Pauly glanced at his phone. “Hey, I’m starved. How about we let the crew unload everything and we go grab some dinner?”
Trace’s eyes narrowed. Pauly and that damn phone. He was beginning to wonder if his manager was selling classified government secrets on the thing. “Something going on I should know about?”
He’d had it with whatever overprotective dad shit they were trying to pull. If something was going on with Kylie, if she was worse off than they were telling him, then he was going to find out and do something about it. The more they evaded discussing her, the more hell-bent he became on finding her right that second and making sure she was really all right.
Danny spoke up before Pauly could answer. “How about we all go out to dinner? Round up the band and—”
“Stop. Stop with the distraction techniques.” He wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but they were definitely trying to keep him from something. “Tell me what’s going on.”
He swung his imploring gaze from his manager to his fiddle player and back again. Neither of them met his eyes.
“I get it.” His chest tightened, and he was surprised to realize that his feelings were hurt. “There’s a bar here. And probably a mini-bar in my room. So naturally everyone’s worried I’m going to get wasted and take this whole tour down with me.”
He shook his head. When neither of them answered, he pulled the room key he’d been given out of his back pocket and stalked toward the elevator alone.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, fellas,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Really. Means a lot to me.”
“Trace. Son, wait,” Danny called out, but it was Pauly who reached him first.
Pauly Garrett was a patient man. He was also a smart man who’d been blessed with the gift of foresight. And he’d been Trace’s manager for as long as he had because he’d learned to spot potential explosions before the necessary components gathered in one place. Trace usually appreciated that about him. But this time, he just wanted the guy to give him the benefit of the doubt. For once.
“I am worried about you.” His manager sighed. “But it’s not about the bar, Trace.” He nodded to Danny to go on with the rest of the band. “Not exactly.”
“Okay,” Trace said slowly. He pressed the button for the elevator. “So what is it?
He heard his manager pull in a breath. Jesus. Was someone dying?
“Trace, you know I try not to interfere with the things I don’t have to interfere with. But sometimes, I’ve stayed out of your personal life only to wish later that I’d said something. Something that maybe could’ve prevented—”
The elevator dinged as it reached them. Trace looked up at the red light to see which door was about to open.
“Get to the point, Pauly.”
“It’s about Kylie. And I don’t want this to come out wrong but—”
“Is she okay? Dammit. I knew I should’ve—”
“She’s fine. I swear,” his manager assured him.
“Then what is it? What’s going on with her? I’d appreciate it if you stopped jerking me around.” The elevator door glided open, and thankfully the plush red cavern of it was empty.
Trace stepped on and his manager followed. He had to hold his room key in front of a black panel to get to the private floor he was on.
“She’s looking for you. But Trace’s she’s been—”
Before he uttered another word of explanation, she was there.
Flanked by her friend and Mike in the same fashion he’d been guarded by Danny and his manager moments ago.
Trace barely registered the curse Pauly mumbled under his breath.
His arm shot out to hold the doors open.
When his gaze collided with hers, her blue eyes burned so bright he couldn’t fucking breathe. It was her. His girl. The one who’d given him all of herself, heart and soul, that very first time. Readily and without hesitation.
The walls she’d had up all this time were gone and she was locked in his stare.
She wore a dark blue dress that slid tantalizingly off one of her smooth bare shoulders and her favorite boots, but the way she looked at him, she might as well have been stark naked.
His world suddenly became a very fragile place made entirely of glass. The wrong move, the wrong word, would send it all crashing down.
“Get off the elevator, Pauly,” he said evenly without taking his eyes from hers.
“Trace, I don’t think you—”
“Get. Off. The. Elevator.” His chest pumped in response to the considerable effort he was making to operate his lungs. “Now.”
His manager shook his head and stepped off the elevator.
He didn’t look up into the worried faces of the other three. Because all he could see was her. And she was in desperate need of something. He hoped like hell it was something he could give her.
If it was what he suspected it was, then he was going to make sure she got what she needed again and again.
With a slight lift of his chin, he invited her to come to him.
He was either dead, dreaming, or witnessing a miracle, because she came to him. And she kept coming until her body was nearly against his.
Once she was inside, he moved his arm and allowed the elevator doors to close, cocooning them in privacy.
“Heard you were looking for me.”
“I was,” she said softly. “Looks like I found you.”
Holy hell, that look. He couldn’t even begin to comprehend what that look did to him. Every ounce of confidence he’d lost, the mistakes and the failures, the disappointment he’d been to so many—it all just ceased to matter.
His whole damn world hung in the delicate balance of that look.
Because he knew now that she still saw him. She still looked at him and saw that man she’d convinced him he could be, the one she trusted, had faith in, and believed was worthy of her.
“So you did. What can I do for you, sweetheart?”
Desire-drenched need flashed in those eyes of hers. “I think you know, Trace. I think you’ve always known.”
He forced his throat to swallow. His hands twitched. As did his dick.
Apparently Kylie Ryans had decided to test him and see if he meant all those dirty things he’d said to her on the bus. It looked like she was about to call his bluff. He’d told himself a million times that if he ever got another shot, he would be careful with her. He would take it slow. Do things in the right order.
