Later that afternoon, even with no one around, I realize that in only a few days I’ve become comfortable in this mega penthouse. I’ve taken the baby around the pool as promised and now have kept her with me while I successfully place my hand made ‘baby-portraits’ all over the place.

A few went on the coffee table right next to the TV remotes. The next photos were placed outside on the covered patio where by the stack of towels everyone uses. I’ve also stood few up on the shelves near the dining room. Shelves everyone must walk past to get to their various suites and hallways.

Feeling triumphant, I decide I need to at least put one on the refrigerator, but save the cutest shots to scatter around Royce’s suite. That’s where I will execute part-two of my operation-baby-bonding. I return to the kitchen and tape one above the water dispensary, higher than the top of my head, and at what I believe to be rockstar eye level. I pause to give the baby her lunch bottle and change her so she’s all set up for her longer, second nap, then I set her down in the crib and rub her back with small circles until she falls asleep.

As soon as she’s breathing deeply, I grab the rest of the baby photos, the spare baby monitor receiver, and skip back into the kitchen to make sure no one is lurking around. Scooping up the last apple pastry for a snack along the way, I duck back out and tiptoe my way past the dining room.

Scanning to make sure the security guard isn’t watching me this time, I make a beeline for the side of the penthouse that houses the guys. Vere calls this hallway bachelor crossings. She also told me that when the band is “in residence” inside one of Mrs. Felix’s penthouse suites, they adhere to Victorian times behavior. It’s girls on one side, boys on the other, with the Felix ‘elders’ situated in their own wing as well. This means Vere and Hunter, who’ve dated for over five years, do a ton of sneaking around to be together. She even told me, with her brows up high and a giggle, that back when she’d first traveled with the band, groupies were snuck in and out for the guys, because apparently, Royce and Adam had more needs and less control back when they were younger.

I was so shocked about this that I could hardly keep a straight face as I replied only, “Yuck.”

Once she realized I was horrified, she told me that they’ve stopped that the past two years. As far as she could tell the whole band seemed done with the groupie thing. That, or maybe they’d learned how to be more discreet. As far as she knows, not once here in Orlando, had she encountered a groupie, and that I shouldn’t worry.

I told her I didn’t worry and that I didn’t care.

Because, heck, I don’t care. This isn’t my creepy life. It’s thiers.

I get to escape this crazy place and live in the world’s best cottage with the world’s kindest family and call it, all mine. When this is all over, I’ll have a normal waitressing job, waiting tables at this hotel for normal people who do normal things, and I’ll hopefully forget about the madness-monsoon these people seem to live in every single day.

I pause at the edge of the marble hallway and nervously shove what’s left of the apple-butter pastry concoction into my mouth. While I try to swallow it, I place my hand over my heart, realizing too late, that some of the apple topping is all over my fingers. After brushing the pastry flecks off my blouse, I rub the remainder of the apple goo on the sides of my shorts and listen for signs of life, wondering, Am I really going to do this?

Thankfully, every room has its door closed tightly. Bachelor crossings is as silent as a tomb. I already know Gregory is out with Mrs. Felix so there will be no surprise visits from them today. And according to the note Vere left for me, all about how it had been a long night, everyone else must still be sleeping.

This hallway, like the rest of this place, has been made over to look like a billionaire’s apartment instead of just a hotel. Plush runners have been laid on top of the amazing marble floors—the same flooring used in the lobby downstairs. Just like the throw rug in the baby’s room, this runner is deep, and plush and ultra-soft. Obviously handmade and finer than anything I’ve ever walked on in my life, that’s for sure. It’s also blissfully silent under my feet. Like in the girls’ hallway, the doorknobs have been traded out for fancy iron pulls, and the stock hotel doors that would normally line a hallway like this on the lower floors, have been replaced with homey wooden doors, ones minus the key-card locks. Someone also had taken the time to add brushed metal placards attached to the doors, so I don’t have to guess who owns each room.

Yes! This is going to be easy.

