Holland

“Shit, Savannah.” I curse and jump when I screech my bow over the strings, ruining the piece of music I was so lost in.

“Shut up and let me block his view of you,” she says.

“Huh? What, he’s here?”

“Yeah, he’s early and he’s waiting in the hall. He saw you,” she says, hitching her thumb toward the door.

“Shit. Did he say anything? Do you think he noticed how young I am?” I ask.

“No, actually he didn’t. He said you were amazing. I think he was probably so into your playing that he wasn’t really looking at your clothes and hair and all that crap.”

Well thank God for that. I lean around Savannah to see if he’s still watching through the window in the door, and she quickly steps in front of me.

“What are you doing, dummy? Don’t let him see you again. You need to change. Move over there in the corner close to the door so nobody can see, and I’ll try to do something with your eyes. Why is he here so early anyway? I don’t have time to do crap to your hair now,” she says, flicking a wild chunk of my hair over my shoulder.

“How am I supposed to know? Come on, walk with me and make it look casual. Did he ask you about the clothes?”

She walks backward toward the door, pulling me along and acting like a human shield. King didn’t see me when I peeked the first time, and she’s not about to let me risk it again.

“That was really casual, Savannah.” I roll my eyes.

“Shut up.” She yanks the rubber band out of my hair and begins fluffing and fussing with my waves. I didn’t do a thing with it today. She’s got her work cut out for her.

When she’s done, she tilts her head to the side, checking her work.

“Not bad. Okay, now hold still and let me fix your face.”

“I’m not broken, just young. Be nice, Savannah,” I say, toeing off my shoes and unbuttoning my shorts.

“I know, I know. I don’t work well under pressure, sorry. Here, put this on.” She thrusts a hanger into my chest.

“Gosh, remind me how rough you are the next time I ask for a makeover.”

I slip my t-shirt over my head, and she informs me that I need to go braless because the romper has a racer back. Great. I step into the gauzy shorts and pull the material up and over my shoulders while she digs in her purse for whatever it is she needs to ‘fix’ my face with.

“Did you have to choose something I can’t wear a bra with?”

“I was in a hurry. This is my mama’s. I didn’t have anything that looked right.” I’ve never seen her so frustrated. She whips out a tube of mascara and starts to come at me with the wand, and I cringe and realize that Savannah’s southern drawl is much more pronounced when she’s in a huff.

“I didn’t bring heels. Nothing I had went with this thing, but my mama wears these gladiator sandals with it, so I grabbed them.”

Actually, I’m pretty happy about that. The balls of my feet are so tender from last night that walking in heels sounds like a special kind of torture. Not five minutes later, I have been transformed from my everyday self into a modern, stylish, twenty-ish looking woman.

“There. Damn, you look good. Oh my God . . .”

“What? Please don’t tell me there’s something on this thing. I don’t have time to—”

“No, there’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just . . . he has on a shirt that’s the exact same color. Like, I mean exactly the same shade of orange.”

Oh brother, what are the chances of that happening? This isn’t exactly a common color. Must be fate. Yeah, right.

“We’re gonna look like a couples dance team, but whatever, can’t do anything about it now. Thanks, you’d better go before Shanna comes back here to break up the party. I told her King was an orchestra talent scout.” I giggle and she rolls her eyes.

“I’m not even gonna ask if there is such a thing. I’m going, but you call me if he tries any funny business. I have my mama’s truck, and I can come get you.”

I give her a quick, short hug.

“I will. Don’t worry, it’ll be okay.” She rolls her eyes again. “Your eyes are gonna slip back into your head and stick there if you don’t quit doing that.”

“Yeah, whatever, Mama.” She turns to leave, but she quickly spins around and mouths ‘call me’ as she opens the door. Now it’s my turn to do the eye rolling.

She says goodbye to King as I follow her out.

“Sorry, I was dressed pretty casually to go out to dinner. I wanted to change into something a little nicer.”

King stops mid-turn from saying goodbye to Savannah. He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stares at me. His gaze travels down the length of my body, starting with my eyes, working his way down to my feet and back, and settling on my mouth. I fiddle with the violin shaped silver ring that my daddy gave me last year for my birthday. I slide it around and around with my thumb until he notices how uncomfortable I am.

“You look perfect.” His voice is low, and I’m suddenly feeling like I’m going to be his entrée at dinner tonight instead of his guest.

“Thanks.”

He closes the distance between us in two steps, placing his hands on either side of my face. I gasp and watch his eyes jump back and forth between mine as if he’s looking for something, searching for an answer to an unasked question. My heart hammers in my chest and my head feels fuzzy. Even sober, I feel drunk in his hands. He backs me gently through the open door behind me and into the rehearsal room, never losing eye contact.

I want to say something but I can’t. This is amazingly close to the way I feel when I’m lost in my music. It’s like I’m on another wavelength, another level of consciousness, unaware of anything but the subject holding my attention. The door clicks behind him just as his mouth feathers over mine. I want to close my eyes and let him take me away the way I do with my music, but he is much too beautiful to shut out.

His eyes are open too, and he begins a sensual pattern of tenderly kissing and exploring my mouth and pulling away until we’re nose to nose. When he gazes into my eyes, I see a question there. It’s the same question he asked me repeatedly last night. ‘Are you okay? Is this okay?’ I answer him by initiating the next kiss, and I close my eyes to fully experience King’s lips gliding over mine.

I have no clue what I’m doing, but somehow instincts take control and I thread my fingers through the soft curls at the nape of his neck. King moans, drawing me closer, and I feel his thick arousal pressing into my belly. His hands drift from my cheeks down my arms and around my waist, where he finds the open back of my romper.

“Oh God, Holland, this outfit is going to kill me tonight. I’m never going to be able to keep my hands off of you at dinner.”