But each floor they rose, each breath of hers that he breathed in, his self-control dissipated. Inch by inch, layer by layer, until it was a thin vapor he could no longer grasp onto.
“How are you feeling? Earlier you gave everyone quite a—”
“I’m fine, Trace,” she assured him. “More than fine.”
She took a step closer even though there wasn’t really any more space to move into. He gave up on restraining himself and pulled her to him. What the hell, he figured. All of his cards were already showing anyways.
“I might not be able to take it slow, Kylie Lou. It won’t be gentle or sweet like you deserve. I might…hurt you.”
God he didn’t want to hurt her if he could fucking help it. He wanted to please her, give her a pleasure so deep and undeniable she’d never even think of anyone besides him being inside her.
“Maybe I don’t want it to be gentle or sweet,” she breathed against his skin. “I can take it. I think…I think I want it to hurt.”
Fuck me. He was a goner.
Her fingers slid up his chest as her lips brushed the stubble on his chin. He bent down and wrapped his hands under her ass as tightly as he could. Lifting her onto his waist, he slammed her against the wall of the elevator hard enough to rattle the whole damn thing.
He groaned as she pressed herself against the rock-hard ridge in his pants. He heard her sweet surprised gasp as she took in a breath.
“Feel that, baby?” he hissed through his teeth.
The whimper that escaped her lips
in response said hell yeah she felt it. She gripped the hair at the nape of his neck hard enough to make his eyes water as she nipped and licked his earlobe. Her thighs flexed around him and he groaned in anticipation of her tight heat. He couldn’t wait to get inside her. To give her every single inch of himself.
His hands raked up her hips and back. Her thick, blond curtain of hair surrounded him. He was drowning in her and drinking her in, breathing her in, every way that he could.
He was about to hit the emergency stop button and fuck her in that very elevator when the chime sounded and the door opened. Taking a second to catch his breath, he set her down as gently as he could manage and pulled her by the hand toward his room.
“Come on, baby,” he said, squeezing her hand as they made their way down the hallway together.
“Trace,” she said, lust dripping from the needful ache in her tone.
“Yeah, Kylie Lou?” he rasped when they reached his door.
“I need you. I need you so bad.” Her voice broke, as if she might be about to cry. She’d been strong for so long. He knew good and well how much it had hurt her to confess her need.
He planned to soothe that pain and that need. Soon. He turned and pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes. “I know. I know you do, pretty girl. You have me.”
HE DIDN’T kiss her on the mouth until they were safely locked in his room. But the door had barely closed behind her when she gripped his arms so hard he wondered if there’d be bruises. He fucking hoped so.
His mouth descended onto hers and his knees went weak. His tongue dipped inside to taste her. She tasted like bourbon. Son of a bitch.
He figured she’d been drinking. And of course it had to be bourbon.
His arms strained to distance her body from his, but she was firmly fucking attached and she was stronger than she looked.
“Kylie. Uh, babe,” he tried to say between kisses.
She ignored his pleas, sweeping her sweet little tongue into his mouth, across his teeth, and over his lips.
He couldn’t force himself to quit tasting her. There wasn’t enough willpower in the whole wide world. He let his tongue massage every inch of her lush, velvet, whiskey-soaked mouth. He sank down onto the mattress, and she straddled him.
Before he could stop her, she stood and pulled her dress over her head. Her skin was the perfect shade of golden in the glow of the lamp that was on in the room. He sat up so he could get the full view of her beautiful body.
And motherfucking son of every cussword he could think of. She was standing there in a white lace bra and a matching scrap of fabric that wasn’t substantial enough to be called underwear. And boots. She still had those damn boots on.
In all of his fantasies about her—and he’d had plenty—none of them were this fucking hot.
He knew it would take one finger, one sharp tug at the flimsy string, and her panties would be history. His throbbing dick begged him to do it, to remove that tiny barrier and let her wet heat slide over him.
But then she opened her eyes, and he could see the lack of focus in them. She was drunk. Maybe not wasted, but not sober enough to think straight, to make the kind of life-altering decision she was about to.
Clumsily, she began unbuttoning his shirt. She leaned down and brushed her lips against his. Her right leg came up and he grabbed her inner thigh to stop her forward progress.
If he felt that part of her, that warm, pulsating part he knew would be ready for him, against his dick again, he’d be done for.
“Dammit, Kylie. Stop.” His deep tenor echoed off the bedroom walls.
A sharp stabbing pang hit his lower stomach the moment she obeyed.
She flinched back and her eyes went wide as if he’d slapped her.
They had a problem. A big one.
He wanted to drink, wanted to pour caramel-colored bourbon down her entire body and lick it off every part of her.
He had his answer. She wasn’t a trigger, wasn’t a temptation. She was the temptation. The old him, the one who got drunk and said to hell with consequence, had room service bring up the bourbon and spent all night fucking her. Long and hard and only stopping when he could no longer remain conscious.
