by Kennedy Ryan
“When do you leave New York?” Simone’s blue eyes widen with excitement. It makes me smile that she’s happy I’m coming to the West Coast.
“It’ll be a few months. I’m staying in New York through Fashion Week in September to help JP. Then I’ll move out here.”
I stir in more flour and check the rice cooker.
“What’re you making?” Simone asks.
“Baked catfish, étouffée, some fried okra.”
“My father is eating fried food? Simone asks, surprise etched onto her smooth face.
“I’m sure he’ll be back to eating rabbit food tomorrow.” I chuckle and open the oven to check the fish. “This is one night only.”
“Oh, for the anniversary!” Simone sounds approving.
So she does know. Even though our relationship is so much better, I walk on eggshells sometimes, scared I’ll break something, so I didn’t tell Simone Kenan and I are celebrating our one-year anniversary. Technically, it’s the one-year anniversary of our first ‘not a date.’ The start of our relationship was such a sore point with Simone, I wasn’t going to mention it.
“Daddy told me,” Simone says matter-of-factly.
“Can you believe he even wanted to celebrate something so silly?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
“It’s not silly.” Simone’s smile is sly, knowing, and curious all at once. “Did you get him a gift?”
“I did, but I’m not telling you what it is, big mouth.” I wag a finger at her. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten his birthday. So much for surprising him, thanks to you.”
Simone’s unrepentant laughter billows out, and she looks young and carefree. Not too long ago, we discovered her lifeless on Kenan’s bed. I saw her at the lowest point of her short life. Watching her now, you’d never know that less than a year ago she was that same troubled girl.
“Talked to your grandmother?” I ask.
I turn everything off and grab the phone, heading out of the kitchen. I pad barefoot through the immaculate living room, the foyer with its soaring ceiling and massive chandelier. I knew Kenan was a wealthy man, of course, but his apartment on the Upper West Side, though luxurious, didn’t prepare me for his sprawling home in La Jolla, one of the most elite parts of San Diego.
“Yeah,” Simone replies, popping a piece of gum into her mouth. “She’s loving the cruise with her ‘girls.’” She makes air quotes and rolls her eyes.
“She deserves some time off, putting up with two bossy people like you and your dad,” I joke and climb the winding staircase.
“We’re bossy? Who basically re-wrote the rules of Taboo when her team was losing?”
“Oh, my God. We beat you guys fair and square.” I shake my head as I enter Kenan’s bedroom. “Bunch of sore losers.”
“You guys had Banner,” Simone scoffs. “She should count as two players.”
“Yeah, well you had her husband. She and Jared are like barracudas.” I shudder. “Can you imagine if they played on the same team?”
“We’d never let that happen,” Simone says with a straight face.
A slim, dark-haired woman comes into view on Simone’s screen, standing in the doorway of her room. “Simone,” she says. “It is time.”
“Yes, Madam Petrov.” Simone flashes her a grin before looking back to the phone. “Gotta go.”
“Okay. Thanks for calling.” I sink onto Kenan’s California king and smile. “And I like the hair, by the way.”
Simone touches the braids streaming over her shoulder. “Keeps it neat for dance.” She gives that same little secretive quirk of her lips. “Enjoy your anniversary.”
Once we’ve disconnected, I note the time on my phone.
“Ugh,” I mutter. “Still need to get dressed.”
I dart off the bed and race over to the closet, pausing to reverently stroke the dress I’m wearing tonight. The full organza skirt bells out from a cinched waist and will stop just above my knees when I put it on. The sheer cap-sleeves will spill over my shoulders and dust the top of my arms. I spent days embroidering lotus flowers on the bodice and hem, making it uniquely mine. And, of course, it’s cotton candy pink.
I’ve waited a long time to wear the dress I made for my FIT final, and I always envisioned showing it off somewhere like a premier or a fashion show—somewhere public. Everyone would ask who I was wearing, and I would proudly say I made it myself. But tonight, I wear the dress for an audience of one.
