out t
he window when he rises up onto his knees to bury himself even deeper inside of me.
He slides one of my legs onto his shoulder, and without losing eye contact the entire time, he drags his face along my calf, kissing it until he reaches my foot, where he presses one last kiss in the center of the bottom of my foot, sending shockwaves rippling up my leg. He repeats the delicious torture on my other leg until I’m reduced to a puddle of desire. I whimper in this new position when he buries himself again, and when he senses that I’ve had all I can take, he picks up the pace so we can lose control together.
What I learn next is that the pleasure of having an orgasm with this majestic man is a far cry from doing it on my own. One last groan from King and one unexpected mewl from myself later, we’re riding out the powerful wave together. His swollen length pulses inside of me while my core does the same around him. Panting and gasping for air and clutching me, he smiles an extremely satisfied smile as he slides my legs off of his shoulders and rests part of his massive weight on me.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“You keep asking me that.”
“That’s because I feel like you aren’t telling me something. This was incredible. Holland, you’re amazing, but . . . I don’t know. From the moment I touched you on the dance floor, I’ve felt that you’re somehow different.”
Come on, Holland, you need to figure out something to say without telling him you were a nineteen-year-old virgin thirty minutes ago.
“I’m fine, really. I just don’t usually do things like this.” Again with the half-truths. I’m inwardly freaking out for more than one reason, and I am definitely not fine. I was telling the truth when I said I don’t usually do things like this, because I don’t, haven’t, won’t ever again, probably. I’m going to New York in a few months, and that will be the end of my short-lived wild social life. I’m sure Savannah doesn’t have ‘find someone to deflower Holland’ on her itinerary, but if she wants to add it, I can cross it off for her now. Savannah. Shit. How long have I been gone? I need to text her and tell them I’m okay. Shit, where is my phone?
“See? Like right now, something’s wrong, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Yes, actually. Now there is something wrong. My friends don’t know where I am, and they’re going to freak out soon, if they aren’t already. I lost my phone, and I need to call them.” Panic starts to set in, and I push against his chest. King places one hand on either side of my face and strokes my cheeks with his thumbs while he tries to calm me down.
“You’re fine. Everything's going to be fine. We can get dressed, and I’ll help you find them. And I’ll bet you left your phone in the booth. I can check for you, okay?” I listen to his soothing words and nod, trying to contain my hysteria as I begin to sober up. King presses another soft kiss on my lips and fixes me with a look of bewilderment before he slides out of me. His eyebrows are drawn together for a brief moment before he pulls me upright onto wobbly feet.
“The bathroom is right through there if you need it.” His words are dismissive, but his actions speak louder as he gathers me into his arms to kiss my forehead again before holding me out at arm's length. “I’m finding it hard to leave you.” Our eyes follow his hand feathering down my arm until he slides his palm against mine. Our hands float up until our fingers lace together.
“I feel like we’ve known each other much longer than just an hour.”
“Me too,” I agree almost inaudibly, and there is nothing about that answer that is a lie. Finding King has been like finding a part of myself I didn’t know was lost.
“I’m going to call the bartender about your friends and your phone.” His eyes search mine one last time for the thing he can’t quite put his finger on, and I wish more than anything that I weren’t nineteen right now.
“Okay.” My voice cracks and I clear my throat. “I’ll just . . .”—I release his hand and grab my clothes from the couch and the floor—“I’ll be right back.”
With my head clearing fast, I dash down the hall toward the bathroom. I open the door and feel around in the dark for the light switch and flick it on. Light floods the room, and I stare at the gaudy decorating job. It’s ridiculous. Four glossy black lacquer steps with a sweeping gold railing lead up to an island in the center of the room that holds a huge gold soaker bathtub. The toilet and vanity are black lacquer too, and they’re equally as garish as the tub. Statues of angels and candelabras are situated around the room and on the vanity. There’s even an angel on the back of the toilet, for God’s sake. Who would purposely decorate a room this way?
I wander around to the other side of the tub and gaze into a large, round mirror over the sink. It reminds me of the mirror from Snow White. I suddenly have the urge to say, ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who’s the fairest of them all?’ Until I catch my reflection, that is. I look terrible. Naked and clutching my clothes, with my hair sticking every which way and mascara smudged under my eyes. I hardly recognize myself. I trudge back to the door, tugging on my shirt as I go. When I reach the intricately carved, gold painted, atrocious piece of wood separating the hall from the bathroom, I lock it and realize my panties aren’t with my clothes. Shit. I’ve never gone commando, but hey, this is a big night of firsts, so what the hell. I have to pee first, but I’m a little intimidated to sit on King’s golden throne. It’s so . . . fancy. Wrinkling my nose in distaste, I chalk the experience up as another crazy first. Peeing in a gold toilet—one more thing Savannah doesn’t have on the summer itinerary. She is never going to believe this. If I had my phone, I’d take a picture and send it to her.
