Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
His fingers flew over my leg, playing something fast and furious. His hand slid up and down, and it dawned on me how long a real piano keyboard was. It felt like his fingers were touching every part of my leg at once, and some of it tickled.
His thumb slipped and brushed past the side of my knee, and I squirmed, moving my leg slightly out of position. With his right hand, he grasped my ankle and pulled my leg toward him, which made me gasp. He was only trying to situate the piano in a better position, but in doing so, he’d spread my legs farther apart—and suddenly I wasn't thinking about music anymore.
But he was. He played harder now, his fingers tapping at my skin, moving up and down, and I couldn’t help wondering what else those fingers could do. They were strong, quick, nimble.
I squirmed again in my chair, my hips rolling slightly.
He leaned over, and his breath, warm and steady, caressed my ear. “You make a terrible piano.”
Whether it was the truth or him being playful, I didn't care. It was fun teasing him in the dark, having him touch me, and it was a hell of a lot better than thinking about the depressing things on screen.
I turned my head and whispered back, “I like it when you play the high notes.”
The fingers on his right hand tapped rapidly along my shin. Wait, I had it backward. “Oh. I guess it's the low notes I like.”
“Like this?”
Suddenly, the fingers of his left hand were tapping high on my thigh, pushing into me and moving back and forth.
“Yes,” I breathed.
Then inspiration struck.
“Do you know any songs that are lower?”
His fingers stilled, and I wondered if I’d pushed him too far. After a long moment, he asked, “What's gotten into you?”
To my relief, his voice sounded half curious, half amused, and half worried. And yes, that was three halves, but I wasn’t majoring in math.
“I'm just a huge fan of piano music.”
“You’ve heard me play for real.”
“Yes, but I’m enjoying the pretend version, too.”
He was silent for a long time, and then he said, “Me too.”
As his fingers continued to slide up and down my leg, I couldn’t help squirming, and it was embarrassing. Finally, I whispered up to him, “I'm tired of being a piano.”
He stopped, instantly withdrawing his hands, which wasn’t what I’d intended. I reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Can I be a different instrument?”
His eyes were on mine for a long moment, and then he nodded, my hand still clutching him.
I waited, watching him. Nobody could hold still like Cody. For a long minute, I got the sense he was thinking. Finally, he tipped his head toward mine.
“Want to be a guitar?” he whispered.
“Ever since I was a little girl,” I said.
He made a small sound that could have been a laugh. He angled his body toward me now, as if figuring out how to make me into a guitar.
I couldn't quite figure it out either, but I was eager to feel his hands on me again. Then his arms slid around my shoulder. I let go of him, now that I was certain he wasn't going to bolt.
This time, he captured my wrist on the far side.
Our bodies were touching as he tugged my arm out at an angle and placed his fingers over my pulse. Suddenly, I got it. That was the neck of the guitar—or whatever you called it—the part where you pressed your fingers on the strings to get the right notes. Or at least I thought that was how it worked. God, I need to take music lessons or something if I was going to have a roommate like him.
So if that was the neck of the guitar, what was the part he'd strum?
That question was answered when I felt his other hand graze across my stomach.
He paused there, as if waiting for me to object. But what the hell kind of guitar would object to having his talented fingers stroking them?
And that's exactly what he did. His thumb and index finger started picking out a rhythm, moving up and down, back and forth across my stomach, while his fingers pressed imaginary strings against my wrist.
I tried to lean back and relax, but his arm was stretched behind my shoulders, and I couldn’t lean back all the way. This wasn't working as well as my leg piano. He seemed to figure that out too, because he let go of me—to my disappointment.
But then, a moment later, I bit back a yelp as his hands found my waist and he lifted me onto his lap. Before I could process that, his hands were back in place and he was strumming again, playing some kind of melody against my skin.