Chapter Eight
Gabby
The final notes of Jonathan’s song fade out as he stares at me, his face lit up from the inside, like a kid on Christmas morning who’s gotten everything on his list.
His song was beautiful the first time that he played it, about a love lost and found, full of nostalgia and longing. But with the changes? It’s so much more now.
He sets his guitar down and stands, leaning over me, brushing against my shoulder. Tapping at the paper on the piano’s music stand, he says, “Okay, let’s write this down so it’s all there.” He hums through the bridge again, and when he gets to the first part he changed, he looks around.
Handing him the pencil, I hold my breath at the quick smile he flashes my way. I think about moving, getting off the bench and out of the way, but the way the piano is wedged into the room and where he’s standing, I’m pretty much trapped.
And really, I like being this close to him. I’m enjoying the brush of his side against my shoulder, his arm against mine as he reaches past me to hold the paper still while he erases the notes I drew and draws in the new ones, trying to copy my style of thick slanted lines for note heads. He scribbles in the names of the chords underneath, then stares at the page for a moment, like he’s soaking it all in.
That smile is on his face again when he turns to look at me. He’s so happy. His eyes examine mine, skate over my face, and settle on my lips before dragging back up to my eyes again.
And he’s right there. So close that if I lean toward him just an inch or two, our lips would meet. I’ve wondered what it would feel like to kiss him since the night of the recital.
Without really thinking about it, I give in to the temptation, leaning in those scant inches. I see his face turn serious in the second before our lips meet, and I close my eyes to savor his soft, full lips on mine.
He kisses me back. His lips press against mine, but are gone all too soon. He pulls back, looking at me, that same serious expression on his face, but it doesn’t tell me anything.
Then his hand slides through my hair, cradling the back of my head, and he kisses me again, his other arm going around my waist. Almost before I can register what’s happening, he’s urged me off the tiny piano bench and onto his bed, with me on my back and him off to the side, his one hand still under my head, while the other caresses my side, down over my hip to my thigh, and back up again.
When his hand trails under my shirt, his fingertips rough against my skin, I arch into his touch and kiss him harder, my hands going around his neck and into his hair, wanting to reciprocate his touch, the way he’s making me feel.
He groans at my response, his tongue delving into my mouth, tasting me. But then he breaks off the kiss and stares down at me for a second before wrapping his arms around me, pulling me to his chest, and placing a kiss on my forehead. “What am I going to do with you?” he whispers.
I shift away so I can look up at his face. “What do you mean?”
His green eyes search mine, and he lets out a sigh. “You … I …” He swallows and licks his lips, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and husky. “I like you. A lot. After that recital, I was planning on asking you out again, but …”
He trails off again, and my stomach plummets at the but. I try to put more space between us, bracing myself for rejection, but his arms tighten around me. Arching an eyebrow, I prompt him to continue. “But?”
“But it hit me how young you are, and I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. I’m a senior. I’ll be graduating at the end of the year and leaving. So I tried to stay away. Leave you alone.”
“What?” I pull back, pushing against his chest more forcefully now. This time, he lets me go. Irritation prickles across my skin, making me hot. “You think—what? You’re afraid I’ll get too attached? Be too clingy? Because I’m a freshman?”
He flops back on the bed, his jaw clenching. “No, Gabby. God, no. It’s the other way around. I’m afraid I’ll get too attached.” His eyes sweep over my face and down. “You have to know how amazing you are. After just two conversations you’ve worked your way under my skin. As much as I told myself I should, I couldn’t make myself stay away. Leave you alone. That’s why I ended up in the practice rooms. And invited you to dinner. I thought we could try being friends. But …”
“But?” My voice is softer now. The prickly heat of irritation softening into a glowing warmth, and I really want him to finish that sentence. “But what?”
His gaze sharpens, and his eyes drop to my lips. “But then you kissed me. And I don’t think there’s any going back from that.”
“And what does that mean?”
He laces his fingers through mine and tugs me closer, pulling me down onto his chest. Lifting his head, he kisses me, soft and chaste. When he pulls back, his hands caress over my back, his eyes staring at my lips for a beat before meeting mine. “It means that I’m not going to try to stay away. Or just be friends. It means I’m going to risk getting too attached and see where things go. I like you too much, and I’m done torturing myself.”
My lips tug up at his words, and an answering smile stretches across his face. I kiss him again. Because I can. His fingers dig into my back, one hand sliding to my ass, and he takes over the kiss.
But he stops it again all too soon. With one more quick squeeze, he rolls me to the side and sits up. “But we can’t keep doing that here, in my bed, unless you’re ready to take things further than just kissing …” His eyebrows raise and something like hope enters his voice.
Biting my lip, my breath catches. But I shake my head, a little overwhelmed at how everything’s happened.
His mouth twists in a crooked smile, and he bends over to give me one last swift kiss. Standing, he adjusts himself and stretches, and I let my eyes roam over his body. Cataloguing the way the fabric pulls over his chest, the strip of skin revealed when he reaches his arms overhead, the undeniable bulge in his pants. That I felt against me. That I could, if I said the word, feel completely. Without the barrier of clothes.
I swallow, slightly tempted to see what would happen. But the reality is that I’m not ready. Even though I like him too. A lot. The last time I had sex with a guy, it was not good. And I don’t want that to ruin what’s been a pretty enjoyable make out session.
Even if the make out session seems to be over for now.
When I look back up at his face, he’s grinning at me. “We should go somewhere. Or I should take you home. Because if you keep looking at me like that, I don’t know how well I’ll be able to control myself.”
Standing too, I grin back, a little embarrassed about being caught checking him out so blatantly. But he clearly doesn’t mind. So I refuse to let my embarrassment be an issue. Sliding my arms around him, I hug him, turning my face to the side to press against his chest. His arms drop around me, and he nuzzles my hair.
“Let’s go somewhere,” I say. “I’m not ready to go home yet.”