Standing in front of Snow White’s mirror, I dab and wipe at my face, trying to restore my previous twenty-one-year-old look, but I’m just making it worse, so I quit and focus on my hair. Luckily, when I peek inside one of the drawers in the vanity, I find a hairbrush. I manage to smooth out the bird’s nest in my hair so I’m presentable. A knock on the door startles me, and I hear King’s voice asking if I’m all right; he does that a lot.
“Yeah, just a sec, I’m coming.” I say, crossing the cold marble floor in my bare feet to unlock the door. When I swing it open with too much force, it yanks me back a step. Damn thing looks like solid wood, but it must be hollow.
King stands in front of me wearing charcoal grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a brooding expression on his face. His bare, chiseled chest and abs are inches from my face, and one of his arms is casually stretched over his head, holding onto the frame of the door above us. He’s literally breathtaking . . . as in I can’t breathe when I unintentionally give him a once-over.
“I wanted to talk to you for a minute.” He sounds so serious. No way did he figure out my age in the last ten minutes, did he? My rising pulse whooshes in my ears, and a thin film of perspiration breaks out all over my body.
“The color just drained out of your face.” He reaches out to cup my cheek in his hand, and I lean into it without thinking. “I know I keep asking, but are you okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry, I just got a little lightheaded there for a second.” Half-lie.
“Well, I’m not letting you put these suicide shoes back on then. How the hell do you walk in these things?” he asks, lifting my stilettos that are dangling from two of his fingers.
“I’m fine. I can walk,” I say, taking the shoes and slipping them on. The balls of my feet scream as I grow taller, but nowhere near tall enough to look King directly in the eyes—and that’s good, because I’m still scared of what he wants to talk to me about. He sighs when he catches me wincing.
“They look painful. Come on, let’s talk. It’s nothing bad, I promise,” he says, taking my hand to lead me back to the living room, where we sit on the corner of the couch facing each other. I tuck my leg under me as we sit, holding hands. I wish I could pull my clammy hand out of his, but I don’t want to give him the wrong impression, and if he’s holding it, I can’t fiddle with the hem of my shirt like I am with my free hand.
“I wanted you to
know that I don’t make a habit of trolling the dance floor and luring women into my home. In fact, you’re the only woman who has ever been in here.”
“Oh . . . okay.” I’m not sure I believe that. Why would he have a bachelor pad like this on top of his nightclub and not use it to do bachelor-ish things?
“I truly am sorry. I acted like a caveman, dragging you back here when I should have been treating you like a lady.” The heat of a deep blush creeps up my neck. I’m sure King feels it on my cheeks, but I don’t say anything because I don’t know how I feel about his apology. No girl wants to hear the man who took her virginity apologize for doing it. But King doesn’t think I’m a girl. He thinks I’m a woman, a twenty-one-year-old woman out dancing with her adult friends and having drinks.
His phone begins to chime, drawing our attention to a table in the kitchen where it lies. The ring tone is a piece of music that I recognize instantly, Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5. I find it strange that a hot club owner has a classical ringtone. King pulls me up and walks directly behind me, with his hands on my hips, to the kitchen.
“I love classical music. I’m really looking forward to hearing you play,” he says, propping his chin on my shoulder and reaching past my hip to grab his phone off the counter.
He begins to absently draw little circles on my bare belly while he listens to the person on the other end.
“They have your phone,” he says, moving his mouth away from the phone. “And your friends are outside the apartment, waiting for you.” He thanks the caller, disconnects the call and slips the phone into his back pocket.
“I have to give you back. I wanted to keep you a while longer and prove to you that I’m not an animal.”
“I’m sorry. My friends are probably frantic. I should go.” I lean my head against his for a moment before he turns me in his arms. His eyes search mine again for that little thing he just can’t seem to find. He inhales a breath and holds it for a second before blowing it out. His breath is warm and smells like toothpaste, which reminds me that he was going to have a cigarette earlier. He must have a toothbrush stashed in his apartment, somewhere other than the bathroom. It strikes me as sweet that he would brush right after smoking. My Aunt Corinne and a few of my parents’ friends smoke, but the smell is very obvious and it clings to their clothes and hair like Pigpen’s dirty cloud. Not King, though. In fact, I can’t smell it on him at all. I would have never known he was a smoker if he hadn’t told me.