King's Baby - A Bad Boy Romance (24 page)

“No,
never
.” I reach up and trail my fingers along his scruffy
jaw, where he’s grown a little more than a five o’clock shadow. His dark eyes
flit to mine and back to where he’s buckling me into the Rover. His hand
lingers, gently pressing against my belly. A hot gust of dusty air rushes in
around us before he closes the door. I watch him run around the front of the
truck with his suit coat flapping and his carefully styled hair swirling in the
wind. He’s breathtaking. The confident way he moves makes my heart swell when
he slides in next to me, disheveled and smiling his model perfect smile . . .
or is it? For the first time, I notice an imperfection in this beautiful man, a
bottom tooth that looks like it’s been knocked out of the tidy row of pearly
whites just a smidgen. I like it. It makes him seem . . . more human.

“Ready?”

“Yep.” He’s excited,
and it’s adorable.

“You’re sweet; have I
told you that?”

“Hmm . . . not
lately,” I say, tapping my finger against my lips and shaking my head back and
forth.

“Well, you are. Don’t
forget that, okay?”

I nod and close my
eyes. Sometimes this seems like a dream instead of a nightmare, and this is one
of those times when I have to actually pinch myself to be sure.

After ten minutes, he
pulls into the garage of Ecstasy and I glance over at him.

“We just have to stop
here for a couple of minutes.”

“That’s what you said
the last time. What are you cooking up?” I ask.

“You’ll see, come
on.” I love this playful side of King. In the midst of all of our problems, he
can still act like a kid.

When the elevator
doors slide shut in front of us, King presses a button I’ve never noticed
before.

“What does the
R
stand for?”

“Roof.” He winks and
sidesteps next to me, slinking his arm around my waist.

“And I want you to
know that I’ve checked with your obstetrician, and she assures me this is
okay.”

“What’s okay?” I ask
just as the elevator opens and I’m twenty feet from a helicopter. Its blades
whir and chop, and I instinctively cover my eyes and turn into King’s side. He
holds me tighter and speaks directly into my ear.

“You okay with
heights?” he half shouts, and I pull away to give him a leery wide-eyed stare.
I hate heights.

“Ah, so you’re not
okay with heights?” he says, shaking his head back and forth.

“Not really.”

“You’ll be fine.
You’re with me. You can cover your eyes, and we’ll sit in the back.” He’s
rubbing my arms up and down, trying to reassure me. I can’t believe I’ve got
goose bumps in ninety-five-degree weather.

“You’re shaking,
baby.” He steps back and bends his knees to look up at me through the veil of
hair covering my face.

“I pinky swear you
will be perfectly fine.” He offers me his pinky. I giggle at his juvenile
comforting tactic and link my pinky finger with his. After a quick shake, he
tucks me under his arm and hustles me across the helipad before I have time to
change my mind.

My hair is whipping
around my face as we crouch and hustle toward the chopper door. King lifts me
into the fuselage, and when we are seated, he moves my hair out of my face and
places his large hands on either side of my head.

“I’m going to help
strap you in, and we will be in the air in a couple of minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

He sets about
clicking and tugging on straps while the blades begin to whirl faster and
faster and
the whup
whup whup begins to match the pace
of my pulse pounding in my ears. I try not to think about being thousands of
feet off the ground in this tin can, but my body and mind betray me. I’m going
to faint, or puke, or faint and then puke.

I look over at King,
and he must see the panic in my eyes.

“
Breathe
,
baby, in and out.” He inhales through his nose and gestures for me to do the
same. “Close your eyes and concentrate on your breath flowing into your lungs
and back out.” He blows out his breath, and I do the same.

“That’s it, baby,
you’re doing great. Everything’s going to be fine. We’ll be in South Padre in
forty-five minutes, on the beach, having dinner. Just breathe . . .” His voice
is so soothing and calm. He continues talking to me, encouraging me to take
deep, cleansing breaths while we take off, and by the time we’re at the correct
altitude, my nerves have settled, but not my stomach.

“Thanks. You’re
gonna
make a great birthing coach,” I say, and he winks at
me from across the aisle.

“It’s all about the
breathing. Do you meditate?”

“No, but playing the
violin is sort of like meditation, I guess.”

“Then next time,
we’ll bring it and you can play while we fly.”

“Next time? Can’t we
just take a plane? It’s much quieter.” He doesn’t respond, so I know there will
be a next time.

Being a pregnant
party pooper sucks. I can’t even bring myself to look out the window. The
constant queasy feeling is so bad that I’m afraid I may vomit all over King’s
expensive loafers.

“Almost there,” he
says.