I breathe in a sigh of relief. The door marked for Royce is the first one. Even better, his door is right next to the light switch. I risk clicking it to off, and breathe a little easier when the entire hallway falls dark. I have the impulse to run from here, but I can’t let the baby down.

“You can do this, Robin. You can,” I mutter. “Get in. Get out. How hard could this be? It’s all part of the job.”

I’ve seen Mrs. Felix’s sleeping quarters, as well as Vere’s. I’m assuming the layout of Royce’s room is going to be about the same. From the main door, I’ll be entering either a two-or three-room mini-suite. I’m hoping it will include a small entryway, like the other ones have, a nice living room, a couch and chairs arranged in front of a TV, and a bathroom area. Each suite also has a huge back bedroom off to one side. That room has a bed, the usual dresser, desk, and another TV, and all of the rooms are interconnected by these giant, centrally located closet dressing room spaces that can be accessed from each area. My only interest will be getting into that large closet area using the sliding door that’s located right past the entryway.

From being in Vere’s suite, I already know these closets are epic and have been made over to be rock-star worthy. Hers has three sliding floor-to-ceiling mirrored panels that open from different areas. I’m hoping Royce’s layout will also have these easy access doors. He will be asleep in the back bedroom and I will be able to get what I need and get out of here before anyone notices.

Listening for any sounds of movement, I slowly turn the door handle. With a silent swoosh, the door opens easily. I tip-toe in and leave one of the baby’s photos on the side table by his door. Next I leave a second baby photo on the table where Royce keeps his remotes just like how I’d done in the bigger living room. Biting my lip, I risk slipping all the way to the other side of the living area and quickly place another photo on a long side table full of books, but wince as the main door auto-closes with a loud click behind me.

I abort my plan to stash one in his bathroom and hold my breath, because each little noise and the sound of my own breathing has me so freaked out I’m about to hyperventilate. Quickly, I move my plan to phase-two and slide open one side of the mirrored, floor to ceiling closet doors. Knowing I’ll feel calmer once I dart completely inside, I dash in and close it behind me. I’ve left a small crack so I can at least see shapes and keep track where the other two sliding doors on the far sides of the space might serve as escape routes. Trying to calm my breathing, I look around and realize not all suites are created equal. This closet dressing room is even bigger than Vere’s.

Working quickly, I finish placing the last few photos of the baby randomly all around the closet then I step to the long wall along the back that holds the hanging clothes. I whisk my fingers over tops of the hangers, feeling all kinds of fabrics that won’t work. I need to collect the softest, as well as the most Royce-smelling items of clothing that are in here. The darkness is forcing me to use my other senses, which is what the baby will be doing when she snuggles up to what I take. After at least twenty more ‘fails’ my hand lands on a sweater made of what has to be either silk or cashmere.

Or both.

It’s so soft, I think it might be perfect.

I pull the hanger off the bar and pull it close to me, testing it against my cheek. “Oh yes. This could be good.” I pull it up to my face so I can give it a proper sniff. It smells like cinnamon and soap mixed in with that expensive cologne Royce always wears. The smell is so unexpected and so mind-blowing it’s got my heart racing and my limbs going soft. “Wow. Oh-my-God, wow.” Laughing a little at myself, I pull in another deep whiff of the sweater as I slide it off the hanger. “But of course you smell like sin mixed with sexy silver sunshine, Mr. Royce Devlin. Of course, you do.”

Shaking my head, I sling the soft sweater over my shoulder, resisting the temptation to smell it again, and mutter, “Let’s keep going. We’ve got one, but…we need…something…more.”

My hands return to the clothes, rejecting hanger after hanger. After that sweater, everything else feels too rough. When I’m reaching the end, I pause on a hanger that feels really thick at the shoulders. I know what it is immediately. It’s the leather jacket I’ve seen Royce wearing around, and that he wears on stage. It’s butter soft. Worn thin in spots, like it’s a favorite and has been for years. It’s also something that would not get washed regularly, because leather can’t be easily tossed into a machine, so the smell that’s on it will be pure Royce Devlin.

