King's Baby - A Bad Boy Romance (3 page)

A
pair of hands circles my hips, rescuing me from a certain death by trampling.
With what little bit of southern hospitality I have left, I try to turn and
thank whoever is now plastered against my backside, but he’s not having it.
Instead, I watch one sexy, strong hand slide over my bare belly as another one glides
down my thigh. Lean muscle holds me in place while our bodies roll together in
time with the beat. He follows my lead as the music drops the base, blending a
fast electronic club song with a slow, syrupy grind. This should cause some
serious alarm bells to go off, but the alcohol has stolen every ounce of
inhibition from me, and I welcome the guidance of his hands. I give up the idea
of turning around and relax my head back against his chest.

I
may be intoxicated, but I still know my anatomy. This man is at least six feet
to my five three. He’s solid and strong and has an amazing sense of rhythm. My
hands wander along his thighs as we flow together, and he finally turns me
around to face him. My poor heart was already pounding wildly in my chest from
the exertion of dancing and the alcohol diluting my blood, but the second my
eyes meet his, it stops altogether for a beat—maybe two. Time stands
still during that paused beat, and something tells me my life is about to
change forever. He leans in close to my face, and instead of moving away, I
gravitate toward him. His mouth brushes my cheek on its way to my ear, where he
speaks one word without yelling.

“King.”

 
I don’t understand what ‘King’ is
supposed to mean, so I just nod and watch as he cradles my face, moving my
soaking wet hair with his thumb so he can see me better. When he smiles down at
me, I fear I might faint—not from the heat in the club, but from the heat
of passion in his dark eyes. As inexperienced as I am, which is pathetically
inexperienced, I know without a doubt that this gorgeous, dangerous looking man
wants more than just a dance.

“What’s
your name?” He mouths.

“Holland.”
He can’t hear me, and my name isn’t your average run of the mill name, so he
draws my mouth to the side of his head for me to repeat myself directly into
his ear. Oh my God, this guy’s picture should be next to the word
delicious
in the dictionary. He smells
so good.

“Holland.”
I swear that he moans when I say it. The beat gradually becomes faster, and the
mystery man takes my hand, leading me to the edge of the dance floor. His
forearm is tan, and he has the thick, ropey veins of an athlete. I follow his
arm to his broad shoulders and admire the way his thick, dark hair curls up at
the nape of his neck.

Just
as we emerge from the crowd of dancing people, I tear my gaze from mystery
man’s very,
very
fine backside and
look out over the dance floor for Savannah and Mika. It’s impossible to
recognize anyone in this massive cluster of bodies, and the magnetic pull of
this man mixed with alcohol has given me a ‘go with the flow’ sort of attitude,
so I do . . . go with the flow, that is. Except in this case, the flow is my
fine mystery man.

Unlike
when Savannah, Mika and I walked through the bar clutching each other’s hands
to stay together, people seem to part like the red sea in front of mystery man
until we reach the closest bar, where three men and two women also step aside,
giving him a wide berth. He squeezes my hand
tightly,
as if he’s worried he might lose me, while the patrons around us stare. Some of
them, mostly women, are staring at our joined hands with their mouths hanging
open, and several are shooting daggers at me with their eyes. This all makes me
very uncomfortable. I shift my weight and lean toward mystery man and turn my
head in his direction. My hair drapes across the exposed side of my face,
shielding me from their sharp glares. The only time I enjoy being the center of
attention is when I’m on stage with my violin in my hands, and even then, I close
my eyes and the audience disappears.
    

The
bartender leans across the bar to take his order and immediately snaps into
action, retrieving two glasses and a bottle of champagne. The bartender offers
to open it for him, but he shakes his head back and forth and gathers both
glasses and the bottle with his free hand without losing hold of mine with his
other. The thought of any woman voluntarily letting go of this man’s hand is
ludicrous, and I’m guessing from the shocked looks we’re getting from the women
around us, mystery man doesn’t hold hands with many of them.

He
turns away from the bar to check on me when he feels me move closer, and our
eyes lock. In the middle of all of this chaos, something is happening. I can’t
put my finger on it, because I’ve never felt it before, but it’s intense and
powerful, and I’m pretty sure it’s mutual. I’m close enough to him that even in
the dim light of the club I can see that he has the deepest chocolate brown
eyes, with tiny flecks of amber around his pupils. When he blinks, his long
black lashes sweep up and down like a Vegas showgirl’s feathery headdress, and
I’m entranced. He shakes his head as if to clear a thought and juts his chin
upward. He wants to go upstairs. Oh God. Should I let him take me so far away
from the girls? Just as that thought flickers through my mind, my phone
vibrates in my pocket. I hold one finger up to him, asking him to wait while I
tug it out of the back pocket of my tight jeans.

It’s
a text from Savannah.
Where are you?
I quickly type back,
Went to get another
drink.
It’s sort of true. I just happened to leave out the fact that I’m
with an extremely hot, much older, dangerous looking man, who is taking me
upstairs to the vampire red floor with an entire bottle of champagne. She texts
back
Okay, going to the bathroom. Meet
you on the dance floor in fifteen.
I send
a thumbs
up icon and notice that mystery man is reading over my shoulder. When I catch
him, a faint smile flickers across his face and he playfully looks away,
knowing full well he’s been caught eavesdropping on my message. I laugh, and he
cocks his head in a ‘follow me’ gesture. Just as before, people move aside and
allow us to pass easily. It takes mystery man two minutes to cover the distance
it would have taken the girls and me twenty minutes to fight our way through
earlier.

