It wasn’t your best night, to say the least. That you could tell from the piercing headache that hit you the moment you opened your eyes.

You’d had a lot to drink. So much to drink you could’ve sworn you were having hungover hallucinations as you looked around the room you’re in.

That was certainly not your nightstand. And that pair of glasses was certainly not yours. Let alone the bedsheets you slept under.

And you were most definitely not sure who this man next to you was. But you could pretty much tell that, physically, he wasn’t a stranger to you.

You definitely knew things about his body after last night. As your eyes stared at his closed ones, you finally made a revelation.

That was Elvis Presley.

Elvis. Presley.

And you were next to him.

Your heart practically stopped beating. There was no doubt about why you were in that room. No doubt about what had happened last night that made you end up in Elvis Presley’s bed.

With a shuddered breath, you slowly, quietly, started to push the covers off yourself to stand up.

The minute you moved an inch, Elvis’ brows furrowed and he reached over to you.

“Where ya going, honey?” he asked, his voice even deeper than in the radio interviews you’ve heard.