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 breathe 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.