“Did you say South
Padre?”

“Yeah, the water’s
beautiful there. We can eat and go for a swim if you’re up to it.”

“I might feel better
when my feet are on solid ground.” My hands are folded over my belly, and I’m
sure my skin is a lovely shade of green.

“I’m sorry. You
really don’t like flying, do you?”

“What gave it away?
My reaction to seeing the helicopter, or the fact that I can’t look anywhere
but directly at you?” I hear him chuckle through the headset, and I swear to
get him back for this somehow.

A little while later,
when my feet hit the sand outside a hotel that King owns, I couldn’t be more
grateful. In fact, I’d rather drive the six hours back home than ride in that
thing again.

We stroll hand in
hand along the beach, listening to the seagulls and the softly rolling waves of
the ocean. I feel better physically. I’m not nearly as nauseous, and
emotionally, I’m calm and content just being with King. He’s unusually quiet,
and he’s been glancing at me periodically.

“What are you
thinking?” I ask.

King looks down at
his bare feet in the sand, and a thick curl falls against his forehead.

 
“I’m thinking how fucking lucky I am to
have found you, that I can’t believe you’re nineteen and you’re carrying my
child. I’m thinking that I can’t believe you’re going to be a mother, and
what’s crazier is that I’m going to be a father. I’m thinking it’s insane how
badly I want to touch you every time I see you, and that I never knew I could
love someone this hard.”

I stop walking and
turn to face him. He cups my cheek with his hand and I lean into it, savoring
the warmth of his skin and the deep sincerity of his words. He loves me. This
amazing, multifaceted man loves
me.
Out of the billions of women on the planet, it’s
me
he wants to be with.
Me
.

“Now you—what
are you thinking?” He tries to push my fluttering hair away from my face, but
the breeze is strong here and it won’t stay put.

“I’m thinking that I
can’t believe you love me.” I turn and look away from him, down the long
stretch of beach. He places one finger against my chin and moves my head until
we’re eye to eye again.

“Holland, believe it.
I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t, but just know that no matter what ever
happens between us,”—His hand slides down to my belly—“all three of
us, I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. Pinky
swear
.”

“Pinky swear,” I say,
and for the second time today, we shake on it and I jump into his arms. Tears
fill my eyes, and I choke back a sob. He folds me into his strong, protective
arms, cradling me against his chest.

“Now that we’ve
expressed our undying love, can we go eat?” I sniffle and smile against his
previously crisp blue shirt.

“Yeah. I can’t
believe it, but I’m actually hungry.”

“Hallelujah. Let’s
hurry before that passes and you throw up on my new shoes.”

“Very funny.” I
gently swat at him, and we continue down the edge of the water to a beachfront
café, where we sit outside and talk and eat. Being with King is as natural as
playing the violin for me. I’m at ease and relaxed. Our conversations flow
effortlessly, and the sound of his voice permeates my soul the same way music
does.

Now that our secrets
are out in the open, we can really get to know each other, and despite the age
gap, we have a lot in common.

“Do you believe in
God?” he asks.

“Well yeah, of
course.”

“I mean, like, do you
believe there is a God or a higher power.
”

“I believe in God.
I’m Catholic,” I say.

“Me too.”

“Really? You’re
Catholic? Do you go to church?” I ask.

“Does the Pope wear
white?”

“Well yeah, I just
didn’t think, ya know, because you’re . . .”

“A drug dealer?”

“Yeah, sorry.” It
doesn’t seem possible that this open, loving, kind man is a criminal. I mean,
yeah, at times he’s bossy, but he’s never abrasive or cruel like the characters
I’ve seen on TV or in the books I’ve read.

“Don’t apologize. I
know it’s hard for you to imagine the life I lead. I never want you to. I’m
getting closer to making an uneventful exit. I want us to live comfortably, but
more importantly, I want us to be safe. You’re my top priority now, you and the
jelly bean.”

King moved his chair
next to mine as soon as we sat down. He has been touching me all day, and now
his hand is resting on my tummy. The café is quiet. In fact, I don’t think I’ve
heard another customer come in or out.

“Jelly bean, huh?”

“Yep, he’s probably a
little bigger than a jelly bean though. I’ve been reading up on fetal
development.” He waggles his eyebrows up and down, and I laugh when he pulls me
into his lap.

“He? Do you know
something I don’t?”

“No I just hate
calling my baby an ‘it’.”

“This is a public
place, you know. I shouldn’t be sitting on your lap.”

“I had them close
down for lunch so we could be alone. It’s easier to concentrate on you when I
don’t have to be paranoid about the crowd.”