“We aren’t at dinner yet,” I whisper.

His eyes darken until they’re almost black, and he looks at me so deeply that I swear he can see my soul. He urgently walks me to the wall behind the door, where his mouth covers mine passionately, his touch becomes more demanding, and his breath comes in short pants as he lifts me up, pressing me against the wall. I wrap my legs around his waist and feel his cock strain against my eager core. I push against him, using my body to ask for what I want, and what I want is more—more of him, more of everything.

“I want you, Holland. Right here, right now.”

His words are like currents in the ocean, pulling me out to sea. I’m helpless against their power. Like a defenseless victim, I’m being dragged under and tossed around in the sea. I can’t tell which way is up, where to go for more oxygen, or what to do to survive. My inexperienced hands fumble with his belt as he pushes my shorts and panties to the side to slide a long finger inside my wet folds. My head hits the wall with a soft thump, and when he finds what he wants, it spurs him into a mad frenzy. I don’t even know what happens after that—the sensations all meld together. His hands are everywhere at once while mine impatiently search the chiseled muscles of his back. I need more—more of him, more of this, until he mercilessly enters me with one long, hard thrust and we are no longer two, but one. I yelp, and his hand flies to cover my mouth. This isn’t like last night. This is feverish and desperate and better, so much better. He pulls his face away. Locking eyes with me for a beat, he lifts his eyebrows, and without a word, I receive his message loud and clear: shush, or we’ll get caught, and you don’t want this to stop, so don’t get us caught.

He pulls me flush against his chest and slides his hands under my ass, burying his face in my hair. His mouth is pressed against my neck, and I feel his warm breath panting against my damp skin. I arch my back in an effort to give him more of me—all of me—and he greedily takes it all, pushing inside of me over and over until I’m crying out so loudly that no hand on my mouth can quiet me.

King stops and loosens his hand from my mouth, and I whimper when we lose our rhythm. He presses his forehead to mine, and I watch a bead of sweat trickle over his temple and down the side of his face. A cello plays a sad piece of music in the next room. I can faintly hear the music seeping through the wall behind my head while I wait for King to look at me. When he catches his breath, he looks at me from under his thick black lashes.

“You’re mine, Holland. Swear to me that you will never let another man put his hands on you. Right now, say it. Promise me,” he demands. This is not a request or even an option for me to say no. I don’t want to. I don’t ever want another man to touch me like this.

I quickly nod once with wide eyes, and he presses his hand against my mouth again, anticipating my next reaction.

“Come, Holland . . . right now. I want you to come for me.”

I have no idea how, but my body follows his command, and I scream into his hand, biting down as he pounds into me, smashing my back against the wall. I come so hard that every cell of my body explodes in pure ecstasy.

I lose myself around him as he thrusts twice more before he stops, and I can feel him pulsing inside of me, filling me with a part of him for the second time in twenty-four hours.

His entire body is trembling, and he is holding me so tightly that I can’t breathe, but I don’t care. I feel his jaw clenching against mine, and for a second I worry he may break his teeth off trying to suppress a roar that would have been deafening if we hadn’t been in public. Clinging to each other, we gasp, and I feel his jaw slowly relax and turn into a smile against my neck.

“What the hell was that?” he asks. “You . . .” he says, dropping his chin to his chest and shaking his head back and forth. “You make me do things . . . feel things . . . shit, Holland, you’re like a fucking love sorceress or something.”

This man, who is far more experienced and skilled than I am, thinks that I’m casting spells on him. Me . . . nineteen-year-old Holland Blue Bennett, virgin about town up until a few short hours ago, who knows next to nothing about pleasing a man. I can’t even protest his ridiculous claim, though, because his hand is still covering my mouth.

“Oh. God damn, you probably can’t breathe, can you?” He instantly removes his hand from my face and tucks a piece of my wild hair behind my ear.

“I bit you. I’m sorry,” I say, eyeing his palm.

He smiles, flashing every single one of his perfectly straight white teeth.

“I loved it. Next time, we’ll be in my bed and you can scream as loud as you want to, unless you prefer biting me. That can easily be arranged too.”

“The room is soundproof, you know.” He twitches inside of me, smiling and shaking his head back and forth in disbelief.

“You’re a wildcat, Ms. Bennett,” he says with a smirk, pressing me against the wall one more time.

He pulls away and looks down at my crumpled romper between our bodies, and I follow his gaze.

“I messed you up, didn’t I?” he says, wrinkling his nose.

“Um, yeah, you did. I still need to practice, and Shanna is going to be coming back here soon to check on me, so we need to fix this.”

He steps away, slowly sliding out of me, holding my eyes, and lowering me to the ground. With my feet firmly on the floor and my legs Jell-O beneath me, he bends his knees to tenderly place a kiss on my belly. Then he begins to smooth out the front of my top while simultaneously copping a feel. I giggle, but he is quiet as he adjusts my shorts and panties back into place. My eyes follow his every movement until he turns me around, nudging me gently toward the wall. I press my cheek against the cool surface and wait while he gathers the loose material around my waist and ties a bow at the small of my back. His hands leave me, and I hear him zip and buckle his pants. I start to turn around, but he moves closer again and laces his fingers with mine, pressing me against the wall while he nuzzles my neck with his nose.

“I’m sorry I interrupted your playing,” he whispers in my ear. “You’re so fucking amazing. Watching you play turned me on. I have a thing for classical music, and I have an even bigger thing for you, Holland. I meant what I said. Don’t ever let another man’s hands touch this body.” He presses me against the wall a little harder to make sure I get the message. “You’re mine. I want to get to know you—every single thing about you, inside and out. Not just your body, Holland. I want to know the mind of the woman I just witnessed becoming one with her music. I want to be a part of the soul that can feel so passionately about something that I love so much. I want you to feel that way about me. I want to be your music.”