When
we arrive at an elevator just around the corner from the main entrance, I have
another moment of panic when I watch him press the
up
button. This is such a bad idea. He has no idea how young I am.
I have no idea who he is. He could be a murderer or some crazy freak
who
is taking me upstairs to rape and murder me like those
dumb girls I always see on Criminal Minds. I should be saying, ‘Thanks, but no
thanks.’ I should be finding my friends. I should be at home studying for
finals and playing the violin. But no . . . a liquor gremlin in my brain has
taken my common sense hostage and he’s yelling, “Have some fun! He’s hot, go
for it.” Meanwhile, my poor, sweet common sense tries to warn me through a gag in
her mouth. ‘Don’t be stupid, he could be dangerous.’ But when the doors slide
open, my feet have a mind of their own. The gremlin wins, and I follow mystery
man into the elevator. There’s something about him that calms me, and for some
crazy reason I naively trust him.

The
small elevator must be soundproof. It’s so quiet that I can hear myself
breathing.

 
“You have a beautiful name,” he says.

 
A shiver races up my spine when I hear
his ‘inside voice’ for the first time. It’s gravelly and deep and . . . sexy.

“Thank
you. I didn’t catch yours.”

“I
told you on the dance floor.”

“You
did?” I search through my foggy brain, and after a few seconds of sorting, I
remember him saying ‘King’.

“King?
That’s your name?” I bite my lip and do my best not to giggle. If that isn’t
ostentatious, I don’t know what is.

“Yes
it is.” He knows I’m trying not to laugh.

“It’s
all right. You can laugh. I know there aren’t many people with a name like
that.”

“Is
it short for Kingsford or something?” I can’t believe I’m being so brazen,
teasing a man I don’t even know, but I’m tipsy. People blame a lot of things on
alcohol. Now I know why.

“No,
just King. My father thought the name would be commanding and bring me
success.”

“And
did it?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, as if success were something I could see on
his face.

He
raises his brows and the elevator doors open. He leads me out without
answering.

If
his expensive clothes and the obvious reverence of the people in this club mean
anything, I think he’s done just fine with the name of King.

I
look around the lounge and half expect the people to have glowing red eyes like
the vampires in the Twilight movies. You could definitely film a vampire movie
here. It’s so creepy.

 
It’s also much quieter up here, though
not as quiet as the elevator. I can still hear the music from below—it’s
just no longer deafening. We’re able to actually talk to each other.

“It
was too loud to ask downstairs, but I would like to buy you a drink.” He holds
up the bottle and glasses.

“You
didn’t pay for that, so it’s not technically buying me a drink.”

“I
don’t have to pay for something that’s mine. I own this club.” He winks and
leads me around the edge of the room. The owner. I feel sort of stupid for
worrying about him being a murderer for a second, but hey—a lot of
murders are very successful people, right? Why is the owner of the most popular
nightclub in Texas asking me to drink champagne with him in the VIP area of his
club? Now all the veneration and dirty looks make sense. He’s a celebrity here.

Walking
in these shoes is becoming more and more challenging. They’re killing my feet.
I teeter and grip King’s hand a little tighter for balance. God, don’t fall
down, Holland. Not right now.

 
       
“Are
you alright?” He’s been one step in front of me, but he slows his pace to pull
me in closer to his side.

“Uh
huh. These shoes . . .” I roll my eyes and kick out my foot to show him what I
mean. He frowns.

“Women
put themselves through so much unnecessary torture to please men. Don’t get me
wrong. Heels are sexy as hell, but if I were a woman, I’d say screw it. I’m
wearing my boots.”

“Boots.
Yeah, my cowboy boots are sounding pretty good about right now.”

“Hold
on.” He stops right in the middle of the aisle, kneels down, and carefully sets
the champagne bottle and glasses on the floor next to him. I hold his shoulder
and watch him remove my shoes, in the bar that he owns, on his knees. Holy
shit. Now everyone is staring and shooting daggers. He stands up, hands me my
shoes, and gathers up the bottle and glasses again. Now that I’m my normal
height, he is noticeably taller, and for a second, there
are
two of him, but they quickly blur back into one. Two wouldn’t be a bad thing. I
could share a King copy with Savannah. I giggle to myself, and King tilts his head
to the side and smirks. Oh Lord, I’m such a goner.

“I
like your name.” I think I slurred that a little. Shit, I’m drunk.

“Thank
you. I’m glad. I like yours too.”

“Your
daddy’s smart.”

“Yes,
he was smart. He’s been gone for two years now, but he taught me a lot.”

“I’m
sorry.” We’re still standing where he removed my shoes when he makes me feel
like a little kid by pressing a kiss on my forehead. It’s ironic, because he
would probably consider me a kid if he knew how old I really am.

 
I moan in relief when I take a step
without my shoes, and King glances at me sideways. His dark eyes are full of
desire, or at least I think
it’s
desire. I’ve never
really seen desire, but if I had to guess . . . yeah, that’s desire. I’ve never
had someone react to my voice like that. It’s empowering and a little bit
exciting and, God, I think I suddenly have a fever.
        

Halfway
around the circumference of the club, he releases my hand and motions for me to
sit in a plush, crescent-shaped booth. We sit, and I lay my phone on the
cushion and toss my shoes on the floor.

“Where
did you come from?” he asks, glancing at me quickly out of the corner of his
eye while he opens the bottle of champagne.

“I
was born in here in Austin.”

 
I wait quietly, watching as he expertly
pops the cork and pours it into the glasses on the low cocktail table in front
of us. “I wasn’t actually asking geographically. It was more of a
where have you been all my life
sort of
question. I didn’t want it to sound cheesy, but I think that backfired.”

The
corners of his lips lift slightly as he hands me a glass and taps it against
mine.

“To
interesting names,” he says.

I’ve
seen people do this in movies, so I repeat what he’s said.

“To
interesting names.” I raise the glass to my mouth, but I stop when he doesn’t
do the same. He’s looking at me, but it feels more like he’s looking
into
me.