That explains the
quiet.

“Don’t they lose a
lot of money closing down on a beautiful day like this?” I ask.

“I paid them three
times what they bring in during lunch on their best day. Don’t worry about the
restaurant. They’ll be fine.”

Three
times their best day?
This is a popular place. That must be a ridiculous amount
of money.

“You have that kind
of money? Like throw it out the window of a tall building kind of money?” I
ask.

He chuckles. “Yeah,
throw it out the window kind of money.”

“That reminds me. I
need to talk to you about something,” he says as he moves me off of his lap and
back into my own chair.

“Throwing money out
of a window reminds you of something that has to do with me?” I ask.

“Well not exactly. It
is about money, though, and your mother.” King leans forward with his elbows on
his knees and takes both of my hands in his.

“Okay . . . I’m not
so sure I want to hear this, but go ahead.”

He looks out at the
ocean and sighs.

“When your mother
found out you were pregnant, she went a little . . . over the edge. She called
Sebastián, threatening to turn me into the police if I didn’t agree to her
demands.”

“My mama blackmailed
you?”

“She tried, and I may
have given her the impression that she was getting what she wanted.”

I’m afraid to ask,
but I know I have to.

“What did she want?”

He leans forward with
his elbows still on his knees to take my hands. I don’t like this.

“The reason your mom
is acting so chipper is because she thinks I’m going to persuade you to have an
abortion and pay your tuition to Juilliard.”

“What? No, no, no,
she did not ask you to do that! She wouldn’t.” I snatch my hands from his and
push my chair back hard. It crashes into the table behind ours, and King is on
his feet.

“I know she’s
disappointed in me and she’s angry that I have to wait to go to Juilliard, but
she wouldn’t . . .”

Maybe she would.

The seagulls circling
overhead are so damn loud. I’m watching King’s lips move, but I can’t hear what
the hell he’s saying, and I’m having some serious tunnel vision . . . shit, I
think I’m gonna pass out . . .

Chapter Twenty

King

“Holland! Holland,
open your eyes. Please, baby, open your eyes.” I pat her cheek and try to get
some kind of response. I should have fucking kept this shit about her mother to
myself. I shouldn’t have forced her on that helicopter. I shouldn’t have her
out, walking around on the beach in the middle of a hot afternoon. What the
hell was I thinking?

I keep jostling her
until her eyes flutter open and she looks around confused.

“Hey, sweet girl.
Shit, you had me worried there for a minute.”

And it was probably
actually no longer than a minute, but it felt like fucking forever. The waiter
is standing next to us with a glass of water, and the hostess grabbed a
tablecloth, wadded it up, and tucked it under her head.

“Did I faint?”

“Yes, you did. Are
you hurt?” I saw her fall. She didn’t hit her head, so I’m ninety percent sure
she’s fine, but I want to hear her say it.

“My hip hurts a
little,” she says, straining to sit up. I straddle her, so she couldn’t move if
she tried.

“Just stay down for a
minute,” I press two fingers against her mouth when she tries to argue.

“Shush. Relax. I’m
sorry. I should have left the thing with your mother alone. I knew you’d be
upset, but I didn’t think . . . well, I didn’t think you’d pass out.”

“I’ve never fainted
before,” she says, looking from the waiter to the hostess.

“The seagulls . . .”

“Seagulls?”

“Yeah, they were mad
. . . and so loud.”

“Are you sure you
didn’t bump your head?” I run my fingers through her hair, checking for bumps.

“Never mind, I’m
fine. Can I get up now?”

“Yes, let me help you
though.” I stand and pull her slowly to her feet. She wobbles, and I scoop her
into my arms and carry her through the restaurant. I’ve had enough. Our waiter
and the hostess are hot on my heels, asking if I want an ambulance. I ignore
them and carry Holland through the lobby, outside, and straight into the limo
waiting out front.

I open the door and
help her in. She looks around the car wide eyed. It’s fun to see her experience
the things that I’ve always taken for granted. I rode to a private school in a
limo every day, dressed head to toe in designer clothes.

Holland is looking
much better. Her coloring is back to its normal bronze tone, and the glimmer is
back in her stormy grey eyes.

“Come here.” I pat
the seat, and when she scoots closer, I pull her down and lay her head in my
lap, facing the partition window. “We’re going to drive home; it will take
longer, but I think it’s best. You’ve had enough stress for one day.”