I am dumbfounded and absolutely ruined for any other man for as long as I live. I don’t know what to say. I feel like this has become incredibly serious incredibly fast, and I’m confused, but one thing I’m sure of is that what I’m feeling for him is just as strong as what he’s feeling for me, so I agree and promise to be only his.

“I promise. I’m yours, King.”

“Pinky swear?” he asks.

“What?”

“Pinky swear. You know.” He releases my hands and links his pinky fingers with both of mine and repeats himself. “Pinky swear.”

I smile and tighten my fingers. King Romero wants me to pinky swear.

“Yeah, okay. Pinky swear,” I answer, giggling.

“Ahh, sweet Holland, you have just made me an extremely happy man.” His lips find my ear and he nibbles my lobe before trailing a quick path of kisses down my neck. He releases me and twirls me away with one hand like a ballroom dancer, and I squeal at his sudden shift from serious to playful. King hits me with a look of pure adoration, and if I didn’t know it before, I am sure of it now. I am absolutely in love with this man.

“Now practice. Stop wasting precious time. Play for me.” He laughs, shoving me gently toward the chair where I abandoned my violin earlier.

I do my best to organize these newfound emotions into some semblance of order as I sit on the edge of my chair and try to compose myself enough to focus on my music. It’s different now. This time I’m not just practicing in an empty room. I’m performing, and I’m doing it for the man who will forever be my King.

I think King would stand in my rehearsal room forever, listening to me play without interrupting. I’m prone to losing track of time during practice. I can go on for hours without a break, thinking of nothing but the way the notes flow through my body.

King stayed all afternoon. He never complained or cleared his throat suggesting that I wrap it up. He never changed his posture or shuffled his feet impatiently. King remained stone still, absorbing the music, until Shanna knocked on the door to inform us that my time was up, and the next person on the schedule was waiting in the lobby for the room.

“Oh my gosh, Shanna, I’m sorry. I totally lost track of time,” I say as King stands purposely between us, blocking her view of me while he picks up my purse and my bag of clothes. He silently removes my violin from my hands while Shanna continues to complain. After several minutes of annoying complaining, she realizes that he is ignoring her and she crosses her arms over her chubby breasts with a ‘humph.’ He opens my violin case and gently places my instrument inside before reaching to take my bow to do the same with it. I roll my lips in and press them together to keep from smiling. When he’s finished slowly and meticulously readying me to leave, he takes my hand and leads me past Shanna and down the hall without so much as a word or a nod.

“I’ll see you next week, Shanna. Sorry I went over my time,” I call over my shoulder, stumbling along as King pulls me through the door and into the extreme heat of the late afternoon.

I squint and shield my eyes from the sun.

“Where are we going?” I haven’t called my mother with an excuse to not pick me up, and I need an excuse fast.

“Away from that annoying, infuriating individual.”

I finally allow my suppressed smile to light up my face. She is annoying, but King’s response to her is hilarious.

“She’s just doing her job, King. She’s not that bad,” I say.

He stops suddenly, turning to face me on the busy sidewalk. Squinting when the sun blinds him, he automatically looks down at the ground while one of his hands still clutches mine and the other carries my violin. When he looks up, I’m surprised to see his face so serious.

“She was rude and inconsiderate. You were only over your time by five minutes. She could have been more respectful by simply informing you of the mistake. She treated you like a child. I wasn’t going to stand there and allow that, but since you apparently use their space often, I held my tongue.”

Part of me is elated that he’s so protective and feels the need to defend my honor, but on the other hand, I’m going to have to figure out a way to smooth over that incident before she tells my mama about the strange, rude man who was listening to me play all afternoon. STRINGS is the only place we can afford to regularly reserve a practice room, so I can’t have Shanna getting angry with me.

“Okay, well, besides the obvious escape from Shanna, where are we going?”

“To dinner,” he says, releasing my hand to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear.

The hot Texas wind is at my back, whipping my hair around my face and making his attentiveness fruitless. I try to swipe it to the side myself so I can see him better, but he stops my hand.

“Don’t. Just stand there for a minute. You have no idea how exquisite you are, do you? You just stand there innocently with your hair all wild and untamed, those transparent grey eyes, your flawless, smooth skin . . . you’re a vision of perfection.” He traces a streak of lightning along my jaw and neck, and down my arm to my hand, where he laces our fingers together again. I’m nearing heat stroke from the summer sun—or possibly it’s a reaction to King’s compliments. Either way, I need to get off of this sidewalk.

“I make you uncomfortable with my compliments, don’t I? I don’t mean to, I promise. You just take my breath away like no one ever has, Holland.”

“I’m just not used to . . .” I start to explain, but he steps forward to silence me with a kiss.

“I had to taste you again. Every time you start talking, I have to urge to kiss these lips,” he says, sliding the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip.

He has such a way with words and . . . compliments and kisses and . . . just everything. I wish I could express to him how he makes me melt like ice cream on a hot day in July. Do all men treat women this way when they’re interested? I have a feeling they don’t. King is special. He’s different and maybe a little bit blind. How can he not suspect our age difference? I think he feels that something is off—he’s said so himself. Maybe he just doesn’t care. Maybe he likes younger women. Maybe I’ve misrepresented myself.

In my own defense, I’ve always been more mature than other girls my age. I study harder, I’m motivated, determined and dedicated to my music and my future, so technically, I’m probably closer to thirty than twenty.

“You’re going to be used to compliments soon. I’ll make sure of it. Every time I lay eyes on you, I feel compelled to tell you how stunningly beautiful you are. I will remind you that you’re insanely unique, incredibly talented, and so fucking impossibly sexy.”