Kenan’s not supposed to return from the Player’s Association executive board meeting for another hour and a half. Plenty of time to get ready. We could have gone out to celebrate, but we haven’t seen each other in two weeks. Neither of us want public scrutiny and speculation, or to field autograph-seekers all night. There was always some of that in New York, but here in the city where Kenan actually plays ball, it happens constantly.
And I want him all to myself.
After showering, I put on my dress and slip in wireless earbuds so I can listen to Billie Holiday while I put on makeup and tame my hair into a curly updo. Kenan’s taste in music is rubbing off on me. I love Billie’s voice, but wish the lady who sang the blues had found more pink clouds in her life to chase the blues away. This song, “You Go To My Head,” is perfect for a night celebrating the genesis of my relationship with Kenan. The lyrics tease my memories of Hook Shot and our first kiss on the Hudson, to which Lady Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge, and a roomful of my closest friends bore witness.
The song tells the story of a woman entranced by her lover. He spins through her thoughts like bubbles in a glass of champagne. He’s a sip of sparkling Burgundy brew. He intoxicates her soul with his eyes. Each of Billie’s slurred metaphors lures me deeper into the past—back to that first night. Kissing Kenan changed everything. It tilted and shook my world like it was a snow globe, redistributing the stars. I hum along, remembering how my throat was still burning from the tequila when my mouth burned from his kisses.
I look into the mirror, poised to apply a matte red lipstick. My eyes collide with Kenan’s in the reflection, and I almost drop the tube. He leans against the doorjamb, his hands pushed into the dark, well-tailored slacks tapered to the length of his powerful legs. The movement strains the crisp white cotton of his tie-less, collared shirt across his broad chest.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, a little breathless at the handsome picture he makes.
“I live here,” he replies, one corner of his decadently full lips canting up with his amusement.
I turn around and prop my bottom on the marble bathroom counter to face him. “You’re early.” I bite into the irrepressible smile seeing him for the first time in fourteen days elicits.
“I’m eager.” He steps closer and clamps huge hands around my hips, pulling me up and into the tower of his hard body. “I’ve missed my girlfriend.”
Barefoot, my head doesn’t quite reach his shoulder, so I strain up on my toes to whisper in his ear, “Is she coming?”
Kenan pulls back to peer down at me, his eyes heavy-lidded with lust and love. His hands explore under my dress, and he strokes the sensitive skin of my inner thigh with a callus-roughened hand.
“Oh, she’s definitely coming,” he says huskily. “I’m gonna make sure of that.”
“Don’t you start.” My laugh is breathy, my body aroused.
“After two weeks away,” he says, bending to suck my neck, “do you have any idea how fast this could be over? We can fuck, eat, whatever you want to do. In that order.”
I ignore the rush of liquid heat that starts in my belly and slides lower. “You were the one who wanted to celebrate this non-iversary,” I remind him. “And we’re going to do it right. I cooked dinner. We need to eat.”
His fingers climb higher to tease the edge of my panties. “That’s what I want to do.” He brushes a finger over my damp heat through the silk, desire simmering in the dark eyes that consume me. “Eat.”
Sweet child of mine. This man. My man.
I bre
athe deeply, hoping the cool air filling my lungs reaches other parts of my body.
“Food,” I say meaningfully. “Eat the food I cooked. First.”
I reach under the dress and place my hand over his to halt his progress. When our fingers tangle at the juncture of my thighs, the breath flooding my chest stalls, hovers around my heart, and squeezes. The first time he touched me this way, we coaxed my body to orgasm together. He watched me come. It was a sensual storm that broke over every part of me, raining on my heart. Growing my trust. Nurturing an intimacy I’d never known with anyone else. Any vestiges of playfulness disappear from his expression, and what takes its place on his face, in his eyes, steals my breath.
Is he remembering, too?
“What?” I ask, mesmerized. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
And can you never stop?
“I was thinking of the first time I saw you come,” he says, searing me with a look so hot, so loving, I couldn’t deny him the moon if he asked for it.
