Page 66 of Fostering Chemistry
“It's all I know how to play,” I whispered. “Except for that one note in that song the other day.”
“I can teach you more sometime.”
“How about now?”
“We're watching the show.”
“No we aren't,” I pointed out, still speaking softly.
“We're supposed to be,” he whispered back.
He had a point, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I didn't want to think about drugs, or making drugs, or dealing drugs. Hell, I didn't even want to think about high school, which is what the lead character had started out as—a high school teacher.
I turned my attention to the screen for all of about twenty seconds. Why should I watch something that made me depressed when there was a cute, hot guy sitting next to me, so earnest with his music that it was like he was begging me to tease him?
And, if I were being honest with myself, I could use the distraction.
I leaned toward him, my hair falling on his shoulder.
“Your piano's out of tune,” I whispered.
He turned toward me, raising his eyebrow.
“Use mine.”
I swung my leg up and over his thigh, keeping it straight, providing a new keyboard for him. He froze as my leg came to rest on his. For a moment, I couldn’t predict his reaction. Would he get up and leave? Push my leg away? Start humping it? I had no damn clue.
Then, finally, he placed his hands along my leg—his left hand high on my thigh, and his right hand around my bare knee. Then his fingers began moving, and I swear I could practically hear the symphony.
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.