I stare into the eyes of this amazing man who sees me in such a different light. My parents and teachers are always encouraging me to be better, work harder, and do more, but King thinks I’m perfect just the way I am, and it’s refreshing, like a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. I look down at my feet when I feel tears prick the corners of my eyes and take a deep breath. I’m overwhelmed. King is so very overwhelming.

“Let’s go. I’ve got a surprise for you. I’m parked up here.” He steps out of my bubble and points up a steep hill. I’m really glad Savannah didn’t bring me heels.

Savannah. Shit, I need to call her. King looks me up and down and realizes that my legs are no match for his. He slides my purse off my shoulder and takes my bag of clothes. I watch with curiosity as he slings them over his shoulder and steps in front of me.

“Hop on.” A piggy back ride?

“What?”

“Hop on, shorty. I don’t want to be late.”

I smile and shrug before grabbing his shoulders and hoisting myself onto his broad back. I wrap my legs around his waist and laugh, reveling in being molded against his body again. Everything about him is addictive: his scent, the way his muscles flex between my legs, the fluidity of his movements, his low, masculine, commanding yet loving voice. I press my nose against his neck and tightly squeeze my legs around his waist.

“No one has given me a piggyback ride since I was six,” I say, resting my chin on his shoulder.

“Well, you’ve been neglected long enough, then, haven’t you?” He turns to steal a kiss and begins asking me questions while easily climbing the hill with me on his back.

“What kind of food do you like?”

“American,” I say, and he chuckles at my vagueness.

“What kind of American food, specifically?”

“Burgers and fries. You know, the normal stuff.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Why?” I ask, wondering what that has to do with my favorite food.

“I just want to know. I want to know everything about you.”

“Oh. Um . . . I guess teal blue, then. What’s yours?”

“Red,” he answers, stopping next to a cherry red range rover.

“This is me.”

“Red,” I repeat, nodding. The color that represents passion—very appropriate. I slide off of his back, lavishing in the feel of every chiseled muscle rubbing against the bare areas of my skin, until my toes touch the ground. I am barely chest high in these flat shoes when I look up into his dark eyes.

“Told ya, red.” He winks and presses the lock button on his key fob. The beep of the range rover unlocking echoes off the buildings around us, and he opens the passenger door for me.

“Wait just a second.” He holds up a finger and opens the back door as well. I wait obediently, with my arms hanging loosely in front of me, hands clasped together. When he has my violin and bags tucked away, he swiftly takes me around the waist and lifts me into my seat.

“Whoa.” I laugh, caught by surprise.

“It’s a big step,” he says, flashing me his superstar smile.

“You just wanted to put your hands on me.”

“Guilty as charged.” He slides his hand along the inside of my thigh, and the air is instantly charged with desire.

“You’re irresistible. I told you.” He pulls his hand away right before he reaches the aching apex between my legs. “But I really hate to be late,” he says, biting his lip and smiling as he closes the door.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and try to figure out how on earth I’m going to control my suddenly raging hormones. This is all so new and intense, like being thrown in the deep end of a swimming pool full of freezing cold water. No easing into the shallow end with a casual boyfriend or two before finding Mr. Right for me. No, I have to go and get sucked into a full-blown adult, passionate love affair on the first go around. Figures. I’ve always been an overachiever.

Just as King slides into the driver’s seat, my phone alerts me that I have a text. He looks into the back seat and passes me my purse before starting the engine. I fumble around, digging through my purse while the air conditioning first blows hot, stuffy and then brisk, arctic air against my damp skin. When I finally locate my phone, I take it out and shiver, saying a little prayer that it’s Savannah and not my mother.

“Seatbelt, Holland,” he says, looking over at me with the steering wheel turned and his blinker ticking, ready to pull out into traffic. I crank my neck to find the belt and pull it across my body, clicking it into place. The instant I’m secure, he works his way onto the busy street. I glance down at my phone and breathe a serious sigh of relief when I see Savannah’s name instead of my mama’s at the top of my message list.

I told your mama I would pick you up from rehearsal. She thinks you’re swimming at my house and grilling out with us for dinner. You’re welcome. How’s it going?

Thank God in heaven for best friends. She managed to free up my entire evening with a simple believable lie. It’s easy being bad when you’ve been nothing but good your entire life. No one suspects anything. A pang of guilt hits me when I think of the ideal relationship I have always had with my parents. Lying has never been my style, but being with King makes me want so many things that I have never imagined doing before. If telling a couple of lies is what it takes to see where this goes, I’m willing to do it.

“Everything okay?” King asks, glancing at me briefly and back to the road.

“Yeah, it’s just Savannah,” I say and text her a quick thank you with a relieved emoji and a thumbs up.

“Nice girl. I like her overzealous protectiveness.”

“Yeah, more like overprotective, but that’s all right. She loves me.”

“It’s good to have someone like that watching out for you,” he says wistfully, making me wonder if anyone has ever watched out for him. He doesn’t seem like the type who needs looking out for.

After a few minutes of driving in silence, King switches the music on, and my heart skips a beat when Antonio Vivaldi’s Concerto No. 4 fills the air around us. I love this piece of music. My heart races when I play it, and the fact that King just happens to have been listening to it is just another bit of proof that this thing between us can’t be wrong. Closing my eyes, I imagine my bow as an extension of my body, gliding across the strings. Music feels so good. It’s always been there for me, feeding my soul. Without it, I’d wither and die. King is quickly becoming very much like my music. He feels so good. He feeds my soul, and I’m starting to be afraid of what would happen if I were without him.

“Remind me to play this when I make love to you again,” King says, yanking me out of my musically induced state of bliss.

“What? Vivaldi?”

