King

I stretch my arms above my head and instantly feel a kink in my back. That’s what I get for passing out on the couch, though. Wait. I don’t think that’s how I ended up here. My pillow is under my head and my legs are tangled up in my comforter. I would never drag all that out here if I were drunk.

I open my eyes and it all comes rushing back. Transparent grey eyes, brown skin as soft as silk, long, black hair tangled in my fingers, and the scent of an angel, or how I imagine an angel would smell. Holland. Sweet, sweet Holland. That woman has somehow ingrained herself into my soul. What I feel for her isn’t the typical physical lust I usually have for a woman. Holland seems to have woven herself into a place in my heart that I didn’t know existed. She just opened the door, lit up the dark, forgotten area, and made herself comfortable. How the hell does that happen in an hour? I mean, literally an hour with her, and I can think of nothing else.

I feel around for my phone to check my texts. When the screen glows bright, I see there are eight new messages, and none of them are from her. I don’t know why I expected to hear from her already. Get a grip, King. The first message is from my floor manager last night, checking in with me before closing. Another is from Crystal. Shit . . . Crystal. That’s a mistake I wish I’d never made, a one-night stand that has been holding on for over a year now, waiting for something more. I haven’t helped the situation much by taking her to formal events and having casual sex with her. She’s great eye candy, but there is no chemistry there—not for me, anyway. Crystal has made it ‘crystal clear’ that she would love nothing better than to marry me, settle down in the suburbs, and have a slew of babies. She knows what I do and what I am, and for some insane reason, she still believes I could give her that life. Delusional. She’s totally delusional. I’ve told her that we are going nowhere, but she refuses to believe it, and until now, I haven’t had a reason to quit leading her on. The moment I pressed up against Holland on that dance floor was the moment any desire for any other women ceased. I can’t even entertain the thought of anyone else.

I need to see her again . . . soon. This is ridiculous. I’m acting like a teenager after his first date. Just call her, you fool. It’s ten o’clock. Would she be up by now? I don’t know the first thing about her, let alone her sleeping habits. This is so stupid. Just call her, King. Quit acting like an idiot.

Sitting in the middle of my couch with my legs drawn up and my elbows resting on my knees, I run my fingers through my hair and listen to the phone ring—once, twice, three times—until I’m forced to either hang up or leave a message. “Hi, you’ve reached Holland Bennett. Please leave a message after the tone.” Beep. I’m usually a very smooth operator, never at a loss for words, a natural sweet talker. But Holland renders me speechless with her musical voice, asking me to do the simplest thing . . . leave a message. After a few seconds, I finally get a grip and ask her to call me soon.

Is she still sleeping? Is she ignoring my call, screening it? Insecurity. Wow, this is new, and it fucking sucks. I’ve never worried about contacting a woman. In fact, I’ve never called someone the next day—or ever again, for that matter. Usually, I run into my conquests in the club or at a party, but I don’t consider Holland a conquest. She’s more of a blessing or a gift.

I launch myself off the couch, thinking about my meeting this morning. I’m going to be late if I don’t get my ass in gear. Something pink on the floor next to the couch catches my eye. No way, she didn’t. When I reach down to pick up Holland’s pink lace panties, my heart pounds in my chest like a prepubescent boy seeing a nudie calendar for the first time. My fucking morning wood is bordering on pain, and I need to relieve myself, but I choose torture instead, burying my nose in the pink scrap of material that is rich with her scent.

I need to see her again, to feel the heat of her skin near mine, nip her plump, soft lips, trace the curve of her neck with my finger and down between her . . . oh, enough. What the fuck is she doing scrambling my brain like this? I am a strong willed, stubborn, asinine, pig-headed fucking dick, and I’m standing in my living room losing my shit at the mere thought of a woman I’ve met once. One fucking time, damn it.

I stomp to the bathroom for a cold shower. For a fraction of a second, I consider tossing the delicate, torturous reminder of my new obsession back onto the floor, but I can’t do it. When I’m in the bathroom, I lay the bunched-up piece of lace on the counter and turn on the shower. “You’re whipped,” I tell the guy looking back at me in the mirror. He looks like me, but he can’t possibly be me, because not only do I feel different, but I look different. Narrowing my eyes, I lean in close to the mirror, looking hard at myself and trying to see exactly what it is that’s different.

