Holland

King just waltzes around his ridiculously royal bathroom—naked, with a huge hard on—like he’s at the grocery store shopping for milk. I wonder if all men are so comfortable in their own skin? No way, most men don’t hold a candle to King’s physique. I watch as he leans across the black stone island to turn on the water in his gold bathtub. The tile under my feet begins to warm me, and the heat from the steamy water rises from the tub. I can’t wait to get in and wash all of the tacky stickiness off of my skin. After a few minutes of fussing with bath salts, lighting candles, and piling huge towels on one corner of the tub, he saunters up behind me to help me peel off his robe.

“Sorry, it’s kind of a mess now.”

“It’s fine. I don’t use it much anyway. I’m hot blooded.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Come on, I’ll help you.” King takes my hand tightly and leads me to the tub. The swooping gold railings go unused as he has a death grip on one of my hands, and his other hand is firmly on my waist while he guides me up the steps.

“You’re squeezing my hand,” I gently complain, and he loosens his grip . . . but not much.

“I don’t want you to fall. It’s slippery up here.”

And he’s right. It is very slippery, but I’m safe in his hands.

“I trust you,” I say. King steps down into the water, never releasing my hand, and turns to help me in. He stares, drinking me in until a shiver runs through my body, snapping him from his trance, and he helps me into the hot water.

“You’re cold. Let me warm you up,” he says as we sink down until only our heads are above the surface. His hands slide up and down my arms, working the honey and cream from my skin. King’s tub is more the size of a hotel hot tub than a private bath. It’s deep enough that we can kneel facing each other and be completely under the water.

“What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking about how this is so . . .”

“Overwhelming.” He ends my thought, and I watch as his face clouds with concern. His arms circle my waist, and he turns me away so my back is to his front.

“That’s the second time you’ve said that I overwhelm you, Holland. I don’t want to. I don’t mean to, but like I’ve told you repeatedly, you’re irresistible. I find myself doing things I’d never do, things I’ve never done . . . things I’ll never do with anyone else. Let me tell you a little secret, and I apologize ahead of time for being overwhelming.”

He presses his lips to my ear, and I shiver when I feel his warm breath on my damp skin.

“I don’t care about people in general. I told you, I’m a loner.” He pauses to nip at my ear.

“But I care about you. A lot.” He kisses the area he previously identified as spot number one just behind my ear, making every hair on my body stand on end.

“I can see myself with you.” He stills, waiting for my reaction. A soft gasp escapes from my lips, and it’s just enough to allow him to relax around me.

“You, Holland, are a very special woman. You’re ethereal, unique, beautiful, and your talent—Lord help the world, your talent is prodigious. I’ve never been so moved listening to a musician play. Today you blew me away, and that’s not an easy thing to do.”

He has a unique way of making me feel like so much more than I believe I am. Playing the violin is just a part of me, like my toes or my hair. I’ve never done anything to deserve my talent. It’s just always been there. If anyone deserves credit for where I am today, it’s my parents for pushing me to be the best musician I could be. My parents . . . shit. I was supposed to let my mama know I was spending the night at Savannah’s. I’ve been so distracted, I forgot to call or text her. She’ll be going across the street to look for me at Savannah’s house herself if I don’t do something fast.

“What’s wrong, Holland?” King turns me in his arms so I’m facing him again. I naturally slide my legs around his waist and feel his thickness against my core.

The lines between right and wrong are so blurry that I can’t figure out what to do in the simplest, most obvious situations anymore. Get out of the tub and call your mama—easy, right? Not when King is involved. He’s every temptation I’ve never had to resist balled up into one seriously complex experience.

“Every muscle in your body just locked up,” he says, holding my face in his hands. Staring into my eyes, he searches for the cause of my sudden stress.

I stammer and scramble for a good excuse to get out of this tub and make a phone call, but I’ve got nothing.

“Um, I just remembered I was supposed to do something . . . important.”

His brows lift, and his eyes dart back and forth between mine with concern.

“Well what is it?”

Two deep frown lines form between his eyes. What am I supposed to say? What on earth could be important enough to distract me from a moment like this? With no better ideas, I go with the truth . . . well, sort of the truth.

“I need my phone. I was supposed to make a phone call . . .” Lame, lame, lame. We’re sitting in a luxurious, sensual bath on a Saturday night at ten o’clock. Who the hell would I be calling? His face is a mixture of concern and suspicion, but I’m surprised when the little frown between his eyes relaxes. He moves to position me on the seat behind him, and without a word, he effortlessly lifts himself out of the water on the opposite end, away from the stairs. I watch the water sluice down his chiseled, muscular backside, leaving a trail behind him as he confidently strolls out of the bathroom—without a towel—to find my phone.