“Yes. I want to hear you scream my name at the climax of this piece.” As if his words weren’t enough to force a bright red blush up my neck, his sensual, deep, gravelly tone is. Dear God, he does things to me, things that perplex and fascinate me, mystifying things my young mind can’t begin to untangle.

“I love seeing you blush. I’ll try to behave, though.” His words are genuine, but his smile is full of mischief. He isn’t going to behave, and I love it. I squirm in my seat with a vision of King and me in his bed, sweaty and panting, with Antonio Vivaldi’s Concerto No. 4 climaxing loudly in the background.

Between Savannah saving me with her text message and King causing electrical storms between my legs, I haven’t paid attention to where we’re going, so I’m surprised when we pull into an underground parking garage in the parking lot of Ecstasy. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the lack of light in the garage, but when they do, I glance over at King.

“I’m still going to feed you—don’t worry. Your surprise is inside, though, so we have to stop here, okay?”

“Yeah, sure, of course,” I say, but I haven’t convinced myself that any of this is okay yet. What kind of surprise would be in the club anyway? His apartment . . . of course. How could I forget? Butterflies take flight in my tummy when I think of being alone in the room with King where I lost my virginity less than twenty-four hours ago.

“You’re quiet. Is everything okay?” King asks, guiding the Range Rover into a parking space between two other very fancy cars.

I don’t know if everything is okay. I don’t know how to identify the feelings I have when I’m with King.

“You’re overwhelming. In a good way, though,” I say, rushing the ‘in a good way, though’ part when his face clouds over with concern. He cuts the engine and reaches over to gently take my hand in his.

“In a good way? I don’t want to push you away, Holland. I . . . I just don’t know up from down right now.” He pauses and frowns as he lowers his eyes to our joined hands. I can see the wheels turning in his mind. When his eyes find mine again, he blinks lazily, his long, dark lashes brush against his cheeks, and he lifts one of my hands to his mouth, where his warm lips slowly press against my palm and then the pad of each of my fingertips, one by one, seductively, until I’m nearly convulsing from the shivers zinging up and down my spine. I’m lightheaded. It’s happening again. He’s overwhelming me.

“Sorry.” He’s smirking. I don’t think he’s really sorry, and that’s okay.

“I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman the rest of the night. Come on, I have to get out of this confined space so I can keep that promise.” He carefully places my hands back into my lap and I watch him exit the Rover and round the front to my side. When he helps me down I notice, to my utter disappointment, that his hands don’t linger on my hips this time. He leads me by the hand to an elevator that lifts us up two floors before it opens right into the front entrance of the club. It’s a totally different vibe without all of the people and thumping music.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back,” he says as he pushes through the double doors that separate the entrance from the club. Standing alone where a bouncer checked my ID last night, I notice that the glowing pink lights from the first floor of Ecstasy are now teal blue, my favorite color. The quivering lights give off the peaceful, quiet feeling of being underwater.

When King returns, he’s holding something behind his back. One corner of his mouth is turned up in a smile, and I can absolutely feel the excitement and positive energy flowing off of him—like a kid in a candy store, except I’m the candy.

“This was all on short notice, but I wanted to spoil you a little.”

“What’s behind your back?” I ask, trying to peek around him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he teases, and I try again, but he quickly dodges to the left, keeping his surprise behind his back. Maybe another tactic would work better. I’ll ask nicely.

“Yes, I would. Please.”

“Well . . . since you asked nicely, I guess I’ll show you.”

I love surprises; it’s the kid in me I guess.

He doesn’t disappoint. The surprise is the most gorgeous bouquet of teal blue and white orchids I’ve ever seen.

I gasp and clasp my hands together in front of my chest. “They’re gorgeous, but how did you . . . what . . . wait, how did you do that? I just told you my favorite color a few minutes ago.”

“I have connections,” he says, raising one of his eyebrows in a high arch. He hands me the flowers, and I hold them close and breathe in their light vanilla scent.

“They’re beautiful, King. Thank you so much,” I say and step closer to stand on my tiptoes and kiss him. He doesn’t reach for me, but he also doesn’t pull away. I meant for it to be a quick thank you kiss, but sparks ignite the moment our lips connect, and I find myself pressed against his chest with my arms wrapped around his neck, flowers dangling haphazardly, panting within seconds. A moan vibrates through his chest, making me brave, and I slide my hand over his chest and down to the rock hard erection straining against his jeans.

“You’re making it impossible to be a perfect gentleman, Holland,” he murmurs against my lips.

“What if I don’t want a perfect gentleman?” I whisper.

“If you don’t want a perfect gentleman, then I guess I’m free to do this.” I inhale sharply when he slides his hands around to cup my ass. He pulls me flush against him.

“And this,” he says, grinding his hard length into my belly. He deepens the kiss with his perfect mouth, expertly searching every part of mine, tasting and nipping at my full bottom lip. One of his hands slides over my backside, learning every curve, while the other holds me securely in place at the nape of my neck, under my hair.

“But a promise is a promise, and I always keep my promises, Ms. Bennett,” he says, stepping back and literally leaving me hanging. I stumble forward a step, but as always, he steadies me.

King is a drug, and he’s made me high.

“Come on, let’s go inside.” His warm fingers take my hand to lead me on wobbly legs into the club.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. I feel King’s eyes on me, watching, waiting for my reaction. All of my attention is focused on the transformation that has taken place on the pink level of Ecstasy. All around the circular room, the walls are bathed in teal blue instead of hot pink, just like the ones in the entrance. The glass blocks that make up the bases of each bar are illuminated with the same color blue, and the small cube tables scattered throughout the bar are also lit blue from within. The most breathtaking area is a table in the center of the dance floor though. Formally set for two, it’s a small, intimate table made grandiose by a stunning chandelier that seems to be suspended in midair above it. The screen that surrounds the dance floor twinkles with a million bright stars like a night sky, instead of the honey dripping images and optical illusions from last night. The floor is covered with orchid petals that exactly match the ones in my bouquet. I inhale the light floral scent penetrating the air before I cover my mouth with my hand.