I pull it off the rack and test its weight.

“Not bad. Aside from being kind of clunky, this could also be perfect.” I rub one soft arm of the jacket against my cheek. The musky Royce scent envelops me again, but it’s more intense, like I hoped it would be. It’s like I’ve walked into a Royce cloud, and even better, the jacket instantly gets warm, like real skin does. I note that the lining is made up of some sort of soft, retro-looking silky fabric. An added bonus I didn’t expect. As I pull in another deep breath, I feel slightly proud of myself for executing this. There’s no way the baby won’t recognize her daddy’s smell after I wrap her up in this jacket each day. “Done,” I say, turning back to the door and work to slide it open, but instead of walking out into the dark entryway, I smack into an impassable bare chest all while my fingers burn from pushing against…against…holy crap. Royce!

“Did you say, done?” A mocking, sardonic voice whispers over the top of my head, “We haven’t even started.”

I drop my hands fast and step back. Instead of having any sort of rational thoughts, all I can register over and over in my head is that the scent coming off Royce makes the leather jacket smell seem like a cheap knockoff perfume. Which is not helpful. And that’s when my mind blacks out and my throat closes, feeling like I accidentally swallowed a bag of sawdust.

I step back more, wondering if I can make my escape through the other side of the sliding doors, as Royce captures one of my hands and steps into the closet with me, stealing the last bits of air from the space with his ultra-low, sexy laugh. “Thought I was losing my mind when I heard talking in my closet, so I had to have a look. And isn’t this a fun surprise?”

He shoves the door closed behind him, chuckling that low, infuriating, flirty chuckle he uses on other people—not on me.

Not me!

All that comes out of my mouth is, “Um…mffm.” Which must have sounded like an invitation, because Royce hasn’t stepped back.

Instead, he’s run a warm finger along the edge of my shoulder and then moved his whole hand up to twine his fingers gently into the curls at the base of my neck, all while saying, “I’m normally not into games, but this closet thing is a fan-first. Not going to lie. It’s really setting off my imagination.” He splays his whole hand against my neck, and his thumb explores up my nape, which sends goose bumps and shivers all the way to my toes. “Your skin is damn soft.” He breathes out. “I was going to eject you, but since you haven’t run or decked me, I’m now curious to play this out. It’s darker than I thought it would be in here, though. Can’t even see your face. Hmm…but maybe that’s going to be…exciting, too.”

His low laugh seems suddenly wicked as he turns me to face him, then runs both hands down my arms until they land on the jacket that I’m clutching between us like it’s a shield.

“What’s this? Is that my favorite jacket?”

I manage to squeak out, “Yes. But not…” My voice chokes back to nothing. Recovering, I try again and get out a rasping, “Not what you think…see…I…”

He’s tightened his hold onto my upper arms. “Little sneak. You can’t keep it. But if you want to play dress-up with it, I’m down. Maybe we should step out into the light so I can see the effect.”

I shake my head furiously as he goes on, “No dress-up? Hmm. Then…what are you doing in here…holding this?”

I finally find my voice, but it’s a harsh, unrecognizable whisper and the words come out all wrong. “S-s-smelling it?”

“What?” At least that’s made him laugh some.

He’s loosened the death grip also, only now his thumbs are running up and down along the insides of my forearms, which is making my entire body erupt in shivers. I can’t speak or think again, because I feel the backs of my knees shaking and because… because… because… goose bumps. And he’s not wearing a shirt. Devil. Chest. Perfect. Smells so good. Red alert. RED ALERT!

“If you’re smelling my stuff up close…when exactly do I get to,” he steps inches from my face, “smell something of yours?” He places his head next to my hair and pulls in a long breath.

My heart slams into me with panic so huge it sets me into motion.

I rip my away from him and dart back into the back of the closet and wedge myself behind the spot where I pulled out the leather jacket. I’m tripped up by stacked shoeboxes, and while I hear him laughing, I start inching my way along the wall. My eyes stick on the little crack of light that shows me where other the half of the sliding door opens. The side that will lead into the bedroom from the other side.

