The Stage (Phoenix Rising #1) (34 page)

He talks to a man for a moment and then hops into a medium sized boat. He reaches his hand out to me, and as I step up, I take in what he’s had delivered here for the two of us. A table set up for dinner: two covered plates, some water and fruity drinks in a bucket. “Have a seat,” he says, pulling out my chair. After I sit, he takes the seat opposite of me. “Are you starving?” he asks, motioning for me to remove the silver cover. Underneath is some eggplant parmesan—one of my favorite meals. “I asked for extra garlic for both of us,” he says slyly, taking our plate covers and setting them aside.

“You remembered,” I say surprised, taking a sip of what I realize is pink lemonade.

“I remember everything about you.” His gaze is sincere, his eyes soft as he says it. I take my first bite as the man he’d been talking to unhooks the boat and we start to drift toward the middle of the harbor. He waits until just the right moment, when we are the most alone, stands up, and releases the anchor. Here we are, tethered to the earth, but floating above the water together. It seems so symbolic of a strong relationship. Centered, but able to roll with the tides.

“Have you ever been to Disneyland?” I ask. He takes a bite of his steak and smiles.

“This is so good. Sure you don’t want some?” he motions to the plate. I shake my head.

“Nope. I’m a happy vegetarian.”

“I went when I was about ten. My uncle took me. It was fun, but I’ve never been to the California Adventure side ‘cause it didn’t exist then.”

“I want to take Riley there, before the tour, you know. She’s never been and I want to ride
It’s a Small World
with her.”

“We’ll make a trip of it, then,” he says.

“But—”

“Mia, after the show’s over, there’s nothing to stand in our way. We’ll have to have security with us, but if we dress normal and try to blend, it’s likely we won’t even get noticed.”

“Really?” I ask, feeling that little flip in my stomach when I’m happy about things to come. “She’s going to freak out.”

“Mia, I want to make plans with you,” he says, taking a bite. As he chews, his mouth looks juicy and a little fire erupts in my lower belly. I take a drink to make it stop but, as we eat in silence, I can’t remember any of the reasons we’re not supposed to be together.
What were those
?

“Then let’s make plans.” I look him dead in the eyes to let him know I mean it. From the bottom of the tray next to us, which has ice and drinks on top, he pulls out a small round plate covered like the others.

He takes my now empty plate and sets it with his on the bottom rack. “Did you get me a cake?” I squeal.

“Not only did I have a cake made for you, but I mined a very clever source to find out the kind of cake you like. And, I got candles, too, that I expect you to blow out for me.” He’s being bossy, but I feel like crying.

“What kind of cake?” I ask, hoping that it’s my mom’s chocolate mayonnaise cake with chocolate coffee frosting. He puts his finger up to make me wait and slowly takes the lid off.

“It looks like chocolate cake,” I say, waiting to find out if it’s the cake my mom made me every year for eighteen birthdays.

“Who would think to put mayonnaise in a cake?” he asks, and I start bawling. I have to bite my bottom lip. I’m speechless. Fanning my eyeballs with both hands to try to stem my tears, I fight the lump in my throat as he places a two candle next to a zero candle with those long thin fingers.

He takes a long lighter out of the bottom of the tray and lights them one at a time. Then he starts to sing to me, “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you,” and he’s holding that last note. “Happy birthday dear, Mia. Happy birthday to you,” he finishes softly and makes me weak. “Now, I want to see those lungs work out.” I close my eyes to make my wish.
I wish to be doing what I love.
Lean forward and blow out the candles.

He claps. “Those are some good lungs,” he says, seductively. I take the candles off to lick the frosting.

“It’s coffee flavored!”

“Of course. That’s your favorite.” I feel like I’m glowing of happiness, like a distant star twinkling for all to see. He cuts us two pieces and I groan when I take the first bite. It tastes like childhood. He’s looking hesitatingly at his piece as I take another huge bite. He puts a small forkful in his mouth and nods appreciatively. “I was worried about the mayonnaise,” he admits.