“Okay. One kiss,” he whispers, inadvertently saving me from my hussy tendencies. “An anniversary kiss.”
“One kiss,” I agree, like I wasn’t about to give him the cow, the milk, and the whole damn farm.
“Until later,” he says.
I tuck that promise away in the wanton places where my body aches for him. He dips to capture my lips, and a moan rattles my ribs.
Lawd, he tastes even better than I remember.
How is it possible that I want him, need him, love him more every time we touch or kiss?
He ravishes my mouth while his hands roam my body possessively—squeezing my butt, caressing my arms, gripping my thighs through the silk skirt. His hands slow, still. He smiles against my mouth.
“This isn’t the dress, is it?” His question breathes over my lips. “Cotton candy pink?”
I nod, and his gaze pours over me, taking in every inch of the silk and organza confection I gave my all to create. I worked on this dress until my fingers bled. My blood is in the stitches, woven into the seams. A frown pinches between his brows.
“We’re just having dinner at home,” he says. “I thought you were saving it for a special occasion.”
I tip up on my toes to link my wrists behind his neck.
“You are my special occasion, Mr. Ross,” I whisper, baring my soul in the look I offer him.
The frown clears and that slow smile, the one that starts in his heart, creeps into his eyes and makes its way to his mouth. He bends and rests his temple against mine, and must hear the faint sound of Billie Holiday still playing in my ear. I’d blocked out the music once I saw him, but now I tune back into the lyrics, and they woo me again. I smile and slip one wireless bud out of my ear and into his so we can listen together.
“I like,” he says, turning his mouth down at the corners and looking impressed. “Good choice. The Lady herself.”
“This song reminds me of our first kiss.”
He closes his eyes, a look of concentration arresting his features. He nods and tightens his hands at my waist, urging our bodies into a subtle sway to the music.
“We’ve never danced before.” It strikes me as both silly and vitally important. A first when we’re celebrating a night of firsts.
“When you move in, we can dance every night.” He pulls back to catch my eyes. I lower mine first. He’s alluded to me living with him before, but I want to be sure it’s the best thing, the best time for Simone. He’s her father, and I know he’s more in touch with her mental and emotional state than I am, but I can’t feel responsible for her going off the rails again. Simone likes me now. We get along great, but moving to San Diego is one thing. Moving in with them? Would that be too much for her?
“We’ll see.” I flick my lashes up to catch his eyes. “I’ll be in LA half the time anyway. I’ve been looking at a few apartments near La Jolla.”
“Stop looking,” he insists, frowning. “I want you here with me.”
I slide my hands over his shoulders and down his arms to twine our fingers, hoping to distract him from something we might not agree on yet. “I got you a gift!”
He angles a wry look at me. He peeps my game.
“Lotus, baby, we—”
“An anniversary gift.” I switch off the music in our ears.
His steady stare and a few beats of silence tell me we’ll revisit the living arrangements later.
“You don’t want to give me the gift after dinner?” he finally asks.
“Now seems as good a time as any.” I drag him by the hand into the bedroom, pushing his shoulder until he’s seated on the bed. “Close your eyes.”
He deliberately keeps his eyes open, going so far as to stretch them wide for emphasis.
“Kenan Admiral Ross.”
“Aw, hell.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes. “My mother gave you that.”
“She’s very forthcoming after a few drinks.” I grin saucily. “Mama gave up all your secrets.”
A deep chuckle shakes the broad slope of his shoulders. “I knew I should have kept you two apart.”
“Close your eyes,” I order again, walking backward to the closet, watching him the whole time. “And no peeking.”
I’m like a kid at Christmas, only instead of being eager to open my gift, I can’t wait to give it.
The package is so huge, I struggle to drag it out of the closet and to the bed. Fortunately, it’s protected by thick shipping paper.
Once the gift and I stand before Kenan, I wave my hand in front of his face.
“Stop waving your hand in my face,” he says with a grin and still-closed eyes.
“Are you peeking?” My question ends on an indignant squeak.
