Read Online My Heart's Beat (Hard Love & Dark Rock #2) by Ashley Grace - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ashley Grace
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care about the scrapes on my knees, or the pain in my ankle. I didn't care about the emotional baggage he carried with him, or the burden that my own inexperience seemed to be. I didn't care about Joey's seizure, or Ronnie's jealousy, or Becca being wild and drunk at the party by herself, with no one to keep her out of trouble. I didn't care about any of that.
Him. Me. The desire we shared in that moment. Nothing else.
"Trace," I whispered.
"Yes, Anne?" he whispered back, his lips so close to mine that I felt the breath in those words.
"I don't want to see the doctor."
"But what about your ankle? What about your knees?"
"They're fine. It's nothing."
"You sure?"
I nodded my head. "And I don't want to go back to the party, either."
"No?"
"No."
He paused. The silence like a question.
"Trace," I said, my own heart beating harder, "take me to your room."
He kissed me again, and not so softly this time, the hunger and insistence less restrained.
And then he was running across the street.
"Trace!" I said, laughing and breathless. "Don't run! I'm too heavy. You'll drop me."
"I would never drop you, Anne," he said.
Trace streaked past the valet station, running like a football player, his teeth bared in a wild grin. I laughed and clutched at his neck and buried my face against his throat, beneath his chin.
In the lobby there was a mild commotion when we came through, people turning their heads to look, someone saying "She's bleeding." A photographer who'd been sitting in an easy chair near the piano stood up quickly, pulling a camera out from under the jacket he'd held in his lap. He got off a few shots before a hotel bellhop stepped in front of him, deliberately blocking his way.
Trace made it to the elevators, hit the up button and slipped inside the first one that opened. I looked back at the lobby, saw a few people coming our way. Trace pressed the floor button, and then jammed his thumb down on another button to close the doors, and the elevator shut before anyone got near.
I laughed, feeling almost giddy, as if we'd made some great escape. Trace looked down at me, grinning ear to ear.
"I love it when you laugh," he said.
I felt myself blushing. "I love it when you kiss me," I said.
So he did.
When the elevator doors dinged open, he leaned forward, peeking out. It seemed strangely quiet. He slipped out of the elevator and started carrying me down the hallway.
"Do you think the party's over?" I asked.
"Probably not."
"Then why is it so quiet?"
"We're actually one floor up from the party," he said. "I figured we'd sneak down the stairway from this floor, so we wouldn't have to pass through the hall where the party is."
"Clever fellow."
"I know a thing or two about avoiding crowds, I guess," he said.
He carried me to the end of the hall, and pushed open the door to the stairwell by leaning against it with his back.
"You don't have to carry me, you know. I can walk down the stairs on my own."
"I'm not letting go of you until I've got you safely in my room," he said.
I didn't try to argue with him. I liked the feeling of being held in his arms.
On the landing of the next floor down, he pushed open the door and slipped through. Bernstein was still in the hall by Joey's door, about three doors down from the end. He raised his head at us, looking curious.
I waved my hand. He waved back.
Trace stopped at the first door.
"The keycard's in the back pocket of my jeans," he said, still holding me.
I reached around his waist, feeling the taut muscles of his side against my forearm. I slipped my hand into his pocket—thrilled by the firmness of the flesh on the other side of that denim—and got the card.
I was blushing again when I slipped the card into the door lock.
The door lock whirred and clicked, and a little light flashed green. I gripped the door handle and pressed it down, and Trace carried me forward into the room.
It was smaller
Him. Me. The desire we shared in that moment. Nothing else.
"Trace," I whispered.
"Yes, Anne?" he whispered back, his lips so close to mine that I felt the breath in those words.
"I don't want to see the doctor."
"But what about your ankle? What about your knees?"
"They're fine. It's nothing."
"You sure?"
I nodded my head. "And I don't want to go back to the party, either."
"No?"
"No."
He paused. The silence like a question.
"Trace," I said, my own heart beating harder, "take me to your room."
He kissed me again, and not so softly this time, the hunger and insistence less restrained.
And then he was running across the street.
"Trace!" I said, laughing and breathless. "Don't run! I'm too heavy. You'll drop me."
"I would never drop you, Anne," he said.
Trace streaked past the valet station, running like a football player, his teeth bared in a wild grin. I laughed and clutched at his neck and buried my face against his throat, beneath his chin.
In the lobby there was a mild commotion when we came through, people turning their heads to look, someone saying "She's bleeding." A photographer who'd been sitting in an easy chair near the piano stood up quickly, pulling a camera out from under the jacket he'd held in his lap. He got off a few shots before a hotel bellhop stepped in front of him, deliberately blocking his way.
Trace made it to the elevators, hit the up button and slipped inside the first one that opened. I looked back at the lobby, saw a few people coming our way. Trace pressed the floor button, and then jammed his thumb down on another button to close the doors, and the elevator shut before anyone got near.
I laughed, feeling almost giddy, as if we'd made some great escape. Trace looked down at me, grinning ear to ear.
"I love it when you laugh," he said.
I felt myself blushing. "I love it when you kiss me," I said.
So he did.
When the elevator doors dinged open, he leaned forward, peeking out. It seemed strangely quiet. He slipped out of the elevator and started carrying me down the hallway.
"Do you think the party's over?" I asked.
"Probably not."
"Then why is it so quiet?"
"We're actually one floor up from the party," he said. "I figured we'd sneak down the stairway from this floor, so we wouldn't have to pass through the hall where the party is."
"Clever fellow."
"I know a thing or two about avoiding crowds, I guess," he said.
He carried me to the end of the hall, and pushed open the door to the stairwell by leaning against it with his back.
"You don't have to carry me, you know. I can walk down the stairs on my own."
"I'm not letting go of you until I've got you safely in my room," he said.
I didn't try to argue with him. I liked the feeling of being held in his arms.
On the landing of the next floor down, he pushed open the door and slipped through. Bernstein was still in the hall by Joey's door, about three doors down from the end. He raised his head at us, looking curious.
I waved my hand. He waved back.
Trace stopped at the first door.
"The keycard's in the back pocket of my jeans," he said, still holding me.
I reached around his waist, feeling the taut muscles of his side against my forearm. I slipped my hand into his pocket—thrilled by the firmness of the flesh on the other side of that denim—and got the card.
I was blushing again when I slipped the card into the door lock.
The door lock whirred and clicked, and a little light flashed green. I gripped the door handle and pressed it down, and Trace carried me forward into the room.
It was smaller
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