“My mom got the recipe from her great grandmother, who made it during the great depression. They used mayonnaise because it was cheaper than butter or oil and it has eggs, too.”

“It makes sense, and, I’m surprised to say, it’s really good.”

He pushes his plate aside and stands with quiet confidence, reaching his hand out to me. “Dance with me,” he says after I take one last bites of cake.

“There’s no music.” He takes a step back and raises a finger.

“You’re right.” He pulls out his phone and presses a few buttons. Big band sounds start coming out of the speakers.

“Frank Sinatra?” I ask, and raise one of my eyebrows.

“Under My Skin,” he says, reaching for me as I stand. He puts his hand at my lower back and pulls me toward him. I’m already breathless and he’s barely touched me. As we dance he puts his lips up to my ear; I move my hand up to the back of his neck.

I love the way all my soft places press against his hard ones, and the way he leads the dance with such poise and control. When Sinatra sings about the woman being under his skin, Kolton whispers, “Literally,” and taps his chest. I open my mouth and stare into his eyes. So full of desire, of hope. This is our chance.

The title, the lyrics, his tattoo. There’s no other explanation required. He puts his cheek against mine as the instrumental part gets wild. “Thank you for coming on a date with me. For letting me hold your hand in public.”

“I was just going to thank you. But is it over?” I ask.

“Mia,” he starts, pulling away. His eyes are pleading with me as the song ends. I’m completely tuned into his needs. No words are required. I move forward, letting him know I’d love to be kissed.

And when his lips meet mine, he tastes like chocolate. If kisses are a form of language, there are new meanings in this one. It’s a request for more. I let him lead me into this kiss. He takes and I give. His tongue finds mine and he moves it slow, but deep. He kisses me until we’re breathless before he pulls away.

He pulls up the anchor, starts the engine, and takes us back to the dock. “I want my cake,” I say. He obliges, handing me the plate before he jumps out and lifts me out of the boat. The excitement of what will happen next is what’s taking me back up the rocky path. Every part of my body is tuned into his as he leads me up the stairs to our room and closes the door.

I set my plate down on the table, and we stand here in the dark with nothing but the moon light, looking at one another. He’s standing tall, his eyes compelling mine, waiting for me to say yes. I put my hand up to my forehead, nervously, and close my eyes.

“Let me,” he says as he comes toward me. His presence in the room feels completely right. Like he’s in control, and that’s what I need to feel safe. Standing just in front of me, he reaches out and leads me to turn around by my hips. I’ve always loved the way he touches my hips—all the way back to the first time when we were on stage together. His fingertips move up my back methodically and he tugs on the zipper, taking it down, exposing my back a little at a time.

When he gets halfway down, his lips make contact with my spine, a direct hit to my core. I gasp and whimper. He takes the zipper all the way down, and, as my dress falls to the floor around my feet, I listen to his sharp intake of breath. I’m wearing a black thong and black lace bra. I’ve never been this exposed in front of him before.

“This will change everything,” he says as he places soft, wet kisses along my neck. I press myself into him, feeling him come alive, hardening beneath his jeans because of my touch.

He turns me around and turns me toward him by the small of my back. He’s in control of what we’re doing, but somehow he makes me feel powerful, too. I put my hands in his messy blonde hair as he takes my lips one, then the other, achingly slow. He tilts his head to the side and deepens our kiss. My body is ready for him. I’m aching, a fire in my belly that needs to be fed.

And, for the first time, my mind has caught up with him; it doesn’t feel like he’s ten steps ahead. He unhooks my bra, freeing me, as he softly takes my breast in his hand. My breath hitches, and he swallows my moan in his mouth as my nipples harden under his fingers.

His other hand moves down to the hollow spot of my behind. He cups me, owning me. My lips are swollen now as he suckles them and moves slowly down to take the other breast into his mouth. I throw my head back and he drops to his knees like he’s worshiping me.