“No, I just have the heightened senses of a bobcat,” he jokes.
“Do bobcats have heightened senses?”
“Who the hell cares?” Kenan asks with good-natured exasperation, his smile widening. “Can I open my eyes now? Shit.”
I laugh so hard I have to bend at the waist. I’m having way too much fun with this.
“Okay,” I say, after I’ve composed myself. “You can open.”
When he opens his eyes, they latch onto me and then shift to the gift, which stands about a foot taller than I do. It’s large and square and shrouded in brown paper.
“Is this . . .” His eyes dart between me and the large square. “Did you—”
“Would you just open it? Shit,” I repeat his curse mockingly.
He stands and covers my hand holding the gift up by the corner. Instead of tearing into it, as I assumed he would, he bends, loops his other arm around my waist, and kisses me so deeply, I can’t breathe and sway on wobbly legs when he’s done. He feathers kisses down my chin and neck.
“Kenan,” I protest weakly, trying my damnedest to stave off the horniness. “Behave. Open it.”
He smiles and releases me to rip the paper away and reveal the photograph from Chase’s exhibit.
“God, Lotus.” Kenan looks between me and the photograph several times like he’s not sure which one he wants to stare at most. “It’s so beautiful. I don’t know what . . . thank you. You know how badly I wanted this.”
“Yeah, I heard you offered twenty-thousand dollars for it.” I laugh and caress his face. “What a schmuck.”
“Oh, I’m a schmuck?” With seemingly little effort, he hefts the huge photograph up and walks it over to prop it against the wall. He strides back to the bed, his eyes glinting with wicked intent. “Say it again.”
I hold my breath, allowing the anticipation to coil between us to the point of snapping. “Schmuck!”
I take off running to the other side of the mammoth bed. He chases me, almost catches me, but I jump up, my feet sinking into the soft mattress, and leap to the other side. I feint left and right, running around and over the mattress a few times before his iron arms close around me and gently wrestle me to the bed.
“Please don’t tickle me,” I beg, laughing before he’s even sta
rted.
“So I’m a schmuck?” He slips one arm under my back, pressing me to him and making it impossible to do anything but squirm and relish our closeness.
“No, you’re not a schmuck! And you’re not a grumpy old man either.”
“You didn’t call me a grumpy old man,” he says with a frown.
“Well, I just did! Suckaaaah!”
And then his persistent fingers dig into my ribs, finding every soft, ticklish spot. I kick and flail and arch my neck and contort my body as much as possible, but he won’t be deterred.
“Oh, my God,” I protest. “Please don’t make me pee in this dress the first time I wear it.”
He finally relents, lying on his side, resting his head in the heel of his hand as he watches me.
“That is the only thing that saved you.” His features, already softened with humor, grow even more tender with affection. “I love your photo. It’s going on that wall so it’s the first thing I see every morning.”
“That’s not awkward or anything,” I mumble, but I can’t hold back my pleased grin. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I love it,” he repeats. “But soon I’ll be spooning the real thing every morning when I wake up.”
“Kenan, we’ll see.” I release a long exhale. “Let’s talk to Dr. Packer. Moving in is a big deal, especially since Simone lives with you. I just want to make sure she is a hundred percent comfortable.”
“Okay.” He drops a kiss on my forehead before pulling me to sit up on the edge of the bed. “Now you close your eyes.”
He stands, lifting his brows when my eyes remain as open as his did. “My turn.”
I roll my eyes before closing them.
“Keep them closed,” he calls, his voice coming from farther away, but still somewhere in the room.
“They’re closed, dammit,” I pretend to grouse.
I’m still trapped behind the darkness of my closed eyelids when he takes my left hand and twists the gris-gris ring off. It hasn’t left my finger in years. I suppress the instinct to open my eyes and grab it before it’s gone.
He slowly eases it onto the ring finger of my right hand. My heart assumes a thunderous rhythm, and blood rushes to my face and throbs in my ears. Sweat sprouts out all over my body as he slides a different ring onto the finger where MiMi’s ring rested before.