Page 17 of Heart Beats

“I’ll work on this another time,” she says, making a move to rise.

I shake my head again, then take a seat at the Steinway. I haven’t playedRevolutionon piano for—fuck, it’s been years—but my fingers remember every note. A couple of bars in, Maria joins me. No surprise, my incredibly talented beauty has serious chops on the guitar.

Then it happens. She sings. Just a few lines of the chorus, but she fucking sings. To me. For me.

It takes all of self-control to keep playing instead of crossing the room and telling her I love her. That moment will have to wait a couple more weeks. But it’s happening. I know right now—I’m going to marry this woman and spend the rest of my life rocking her world.

seven

maria

I haven’t livedwith anyone since I moved out of my parents’ house nearly ten years ago. Even the handful of short-term relationships I’ve had didn’t involve a lot of sleepovers. The men in my past were more interested in the sex than the snuggle, and they definitely weren’t interested in the awkward morning-after conversation where we had nothing to talk about.

Marshall loves snuggling me—before and after the mind-blowing sex. We share a passion for music, but I wasn’t sure that’d be enough to fill three weeks of constant togetherness. I thought we’d run out of things to talk about, especially since he can’t talk. I was sure he’d get bored. Of my schedules. Of my need for routine. Of me.

I’ve never been happier to be wrong. I’ve never been happier, period.

He fits so effortlessly and perfectly in my life, it’s easy to forget he’s only in it temporarily. As soon as his throat heals, he’s going to pack his bag and return tohislife. One that doesn’t include me. Not on a daily basis, not the way he’s become part of mine. Being with him is so easy, so comfortable, complete, and perfect—it’s hard to imagine being without him. But the day is coming.

We’ve filled two notebooks with written conversations since he’s been here. None of them have includedwhat happens next. Probably because we both know. Rock stars are used to living in the moment, then moving on.

Tomorrow, the doctor will decide if he can return to singing. To the tour. Tonight, though, he’s still with me. He’s still my Marshall, not Jagger Marsh. The world is going to have to wait its turn.

I finished with my last student an hour ago. The enthusiastic fifteen-year-old is brand new to the trumpet, and his first lesson was mostly spit and noise.

When I joined Marshall on the back patio to tell him I’m taking a bath, I laughed before getting a word out. I’ve seen him wearing studio headphones while he’s working on his music. Sexy factor—high. Seeing him wearing the clunky, sound-canceling headphones he found in my garden shed… Dork factor—high. Sexy factor—super-high.

I love him. Simple as that, even though it’s the furthest thing from simple.

He’sat the piano when I finish my bath. The music he’s playing in the next room is new to my ears. There’s been a lot of that over the past few weeks. The time off from his hectic life has been good for more than just his throat.

I stop in the archway, leaning against the frame to enjoy everything about this moment. Marshall, shirtless, eyes closed, the muscles in his lean, tattoo-covered body flexing as his fingers dance over the ivory keys. Strong notes with presence emanate from the soundboard, bringing the air in the room to life. This one’s a rock song. Edgy and on the hard side, but just as beautiful as his ballads.

Even though I haven’t heard this piece, I know when he’s nearing the end. I push off from the doorframe and walk toward him. My approach is silent, any small sound I might generate masked by the notes he’s playing from memory. He doesn’t have to hear me—he senses me.

His eyes open, and he plays out the song as his gaze rakes over my naked body. He’s seen all of me, repeatedly and from every angle, yet his eyes darken with desire when I settle beside him, straddling the glossy bench.

“That was powerful and beautiful,” I say when he mirrors my position and cups my breasts in his warm palms. “You’re going to have an album’s worth of new songs by the time you leave.”

He doesn’t answer. The only times he’s slipped up and spoken have been during sex, and I really can’t argue with that. He skims his hands over my body, tracing the dip at my waistline, the creases at my thighs. Then he leans in and claims my mouth. His tongue slides between my lips as his fingers part my folds to roll circles over my clit. His expert touch instantly ignites my need to come, each firm pass pushing me closer.

“Growling uses the vocal cords too,” I say when his deep rumble vibrates through me. “If you’re going to break doctor’s orders, you should have a really good reason.”

He chuckles and sits back enough for me to see him cover his heart with his hands, then point at me.

“Me? I’m the good reason?”

He answers by kissing my nose, then he rises and strips off what little clothing he’d had on.

It doesn’t matter that I’ve seen every inch ofhisnaked form dozens of times, too. I stare at him as if it’s the first, visually cataloguing every perfect inch, from his handsome face to his tattooed legs, with a generous stop at the midway point. His cock juts out, thick and tall, its row of barbells promising extra friction.

I move to the end of the bench, brace my hands behind my back, and open myself wide. I’m not embarrassed to tell him what I like, or what I want, but he’s on his knees, burying his tongue where I need it before I can say a word. And it’ssogood.

My eyelids flutter closed as the strings of need tighten. I gasp, meeting Marshall’s eyes as heat radiates beneath the nipple pinched firmly between his fingers.

He likes to watch me come. He likes me to watch too.

I shake my head when he releases my nipple. “Do it again,” I say, grabbing his retreating hand and drawing it back to my breast. “Harder.”

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