It wasn’t exactly your finest hour—something you realized instantly when a sharp, pounding headache greeted you the moment your eyes fluttered open.

The previous night had been… eventful. And by eventful, you mean that you’d had way too much to drink.

So much, in fact, that when you glanced around the unfamiliar room, you briefly wondered if you were hallucinating from the hangover.

That wasn’t your nightstand.

And Those glasses sitting atop it? Definitely not yours.

And those sheets wrapped around you? They felt foreign too.

The real kicker, however, was the man lying beside you.

Though you weren’t exactly sure of his name, one thing was clear—you were far from strangers, at least not in the physical sense.

You know certain things about him now. Intimate things. Things you couldn’t unknow after last night.

Your gaze shifted to his face, and as your heart began to race, the realization hit you like a freight train.

Elvis Presley.

That was Elvis Presley lying next to you.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, it felt like your heart had stopped. There was no denying why you were in this room. There is no denying what had transpired the night before that had led you here, in his bed.

Carefully, almost trembling, you decided to slip out from under the sheets and make your exit before he woke up.

But as you shifted even the slightest bit, he stirred. His brows furrowed, and his arm instinctively reached toward you, catching you mid-motion.

“Where ya goin’, doll?” he murmured, his voice impossibly deep—deeper than you’d ever imagined from the radio interviews you’d once listened to obsessively.

You froze.