His bedroom. Oh, God. Maybe I should turn around.

Royce has followed my retreat. “I thought Adam was joking when he insisted he was sending me a girl. We have this pact not to deliver girls to each other’s rooms anymore, but he’s been saying I’ve been such an ass this week that it was obvious I needed to get laid.” Some doors slam out in the hallway and his voice drops to a whisper. “Shh. Don’t move.”

I pull in a breath and hold it, and I almost faint when I hear Mrs. Felix calling from the hallway, “Royce? Royce, dear? Are you in there?”

Suddenly he’s behind the hangers with me.

“It’s my grandmother, and I have no idea what she’d say if she found us.”

That makes two of us, I think, dying inside.

Relieved that Royce still doesn’t know that it’s me, I decide if I play this right, maybe he never will. We freeze to motionless as we hear some more doors opening and closing, as well as some muffled voices walking away.

“Close one,” he whispers. When all falls silent again, he starts pushing a few hangers aside. “Our seven minutes in the closet is quickly turning to five minutes, because the vultures are circling as usual, and they’re going to find me, eventually. Let’s get this thing going.”

When the jackets swing on the hangers next to me I cringe, trying to disappear into the drywall. “Where are you?” He must have pushed the hangers all the way to one side, and suddenly he’s pulled me out of the corner and his arms are around me. “Ah. There. You’re a curvy one, aren’t you? Will the surprises never cease?”

“I—”

He captures my hand again just as I’m reaching for the slider, his grip is surprisingly, soft. As I work to get it free, I topple over yet another stack of shoeboxes. To save me from falling, he pulls me flat against his chest. “Whoa there, little one. Easy.” He’s holding up half of my weight and as his fingers go around my waist to lift me all the way up and over the scattered boxes I get so many butterflies I shudder.

“There we are. Safe,” he says but his hands don’t leave my waist. “This is not how or where I’d normally do something like this, but I can’t seem to stop myself. If you don’t mind allowing me this one quick…curious…”

Suddenly his lips are on mine!

I know I should fight him or punch him or say something, but oh, his lips are covering mine and they’re warm, and curving, and just like his hands are, they’re…curiously gentle against me and expertly moving all over the place! And he, and this kiss, and his lips…how my body feels pulled in next to his.

It’s all so nice.

My breath is coming in catches, and I think I moaned a little, or was that him?

My arms go onto his shoulders, and as he pulls me up and closer into the circle of his arms I suddenly get what being kissed senseless means because…oh, my. I can’t think, and this kiss— and what’s happening— makes no sense at all, but at the same time it makes perfect sense…doesn’t it?

He’s moved his hands steadily up my back and now one hand is on my chin and his thumb has run along my bottom lip sending shivers down my spine. He’s pressing down with that thumb so I tilt my head gently up, all while his other hand’s been on the back of my neck, fingers twining into the little curls no one ever sees at the base of my neck. Somehow all this has made my mouth open against his roving lips, and I don’t even know what my tongue is doing, tasting, feeling—but it seems to be doing everything just right, because I’ve never felt so alive.

The hand on my neck moves up higher and has tangled deeper into my hair. My damp, loose braid slips out of the hairband, and when my hair falls between us he pulls in a sharp breath against my lips, and then his hands are all over my hair, “Mm. Shower fresh. Nice. Too nice. Christ, but you’re killing me right now.”

He urges my face closer, and my arms go tighter around his neck, because…fine. He’s killing me, too. I feel like I can’t hold myself up much longer, so I try to lean back on something, or maybe I’m still trying to run, but it’s half-hearted at this point, because my lips want to stay just where they are.

He moves along with me, lifting me some so it feels like we’re dancing. We’re now so far back into the closet the wall’s pressing into my back, and all of him is pressing into the front of me, and still he’s holding me up.

I sigh into his lips again and melt forward, backwards, up and down…

How his hands feel on me are just so very… right, and they’re everywhere…and again…this is all so nice…

Sigh. And sigh.