I’m trying to comprehend all of the attention to detail that has gone into making this magical night time fairytale come together so quickly, but I’m simply awestruck.

“King . . . I can’t believe you did all of this.”

“You like it then?” he asks, sounding a little unsure. How can he possibly be unsure? It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen, and by far the most elaborate thing anyone’s ever done for me. I doubt any man has ever swept a woman off of her feet more thoroughly.

I turn to face him, and sure enough, insecurity is written all over his face until he sees the tears pooling in the corners of my eyes. Relief spreads across his ruggedly handsome face, and the corners of his mouth turn up in the smile I am quickly starting to love.

“Like I said, it was short notice.” He shrugs now, as if he weren’t full of doubt just a second ago.

“If this is short notice, I can’t imagine what a date with a few days of preparation would be like,” I say, scanning the room again.

“Well, if all goes as planned tonight, maybe you will give me the opportunity to show you the full arsenal of my date planning capabilities.” He winks at me, and I experience swooning for the first time in my life. My body actually sways under the heavy weight of his adoration.

“Whoa there . . .” He grabs my elbow to support me, causing a sudden pulse of energy to spread across my skin. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right.” But I’m not.

“Maybe we should sit down,” he suggests, guiding me to the table with one hand on the small of my back and the other cradling my elbow.

As we walk across the dance floor, the orchid petals tickle my feet through the open toes of my borrowed sandals. Savannah’s never going to believe this. Hell, I don’t believe this. Who does something so romantic for a person they just met the day before? This kind of date should be reserved for a man proposing to his girlfriend or celebrating an anniversary, not a first date after a reckless drunken encounter. He’s setting the bar pretty high with all of this.

King pulls out a chair for me and guides me down onto the soft seat while handing me a glass of water.

“Here, drink this. You’re probably dehydrated. You haven’t had anything to drink all afternoon.” I drink the entire glass in one long swallow, looking up at him over the rim of the glass. He’s probably right. I’m still hung over from my first drinking experience, and I’ve been playing my fingers to the bone for hours. Not to mention the energy expended during our tryst in the rehearsal room. Who am I? How can one man influence me so significantly?

“Thanks,” I say and hand the glass back to him with a weak smile. “I think you’re right. I was thirsty.”

He places the glass on the table behind him, never taking his eyes off of me, and he reaches out with one finger to feather a trail from my cheekbone to my chin until it rests on my lips. His gaze is thoughtful as he cradles my face in his hand.

“You make things different,” he says, focusing on my mouth. I want to ask what he means by that, but if I do, he will most likely remove his hand from my face, and I don’t want that. I turn my cheek into his hand and close my eyes, breathing in the faint smell of cigar smoke and soap. His hand tenses around my jaw, tilting my lips to meet his in the most tender of kisses. King moans. Pulling away, he gives my jaw a quick, frustrated squeeze before he releases it.

“I’m going to have to keep my distance if we’re ever going to eat.”

I watch as he pulls his white upholstered chair around so he is situated at my side instead of across from me.

“That’s not keeping your distance.” I don’t know why I said that. The closer he is to me, the more content I seem to be.

“I’m still working on mastering the art of self-control, Holland. You’ll have to give me time.” He’s being playful, but I sense a bit of seriousness in his voice, and his eyes are full of desire.

“Sir?” A voice comes from the edge of the dance floor.

“Yes, Sebastián, now is fine.” King responds without looking in the direction of the disembodied voice. A waiter and a waitress dressed in black pants and stiff white shirts appear on either side of us, seemingly from out of nowhere. The waiter gracefully slides two plates onto the table in front of us while the waitress pops the cork from a bottle of champagne and pours it into tall flutes. Before I can say thank you, they vanish as suddenly as they arrived. I examine the food on my plate and lay my hand over my tummy when it growls impatiently. I don’t recognize some of the food, so I look to King, who is watching me.

“Hungry?”

“Very.”

“Do you need me to tell you what we’re eating?” I shake my head yes, and he points at the main dish. “Jumbo deep sea scallops encrusted in pumpkin seed,” he says, checking my expression before he proceeds to the next item. “Chayote with calabacitas with chipotle peppercorn sauce. It’s not ‘American’ food. I’m sorry. I wanted to share some of my favorites. I assumed you would like Mexican food. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

I do love Mexican. I mean, growing up in Texas, it’s pretty much mandatory, but these aren’t your average Mexican tacos or burritos.

“No, no, I love Mexican food. I just haven’t had these particular things before. It looks great, and honestly, I would eat just about anything right now.”

Relief spreads across his face again, and I wonder why he’s trying so hard. Why does he care so much if the food is to my liking or if the mood is set perfectly? We hardly know each other.

“You’re sure? I can have something else prepared in seconds if you’d like.”

“No. Please, King, this is perfect, all of this,” I say, looking around the room and back to him. “The table, the room, the music, the food . . . but most of all, you, King,” I say, reaching out to cover his hand with mine on the armrest of his chair.

The same jolt I felt earlier passes between us, flooding my body with that strange combination of electricity and contentment. I’m reminded of the comment he made earlier, and I decide to ask what he meant by it.

“What did you mean when you said ‘You make things different’?” I ask and watch as he seems to search for the right words to explain.