Wow, King Tomas Romero has finally met his match, and for some reason the thought is slightly irritating. I was looking for this, even craving it. But I am completely inexperienced with these kinds of unbridled, no-holds-barred feelings. I am the leader, not the follower, but Holland has claimed an all-encompassing power over my senses. Every one of them pulses with desire for her.

After a difficult time emptying my bladder, I step into the shower and brace myself against the wall as the icy water sluices down my body like a million tiny knives slicing my skin, effectively dowsing my arousal. Any other time, I would have taken care of myself under a hot spray of water, but after being inside of Holland, nothing else can compare.

I dress in a pair of dark jeans and a bright orange fitted t-shirt and make my way through the quiet, empty club to the underground parking garage. Inside the Range Rover, I adjust the seat to accommodate my long legs. My head of security, Sebastián, drove it last, and he’s a good five inches shorter than I am. I start the engine and sit in the dark cab for a few minutes, checking my schedule on my phone and a couple of stock trading apps. When I’m done, I lay the phone in the center console and stare at it. I’m not a very patient man, and she hasn’t returned my call. I want to talk to her, but I don’t want to be a stalker, for shit’s sake. Fuck it. I want her. I’m calling. I snatch up the phone and bring up the recent call list, press her name, and wait for her to answer.

“Hello?” She answers on the second ring.

One word is all it takes, and I’m a bundle of emotions, ranging from an aching desire in my bones to an unfamiliar sense of calm.

“Good morning, beautiful,” I growl, wishing I could crawl through the phone and kiss her when she giggles softly.

“Good morning yourself, King.” I can hear the smile in her voice, and I want to ask her to repeat my name but I resist.

“How did you sleep?”

“Um . . . it took a while to get to sleep.”

Good, maybe she was thinking of me as much as I was thinking of her.

“Same here. I kept thinking about this woman I met recently. She had the most interesting grey eyes, almost transparent, with tiny flecks of violet around her irises.”

“Sounds sort of . . . haunting,” she says, throwing my description of her eyes last night back at me. “You’re very observant, Mr. Romero.”

“Only when I’m interested in something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I was hoping that woman—you know, the one with the haunting eyes? Well, I was hoping she would see me today. For lunch, maybe?”

She pauses long enough that I start to think we’ve been cut off, but right before I ask if she’s still there, she replies.

“I’d like that very much. I have to practice today, though, until four. I have a rehearsal room reserved . . .” She pauses, and I imagine her biting her lip as she constructs her invitation. “Do you want to come and listen, and then we could go for dinner?”

“Dinner it is. I’m dying to hear to you play, Holland. Text me the address of the rehearsal hall and what room you’ll be in. I have a meeting I have to go to right now that won’t take long, but I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay . . . and, King?” she says, sensing I’m about to hang up, which I was, because I didn’t want to give her time to change her mind.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I had a really nice time last night.”

Now I imagine her looking down at her feet, smiling shyly with a red blush blooming over her cheeks, and that vision makes me twitch. It takes all my willpower not to moan.

“I did too, Holland.” More than she knows. “Text me that address, and I’ll see you in a few.”

I can feel her smile through the phone.

“Oh, okay. Bye.”

I disconnect the call and toss my phone into the seat next to me, grinning like a fool. After a deep, cleansing breath, I stretch my arm across the passenger seat and carefully back out of my parking spot. When I exit the garage, I fumble for my sunglasses in the blinding Texas sun. I swing left toward the home of Mexican drug lord, Hector Morales. Shipments are due to arrive soon, and my inside contact with the U.S. government is in town. Generally, these meetings are long. Sometimes days are spent making arrangements, planning, and drinking, but not today. I’m cutting out after I make an appearance. Sebastián can handle the details of the shipment while I handle the much more interesting, delicious details of a Ms. Holland Bennett.