“King, please tell me
my mother didn’t say those things,” she says with so much desperation in her
eyes that it stops my heart. I’m not used to feeling helpless, but Gloria is a
piece of work, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about her blatant
disregard for Holland’s wellbeing. She’s a pit bull when it comes to her
daughter becoming a professional violinist. She’s had her eye on the prize for
so long that she can’t imagine Holland having a different future, and I’m not
so sure I disagree. Her talent is unreal. I’ve never heard anyone more gifted.
It would be an epic waste if she didn’t follow her dreams all the way to the
top.

“Your mother didn’t
say those things.” I lie, because sometimes a lie is more comforting than the
truth.

“Thank you,” she
says, playing along. She pulls her knees up, snuggling in against me, and I
wrap my arm around her shoulders.

“Rest your head on my
shoulder and sleep for a while. You’ve had a big day.”

“We didn’t get to go
swimming,” she says.

“I know, next time,”
I say, rubbing my hand up and down her arm.

“And we can drive
next time?” she asks.

“Yes, baby, we can
drive.” I kiss the side of her head and turn the television on to some mindless
comedy show while I check my email for the day on my phone. It isn’t long
before her breathing slows and every muscle in her body relaxes. I take
advantage of our time alone and smooth her hair away from her face, memorizing
every one of her beautiful, delicate features.

We’ve yet to spend an
entire night together, so I’ve never an opportunity to watch her sleep. She
looks so young when she’s sleeping, and it tears me up that I may be ruining
her life. Could Gloria be right? Am I destroying her career? Am I taking away
what she’s spent her whole life preparing for? Am I a fucking cradle robber?

Holland misrepresented
herself that night in the club, but there were alarms going off in my head even
then. The world may see her as an innocent young woman being taken advantage of
by a bad boy player, but Holland knows what she wants. She is more mellow and
responsible than any other woman I’ve ever ‘dated’. She’s the complete
package—brains, epic talent, and beauty . . . God, she’s beautiful. She
slays me with her high cheekbones, full lips, and her curves that go on for
days

And to make things
even more perfect, we enjoy the same kind of music and the same books, we’re
both Roman Catholics, she has old-fashioned morals, and we’re both driven and
successful in our own rights. The age difference won’t matter when we’re older.
It’s not like there are twenty years separating us, just six, soon to be five
as her birthday is next month. I was planning a spectacular party, but after
today, I think it’s best to keep things low key until she’s past this nausea.

I reach over to place
my hand on her tummy, where a tiny life is growing. I haven’t been able to keep
my hands off of her all day. The way she smiles up at me through her long
lashes is crippling. She turns me back into the caveman that I was the night I
met her at the club. I want to toss her over my shoulder drag her to my
bedroom, strip her down, and lick her from head to toe.

I’m hard as fuck
sitting here with her warm body plastered against my side, but I know she’s
having a difficult time with morning sickness, so I’ve been keeping my
distance.

Why the
fuck do
they call it morning sickness? Holland is a barfing
machine from sunup to sunset. She’s losing weight, and she’s tired and
stressed. Being pregnant is hard for the average woman, let alone doing it when
you’re nineteen and on the verge of professional musical greatness. She keeps a
brave face on, but she can only take so much, and today I gave her too much.

Her mother’s going to
have a meltdown when she finds out we’re keeping this baby. She thinks I’m
talking to Holland today about terminating, but in reality, I’m going to ask
her to stay with me for the rest of the pregnancy—or permanently, if she
will. She needs some space, and I’m selfish when it comes to Holland. I want
her all to myself. I’m not worried about her mother, but I want Holland to feel
like she has her support. Her father is a different story. He wants whatever
Holland wants, but he seems nervous about disagreeing with his wife. It’s
obvious who wears the pants in that family, but Gloria’s no match for me. Not
even close.

An hour before we’re
home, she starts to stir in my arms. My back is stiff from sitting still for
hours, and my cock is even stiffer from rubbing against the heat between her
legs. She ended up crawling in my lap and straddling me half
asleep
two hours ago, and every bump in the road is another reminder of how much I
need to be inside of her.

“King?”

“Yeah, baby, I’m
here.”

“What time is it?”
she says, straightening up on my lap and rubbing her eyes like a little girl
waking from a nap.

“Seven. We’ve only
got an hour until we’re home.”

The car hits a rather
large bump in the road, and she grabs my shoulders while I grab her waist at
the same time for support. I groan when she nudges the straining bulge in my
pants.

“Sorry I didn’t mean
to . . .”

“You’re fine.”

“You’re not, though.”
A slow, sly smile spreads across her lips as her hand slides between my legs to
stroke my aching cock.

“Holland, no.” I’m
not one for restraint or discipline when it comes to sex, and especially when
it comes to sex with Holland, but her condition fluctuates by the hour, and I’m
on foreign ground here.