“I’m not exactly sure. You just make me feel . . . different somehow.” His eyes narrow and his brow furrows softly as he regards me carefully for a heartbeat. “Now eat before you pass out on the floor and suffocate in a sea of orchid petals,” he says, removing my hand from his and placing it over my fork. Something about that answer stirs suspicion as well as guilt. It’s as if he wanted to elaborate but he stopped himself; that’s the suspicion. The guilt I feel stems from the secret I’m keeping. I hadn’t considered telling him how old I was before, but the further the day goes on, the more important it seems.

The food is out of this world delicious, but it’s spicy. I try to keep my cool for a few bites, but finally I surrender and down another glass of water. With one hand splayed on the table and teary eyes, I look at King over the rim of my glass and see him biting his lip and holding back a laugh. When I’ve drained the glass, I set it down hard and gasp.

“You knew this was hot.”

“Ah, yes. I guess I did,” he says sheepishly, gritting his teeth and bowing his head to look at me through his thick dark eyelashes. “I’m sorry. Really, I think they actually made it a little spicier than usual. Here, have some champagne. I’ll have Sebastián get you more water.” He lifts his hand, motioning to someone in the shadows around the dance floor. Right away, my glass is filled and a pitcher of water is placed on the table between us. I’ve already downed my champagne in a very un-ladylike manner when I start in on my second—or is it my third—glass of water.

He isn’t holding back now. His chuckling has turned into a full-fledged laugh, and I start to giggle along with him. He’s taken an extra drink of water as well, so I know it’s not just me feeling the heat of the spicy food.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think I will be now,” I say, coughing while I watch him refill my champagne flute.

“I promise something more traditional next time.”

“Traditional? As in less Mexican or less hot?” I ask.

“Less hot, never less Mexican.” He smiles, and I wonder if he was born in Mexico.

“Are you from Mexico originally?”

“No, Puerto Rico. My father moved us to Texas when I was fifteen,” he says, pushing his food around on his plate.

“Really? I’ve never been to Puerto Rico, but my daddy took us to Mexico on vacation once.” I too push my food around on my plate, unsure if I want to risk another bite. I expect King to elaborate on growing up in Puerto Rico, but he’s grown unusually quiet and withdrawn. A strange unease hangs in the air between us, so I decide to veer the topic of discussion in a different direction.

“What sparked your interest in classical music?” I ask, tentatively taking another bite of shrimp. His face brightens as his eyes find mine again. Smart move. He loves music, it seems—almost as much as I do.

“I was five, and my mother bought a piano. No one knew how to play, but she encouraged me to learn. She always wanted me to do the things she wasn’t able to when she was a child. I started lessons and caught on immediately. My mother wanted me to try other instruments, but my father said I should focus on one thing and be great at it, so of course I did as he wished.

I listened to classical music when the other kids in school were listening to Rap and Pop. My dad regretted encouraging me to play the piano when he decided I should be involved in team sports, but I didn’t enjoy being part of a group. I was more interested in running, swimming, playing the piano . . . things that I could do on my own. Anyway, to answer your question, my mother instigated my love of classical music.”

“You don’t seem like the loner type to me, what with owning and running dance clubs for a living.” I can almost taste his disquiet.

“I got over it. My father made sure of it.” His tone is bitter, and I’m picking up that their relationship was less than ideal.

“I’d love to hear you play sometime.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

Someone is approaching from behind. I can hear the shuffle of flower petals as they near the table. King looks up, initially irritated, but quickly his expression changes to concern. Sebastián bends to quietly say something in King’s ear on the opposite side of me, so I can’t make out what he’s saying.

“Fuck. Tell her I’m busy,” he snaps, but Sebastián raises his brows as if to say Yeah, right and turns to leave us alone again.

“I’m sorry, Holland. I’ll be right back. I have to deal with some . . .” he begins to explain, but before he can get the words out, he’s cut off by the screech of a woman’s voice.

“What the hell is all of this?” She shrieks, and I turn to see a familiar very tall, very angry woman standing ankle deep in orchid petals with her hands outstretched. It’s the woman from the pictures on the internet—the one in the red dress.

“And who the fuck is this?” She screams in an even higher pitch.

“Crystal, what the hell are you doing here?” King yells, and I jump an inch off of my seat. His eyes swing back to me when he realizes he’s startled me.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, reaching out to touch my arm. “I’ll be right back.” He pushes out his chair and bends to kiss me softly on my mouth. I squirm when the angry woman gasps.

“It’s okay. Just a misunderstanding, I promise,” he whispers, but not quietly enough.

“A misunderstanding. So I’m just a misunderstanding? What the fuck, King?” she screams, and King closes the distance between them in three long strides.

“Shut your fucking mouth, Crystal,” he hisses, taking her arm roughly and leading her toward the front entrance. She stumbles and complains all the way until they pass through the doors, leaving me alone and confused. Is this Crystal his girlfriend? Is he cheating on her with me? Am I the other woman? The questions begin to pile up, and I don’t understand how I could have gotten mixed up in such a mess.

After a few minutes alone, my mind settles and I hear soft music wafting through the high-powered sound system. Chopin . . . now that is something I understand, unlike the hysteria of the surprised woman who was just dragged from the room. Chopin is soothing and relaxing. It makes sense. I close my eyes and lean my head back on the chair, trying to not figure out what just happened here. As always, I’m instantly transported far away from the insanity of being a nineteen-year-old girl sneaking away from home to have dinner with an unsuspecting older man, who is now in the lobby with his very pissed off girlfriend. I relax and loosen my grip on the arms of the chair while I loll my head to the adagio tempo. It’s beautiful here in the calm of my private musical world. I used to think there was no place I’d rather be, until I met King . . .

Muffled angry voices pull me from my reverie, and I open my eyes to see King leaning on a column, with one hand in his pocket, staring at me as if I were the most fascinating thing in the world.

“You’re so fucking amazing,” he says, pushing off the column to make his way to the table.