Slowly, he unzips my boots one by one. I run my fingers through his hair as I’m shaking with need. He takes out the left foot and I press it on the carpet, and then the right. As he lifts up, kissing a path up the line in the center of my body and leans into me. I wrap my hands under his shirt and pull it over his head.

It’s the first time I’ve see his tattoo in the flesh. My mouth is drawn to it, my lips then the tip of my tongue. He breathes in appreciatively. “Thank you, for putting me under your skin,” I say, as he takes my hair in his hand and pulls my mouth up to his.

“You were there all along. Right from the first time I saw you sing.” He leans in and takes one lip at a time—kissing, and licking, and sucking gently. He kicks his shoes off as I undo his belt, then his zipper, and let his pants fall to the ground.

He pulls away from me just enough that I can see the look in his eyes. I’ve always seen worlds in his eyes: pain, love, promises, and desire. That broken part that’s inside both of us is soothed by being together like this. He blinks, bites his bottom lip, and takes a step back.

“Get on the bed. In the middle,” he says. “Stay on your knees facing the headboard.” I’m shocked by his direction, but, after a moment’s hesitation, I do as he says. Something inside me is responding to the control he has over me. I like it. I trust that he’ll take care of me and give me what I need.

My heart is pounding as I feel his weight shifting on the bed and he comes up behind me, not touching me yet, but so close I’m shaking in anticipation.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, putting his arm around me and easing his fingers into the top hem of my black thong. I nod my head. “Say it.”

“I trust you, Kole,” I respond and his fingers move down inside the front of my panties, and he moans while circling his fingers around the wetness he’s created. I move into his fingers, making sounds I don’t recognize.

It happens fast, as his fingers come out and then his fist balls up around the front of my panties. I feel a tug and they’re gone. I’m panting. It’s like a switch has gone off inside me and I want him so bad. I press myself into the hardness, bare and hot, pushing into the crease of my backside.

“Bend over,” he says and my mind is spinning. This isn’t how I’d imagined. I thought we were going to go slow but he’s Kolton Royce. I’m aching for him as he moves his hand up from the curve of my hips, up my spine, and onto my shoulders. All I’ll have to do is bend forward and I’ll be completely at his mercy.

I know I have to learn to let go.

I close my eyes and do as I’m told.

Rooting

H
e bends me at the waist and eases my head onto the pillow. I’m unsure about this. I feel vulnerable, open. My hands are shaking and I open my eyes.

His fingers are kneading circles down my back, to the soft mounds of my hips, and down the curve of where my ass cups into my thighs. This soothes me some, but I’m shivering. I put my hand up to my lips, swollen from kissing. My breasts are stinging in the cold air, still wet from his mouth. I’m pulsing and aching for him.

I exhale as his hand moves down and presses into my wet folds. He groans low and deep; circle and press, until I’m panting and pressing into his fingers. I’ve forgotten how I look. I only know how I feel—because of him. One long finger moves inside me and adds to my frustration. He’s relentless, circling and pressing with another finger until I’m grasping the sheets and crying out with need.

“Is this what you want?” he asks, pressing inside, finding a spot that drives me wild. I’m panting and opening my hips to him.

“Yes,” I say. He pulls his finger out, adding another when he comes back inside, making me cry out. All the while pressing the hard length of himself against my inner thigh.

“Say it.”

“I want you,” I pant.

“How? How do you want me?”

“Inside. I want you inside me.”

“I’m not going to use a condom, Mia. Not with you. Ever.”

“I know. I have an IUD.” I breathe and writhe into his fingers.

“That’s good,” he says. “Because I wouldn’t care if you didn’t. I want you bare.” His words make me cry out. I’m swollen and ready. Yes, there’s a voice inside telling me this is wrong, that he should wear a condom. But I trust him. He trusts me.