What is my name again?

Wow.

What is his name again?

More importantly, what’s he’s doing with those lips?

The pressure is exactly where I would want him to put pressure. The way he’s pushing me ever harder into the wall feels great. The way my body’s pushing and pulsing up into him, until mine fits next to his like we’re long-lost puzzle pieces, is making my head spin.

The way he tastes, smells, feels so good.

Yeah…I’ve lost it. Because even though this is totally wrong and I’m pretty sure I hate him—I do not want him to stop doing this to me. He pulls back slightly, but feeling frantic by the sudden loss of pressure, I push all of me forward, not letting his lips go off of mine, all the while I’m thinking: No…no…no…not quite yet. Please don’t stop. Please…don’t stop.

I’m striving to copy everything he’s doing to my mouth, and doing it back to him. When he leans his whole weight into me, I can’t help but let my arms curl around his back so I can trail my fingers tentatively over his shoulder muscles. His collarbone. Trail them down the curve of his spine.

We’ve become heat and fingertips, sweat and breathing, and I can’t stop. I also can’t stop another moan that escapes the corner of my mouth as he licks—actually licks—against my lips.

I pull in fast, ragged breaths, working to remember how to breathe.

I think the sounds I’ve made, and the part where I’ve sort of fainted awake against him, has him groaning again, and pulling my face even closer to his.

“You’re so…sweet. Like butter mixed with…all kinds of… pastries.”

“Breakfast,” I whisper, which causes those lips of his to twist into a smile under my kiss. I’m thinking he’s the one who tastes minty amazing like he just brushed his teeth, but no way do I have any sort of strength to form a sentence that could communicate that, so I only say one small, “Mmm.”

I don’t have much to compare this kissing to, aside from a couple of horrible, groping-slobbery moments at dances, and once at a party. But it doesn’t take a pro to get that what he’s doing to me is extraordinary. Deep down I’m relieved at my response to him, because after those other kisses, I didn’t think feelings like this lightning-bolt explosion that’s happening inside of me existed for me. I’d thought descriptions of melting, and sparkling stars, and how your belly swirls lower than it’s ever swirled with butterflies that I’ve read about in books and seen happening to characters in movies had to be fiction. But they’re all real, and they’re here, and now surging through me like I’ve been hit with a flying rainbow.

Royce Devlin’s kiss has got to be the best of the best. Should I stop it if it feels like this? Should I pull away when I know my chances of having another kiss like this one are slim to none—as in probably never again, never this amazing in my whole future life?

I know he’s going to be angry that I’ve tricked him like this. But he’s made it clear that he despises me anyhow, and I can’t explain…why…or what…but…but…but…oh the lips. The lips he has are so great.

How they slant and move over mine. His hands, how they make my skin burn. The way his chin-scruff feels soft against my cheeks.

I need to record this. Make a memory.

Remember how his hands move up my back with his thumbs along my spine and his fingers splaying around my waist to stroke the sides of my stomach.

A memory, because that feels extra nice. Because that makes my heart flip.

I note how he seems to pause and breathe, like he’s waiting for me to catch up to him, then when I respond by kissing back, he pushes back harder, lips into my lips, fingers into my skin, body into my body.

He’s being polite and testing the limits of what I will and will not give, what I will and will not let him touch, and that consideration alone is making me melt and give him more than I’ve ever given anyone.

I keep going because I decide I need to memorize the scratch of his beard against my cheeks. The exact feeling of his breath against my face. The sound of the sexy rasps he’s making and the heat of him simmering on my lips, as he pauses to breathe. He and this kiss, his skin, those muscles—all are so hard and soft, so gentle and so rough. It’s the unexpected contrasts that are setting off more surges of my curiosity.

Or, is it setting off personal greed? Because, I simply want more. And more. And more.