“Who was that?” I say, nodding my head toward the doors where the angry woman is still vehemently arguing with someone.

“A mistake,” he answers simply.

“How so?”

“Her name is Crystal. I met her a little over a year ago. She’s always interpreted our friendship differently than I do.”

“As in she thinks you’re a couple and you don’t?” I ask.

“Yes, essentially,” he says as he arrives at the table, reaching for my hand. “Dance with me?” I place my hand in his, and he gently pulls me to my feet. The little bit of alcohol in my body begins to circulate, and I remember my vow to never drink again. How on earth did I ever forget that? Being with King seems to vaporize all of my common sense. There is no wrong or right, just here and now—never no, always yes.

King’s arms circle me. One hand rests just below the small of my back, the other behind my neck. He softly pulls me against his chest and nuzzles his nose into my hair, inhaling deeply.

“You’re amazing.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, not fishing for further compliments but genuinely curious as to why he thinks I’m amazing.

He moves his face away from my hair and slides his hand from behind my neck, slowly along my shoulder, and down my arm until our palms are pressing together.

“We are having a magical date. My ex walks in, screaming hysterically, and you close your eyes and lose yourself in Chopin. That’s amazing.” Our eyes are focused on our hands as he lifts them to lace his fingers with mine.

“You chose Chopin . . . it’s irresistible,” I say, looking into his quizzical eyes.

“I don’t know if I should be insulted by your lack of concern about my ex or in awe of your capability to compartmentalize.”

I smile and lean into the warm heat of his body.

“Be in awe, but tell me about Crystal.”

“That’s very diplomatic of you, Ms. Bennett.”

“Well, I don’t want you to think I’m not curious or worried, because I’d be lying if I said I weren’t, but I am good at keeping things separated. Music would consume me if I couldn’t. It would swallow me up, and I’d never experience anything else.”

“There’s no need to be worried. You can rest assured of that. Like I said, she’s nothing to me.”

For some reason, hearing him say that makes me sad. It’s obvious that King is something to her—how could he not be? I could easily be Crystal in a week or two. I’m not sure I would be handling the sight of him having a romantic dinner with another woman any better than she just did.

“What’s the matter? You’re tense,” he says, rubbing his hand in small circles on my back.

“How long did you say you two were together?”

King sighs. “We were never really together. We slept together, and she went with me to formal functions, but it wasn’t an actual relationship—for me, anyway.”

“It seems like it was for her. She’s pretty upset. And you didn’t really answer my question.”

“Holland, I don’t want to waste time thinking about Crystal, but if it makes you feel better, I met her over a year ago at a club opening. We went to a few functions and had dinner once in a while. She always wanted more, but I didn’t feel the same way. Are we good now?”

“Sure.”

“Good,” he says, smiling mischievously, and he suddenly twirls me away from his body when the tempo of the music speeds up. I’ve never danced this way before, but King makes it effortless, moving me around the floor.

Being with King is easy and natural. It’s amazing how well we relate to each other, considering we have a six-year age gap. I giggle as he over-exaggerates a couple of dance moves, acting silly. When the music fades, he leads me back to the table, where our dinner plates have been replaced by small saucers. He pulls out my chair while I sit and catch my breath.

“What’s this?” I ask, looking at the round, white disk. I assume its dessert, because it’s being served after dinner, but I’ve never seen anything like it before.

“It’s cracked meringue filled with a white mousse. I hope it goes over better than our entrée.”

“It looks . . . interesting.” As long as it doesn’t set my mouth on fire, I’m good.

“It’s very good. I promise there’s nothing hot in this one.”

One bite and I’m hooked. This is the most delicious dessert I’ve ever tasted. It’s light and tangy, with just the perfect amount of sweet. I close my eyes and moan in appreciation.

When I open them, King is watching me with his elbow resting on the arm of his chair as he strokes his five o’clock shadow.

“How old are you?” he asks, and the hand holding my fork freezes halfway to my mouth. Shit. Is this just another getting to know you question, like asking about my favorite color, or does he suspect something? I don’t want to lie to him, but I certainly can’t tell him the truth, or he’d be hauling me home to my parents in a hot second, never to think of me again.

“Why?” I say, bringing the fork full of meringue to my mouth, hoping to stall him for a minute.

“I don’t know . . . you seem to have an old soul,” he answers thoughtfully.

I chew much longer than is necessary, as the dessert requires no chewing at all, and finally decide to be vague.

“So my soul looks old, huh?”

“That’s not a bad thing, you know. Just an observation.”

“Well, a lady doesn’t reveal her age on the first date,” I say, batting my eyelashes playfully.

“Touché.”

Hopefully, he’s going to leave the age thing alone. God, please let him leave the age thing alone.

“Eat. You barely had dinner. At least fill up on dessert,” he says, jutting his chin toward my plate.

“Deal,” I say and take another bite of the heavenly dessert while I relax. I can’t believe I averted the age issue . . . for now, anyway.

The club is quiet. The music has stopped, and I miss it.

“What happened to the music?”

“Oh yes, I almost forgot,” he says, reaching behind the flower arrangement on the table for a large tablet. Where the heck did that thing come from?

“I wanted to let you choose what we listen to next,” he says, handing me an enormous remote of sorts with a list of thousands of songs to choose from. They’re all broken into genres, but I immediately know what I want. I shovel a bite into my mouth and set my fork down before taking the remote and tapping the button labeled Easy Listening. I scroll through the artists until I find Sinatra’s Let’s Fall in Love. My finger hovers over the play tab. Should I suggest such a thing? Being in love isn’t anything I’ve experienced before, but if I had to guess, the feelings I have for King are close. What the hell—it’s only for the summer. I tap play and hand the remote back to King, who raises his brows when he hears the first few bars of the song.