“Sorry.” she says.

Fuck, she thinks I’m
rejecting her, but I’d love nothing more than to strip her down right here,
right now, and bury my face between her legs until she screams my name. But I
can’t, I won’t.

I take her face in my
hands and look into her eyes.

“Don’t apologize,
baby. I just don’t think you’re up to it. Believe me, I want to. I really want
to.”

Her big, stormy grey
pools gaze up at
me and she
blinks slowly once . . . twice
. . . I have no idea what she’s thinking—none at all—until she
begins to loosen the drawstring of her linen pants. I can’t speak. I can’t even
move. She is just that exquisite, the perfect balance of sensuality and
innocence. Her eyes are full of wonder and curiosity, but her body speaks the
language that mine understands. Wanton and shameless, she slips out of her thin
pants and the tiny scrap of lace she calls panties. Who bought her those,
anyway?
Surely not her mother.
Note to self: find out
where she got those later.

Her eyes never leave
mine as she returns to straddling my hips and unbuckles my belt. My hands are
planted at my sides on the warm leather seats. She’s running the show, and I
can’t make myself interrupt, even though I know I should.

She never kisses my
mouth.
her
hands are still working my zipper down, but
her eyes are already fucking me. She still doesn’t touch my aching cock, and
I’m about to ask her to—or do it myself—when she shakes her head
back and forth.

Her hands slide along
the waistband of my pants and dip inside to my hips on both sides to help me
push them down. I hold my breath as I watch her lean forward to grip the back
of the seat on either side of my head. Her long tresses fall around us like a
curtain blocking out the world. My cock is standing at full mast when she lifts
up onto her knees and brushes her wet slit against the tip of my cock until
she’s in the perfect position to slowly, torturously and deliciously sink down
around me.
      
My
lungs burn when I release the breath I’ve been holding, and the thin tendrils
of her hair flutter around her heart-shaped face. She stills when she’s
entirely consumed me, and I drop my head back, moaning, and grip the seat. I
have the almost uncontrollable urge to pump my hips up into her fiercely and
work her over hard. But she’s the one setting the pace, so I watch as she
glides up until I’m barely touching her wet folds with the tip of my cock. She
pauses, looking deep into my eyes, before slowly impaling herself again. The
sigh that escapes her lips has me holding on by a thread. God, I want to flip
her over and lay her down on the seat and fuck her hard all the way home, but
she deserves so much more than being mindlessly pounded. She deserves to be
adored and glorified. She deserves so much more than me.

If it’s her plan to
torture me slowly, she’s succeeding. She slowly rotates her hips in tiny, sexy
little fucking circles, clenching around me as she rises and sighing when she
sinks down, impaling herself over and over. How did she learn to do that? Oh my
God, her sigh is driving me to the edge of my sanity. I’ve fucked in a limo
many times—so many times that it’s practically passé—but not with
Holland. Every damn thing with her is so much more erotic and sultry and . . .
fucking hot. I want to come right now as badly as I
don’t
.
This is so, so good. I plan on making it last as long as I can possibly hold
out.
      

At last, she dips her
face to kiss my parted lips, and I moan into her mouth. I haven’t touched her
yet. I’ve been trying to let her have control, but the moment her mouth meets
mine, my hands are on her ass, spreading her wider, lifting and pushing into
the hot wetness that begs for more of me with every thrust.

My brain is scrambled
at the sight of her parted lips, the sound of her panting against my
mouth
 
and
my
ear, her breath heating my cheek, her fingers digging into my shoulders when I
give her what she wants and take what I need . . . she’s fucking exquisite. I
love the way her breath huffs out softly when I push deep into her, and the way
it catches in her throat when I hit that spot that brings her teetering to the
edge. The sounds this woman makes could make a celibate monk come.

Suddenly, I’m not
thinking about her nausea or the baby or the driver—who can’t hear or see
us, but can probably feel the limo rocking. I’m not worried about our future,
or her mother, or her music, or my drug business. The only thing I care about
is making the woman in my arms feel good. I want to help her escape, if only
for a little while, from all the pressures closing in on us.

I’m trying to hold
off, but my body isn’t listening to my mind when I hook my hands behind her
knees. I pull them up to my sides and enter her at an impossibly deep angle and
pause . . . it’s the calm before the storm. Her hands are in my hair, her face
is buried in my neck, and her heart is beating wildly against my chest—or
is that mine? I can’t even tell us apart. I slide my hands up and curl them
behind her shoulders, bracing myself for the orgasm of all fucking orgasms when
she says,