I’ve only just begun to brave my own explorations with my hands on him. How I love the way the back of his hair curls in so many directions at the base of his neck. And, oh, that neck. See, I’ve never kissed a guy’s neck before, but he did it to mine, and now I want to copy him simply for the fact that he’s begun pressing himself into me harder and harder—down there, and he’s doing that every time I press my lips into his neck.

Unable to resist, I return my lips to his and twine my body back into his with a tilt of my hips just how he did to me. He groans and pulls me closer—presses even harder—and it’s intimidating because all of a sudden, I can feel him. And I mean…feel him. And despite how that made my spine skitter some in fear, I don’t pull away. That’s because…oh that curiosity is still there, and the butterflies…and how I crave more…

“What do you want?”

Did he whisper that? Or did I whisper that?

I want—I want—how desperately I want—

I want to keep melting his mouth into mine, then I want try everything one more time. Then I’m going to stop and explain exactly why I was in his closet. And he’s going to understand…but first.

What do I want?

I want to pull his head closer to mine…

I think from very far away I’ve uttered, “Please.”

He gasps this short, fast breath, like I’ve surprised him by copying exactly the tongue-lip lick thing he did to me. Then, like he’s lost control too, the tentative gentle touches stop and he’s grinding against me so hard my head falls back and bumps against the wall. There’s all of this—pressure—this energy and this heat and—his mouth and my skin—and the wall against my back—and his lips go back over mine. And this time, when we kiss, I’m seeing lights behind my eyes and truly everything feels like this floating dream.

I know I need to say something, but as his lips touch mine again, I think I might be dying, yet I’m more alive than I’ve ever felt, which is why I simply can’t ruin it.

My mind hums again: Not yet. Please not yet. Please. Please. Please.

Every bit of my skin turns into white-hot molten lava. My lungs lock up and I’m holding my breath because I’ve let him pick me up higher. He’s wrapped my legs around him, or I’ve somehow just done that myself. Either way it’s really cool. We’re so close now, every hot inch of him is touching me and still, it’s not enough. I want more. Again, everything goes to dark heat, and pressing hands, and that part of your mind that has the power to float you away takes over again. I could swear we’re both flying together in space.

But then, like he needs to breathe, his lips and his tongue leave my mouth and start to rain kisses all the way around my hairline, pushing the hair out of his way so he doesn’t miss my temples, then behind my ears and onto the back of my neck.

I’ve got no clue when his hands started up near my bra. My hair catches and tangles between us more, and I love how he’s stroking the skin on the sides of my waist all over again—up and down—like I’m a guitar.

I feel, and I feel.

Feel my heartbeats galloping…

Feel my lips swollen and hot.

Feel how his hot skin melts against my hands.

Feel my shirt hike up, and our bare stomachs touching.

Feel the scratch of his beard brushing the tops of my breasts.

When his thumbs start tickling the underside of my bra and then go under, the shock of desire I feel is so intense, I gasp and move my hands up against his chest to push him away.

He’s paused—lips back on mine—and that’s when my thumbs have landed onto that small, curious piercing I thought I’d seen the first day we met. I press into it just how he’s pressing into me—a move that he must like, because it’s made him gasp and pull his head away from me, and now he’s almost growling against the side of my neck.

Suddenly I’m the one moaning, because he’s started a new, gentle assault of kisses along the hollow of my throat and over the curve of my collarbones. My hands are easing down his chest and I boldly scatter my fingers across every ripped muscle of his pecs, then I’m back to the washboard stomach, and tentatively back to the V, where I’m finding the courage to go lower—to brush over that light trail of hair that’s below his belly button. Like my fingers have a mind of their own, they’re ready to head into places under the edge of those low-hung pants that I’ve never ever thought about touching on a guy before—ever!

But I want to…and I want him to…

And…oh my God…

How I want more…

As much as my brain is against this, my body is begging me to say all the right words. The words that will convince this guy to lie down next to me right here and tell me what to do—teach me how to touch—and show me how to make love.

But this is all wrong.

So wrong for me.

Because I don’t love this man.

Which is why I pull my mouth away from his, and whisper, “Wait. I’m sorry. Please. Stop.”