King's Baby - A Bad Boy Romance (10 page)

“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.