Page 67 of Fostering Chemistry
“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 takemusic 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.
I held as still as I could. Guitars weren't supposed to writhe around on the musician's lap, but it was difficult not to.
His body—his muscles—were hard behind me. His skin was so warm. I loved the way the muscles in his forearm moved as he played.
It was like he was hugging me from behind, and I would let him play tune after tune if he’d keep doing that.
And he did.
When the fingers across my stomach slowed, I figured that was the end of a piece.
Then he made me laugh by reaching over and twisting his fingers near my palm. “You're out of tune,” he whispered, his lips right behind my ear.
“It's been a long time since I've been played,” I said.
It didn't make a ton of sense, but I was having fun. The problems of Sara—and Walter White, for that matter—were the furthest things from my mind.
He played one more song and then his hands stilled.
I fell into a bit of a trance, lulled by the feeling of his warm body behind me, his skilled fingers resting lightly on my stomach. Until he brushed closer to my side—and it tickled.