But somewhere along the line, she’d changed him. And that look, the trusting weight of it, was what had sealed his fate.
“You’ve been drinking, baby. I can taste it on you. We can’t do this. Not like this.”
Her lower lip trembled, and the cold fear in her expression nearly froze him in place. Her gaze retreated away from him so quickly he could practically hear her reconstructing the walls she’d let down temporarily.
“You’re serious,” she said tentatively, as if to make sure.
He considered smiling and pulling her back onto him. He could play it off like a joke. Act like he’d been testing her to make sure she wanted to go through with it.
“I am.”
“Oh, God.” She began to wilt right before his very eyes. Her chest caved, like someone had deflated her.
I was broken, dead inside. You made me feel alive.
And now he was doing the exact opposite.
He watched helplessly as she began scrambling to scoop her dress up off the floor.
“Whoa. Hey. Slow down.” He stood and wrapped his arms around her. Her entire body shook violently. Her slender arms came up against his expansive chest and attempted a weak shove.
“Let me go,” she begged.
“Wait. Just wait a damn second.”
Trace made quick work of pulling off his shirt and wrapping it around her. Her eyes met his as he buttoned the few middle buttons for her. The wounded expression in them nearly broke him. But he knew one of them had to be strong. Tonight it would have to be him.
“Kylie Lou, I want you more than you can even imagine. But we need to talk and we need to slow the hell down. Because the absolute last thing I want is for you to wake up tomorrow and wish this hadn’t happened.”
She let out a small huff of air. “Well I can pretty much guarantee I’m going to wake up tomorrow wishing this hadn’t happened.”
He rested his chin on the top of her head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I walked away, sorry that I hurt you, and sorry that this is going to be something you regret. But I’d take you regretting throwing yourself at me over you regretting me being inside you any day.”
She shivered. He tightened his grip around her. He could feel her heart racing like a frightened animal’s.
“Tell me you don’t regret it. I need to hear it.”
She was quiet for a few long seconds.
He gave her a small squeeze. “I need to know, Kylie Lou. Before anything else happens between us. I need to know if you regret anything. Being with me, giving me your virginity, touring with me, any of it.”
He thought his head might fucking explode while he waited for her response. Finally her chest pressed against him. He felt the sob before he heard it.
“Oh, baby, no. Please don’t cry.”
“No,” she said with a surprisingly even voice. “No, I don’t regret any of it.” Her body went slack against his under the weight of her confession.
“You had a big day. Ambulances and canceled shows and all that. Let’s get you to bed.”
Trace scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the head of the bed. After tucking her in, he sat in a nearby chair.
“You’re not coming?” she asked quietly, her voice thick with exhaustion. Or intoxication—he wasn’t sure.
Apparently not. “I’m good right here. You need to get your rest. Doctor’s orders.” He propped his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his head on his fist. “If I get in that bed, you won’t get a bit of sleep and we’ll just have to cancel tomorrow’s show too.” He winked at her and leaned forward to kiss her on the forehead before resuming his position.
Her eyes blinked slowly when she turned on her side to face him. “I was looking for you because...because I wanted tell you something. I needed t
o tell you something.”
He was tempted to make a joke. To pretend what had just happened wasn’t as monumental as it actually was. But the sexy-as-hell sleepy-eyed look she was giving him and the raw vulnerability she was exuding were compounding the hell his dick was giving him for not giving her what she’d wanted. What they both wanted. And all the blood was still residing south of his brain so he couldn’t even think of a good joke anyway.
“What is it, pretty girl?”
“I tried so hard to stop but…but I couldn’t.” She wrapped her arms around the pillow beneath her and yawned.
He brushed the strands of hair that had fallen over her eyes out of her face.
“Couldn’t stop what, Kylie Lou?”
“Loving you,” she breathed, effectively sucking all the air from his lungs with the strength of an industrial vacuum. A tiny smile lifted one corner of her mouth as her eyes fell closed. “I still love you, Trace. And it’s exhausting pretending that I don’t. I thought you should know.”
Before he had time to say it back—to tell her that he’d never be worthy of her love, but that he’d gladly take it and try to be—she was asleep.
TRACE WOKE up with one hell of a crick in his neck. He winced when he tried to turn his head only to find the sun glaring in his face.
He couldn’t remember why he’d slept in a chair instead of his bed. He blinked several times and the room came into focus.
It was a hotel room. An empty hotel room.
The previous night’s events came rushing back to him all at once. His eyes landed on the empty bed.
Where the hell is she?
He let himself hope that maybe she was in the bathroom and now that she was sober and rested, they could talk. He could tell her that he loved her, was in love with her. He was ready to do all that mushy shit he’d swore he never would. Tell her every detail of the moment he fell in love with her and why. Discuss the next step in their relationship. And then he could give her what she’d come to him for last night. If she still wanted it. God, he hoped she still wanted it.
He was still smiling at the memory of her in his arms, of their hot-as-hell encounter in the hotel elevator.
Until he saw the note she’d left on his pillow. It was written on the hotel stationery.
Girl in Love Page 22
