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“You’re a composer,” she says, eyes locked with mine.
“You haven’t heard the piece yet.”
She shrugs and strokes her fingers over my lips.
“I believe in you.”
I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“Should I sit?” she asks, nodding at a chair in the corner of the room.
“Yes.”
When she moves toward the chair, I hook my arm around her waist and sit her down on the piano bench. She smiles at me when I join her.
Instead of playing anything I’ve written, I plunk the first few notes of “Jane”—the Jefferson Airplane song we were just listening to. Skye throws her head back and cuts loose with the sexiest damned laugh I’ve ever heard.
“I love it.” She looks at me with a nod. “This Jane thing is getting kind of serious.”
Her smile fades, and we stare at each other in silence for a second. I think she was joking, but the words are heavy and intense. Neither of us knows what to say now. If the Jane thing is a joke, saying it’s serious is funny. If the Jane thing refers to her and me together, as a couple, it’s scary.
Part of me wants to think it’s all about her and me as a couple, but the rest of me balks at that. I don’t want a relationship. Don’t want routine. Even though I do love the way we’ve settled in together—like a couple.
“What?” Her gruff voice cuts through the silence in the room. I feel her words like a caress on my cheek. Does she like what we’re doing? I know she likes the sex. She’s not embarrassed to let me see her come undone when we’re naked together, but does she like the rest of us as much as I do?
“Nothing.” I manage a smile and turn back to the piano. If I don’t break this spell now, God only knows what I might end up saying. I’ve never said those emotional things to women. Never had any cause or desire to. But Skye makes me feel things I’ve never felt.
Rather than dwell on it, I touch the keys again.
“I took lessons when I was in third grade,” she admits as she snuggles into my side. “Hated it.”
“You’re killing me,” I whisper and lean over to drop a kiss on her head.
“I can play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.’” She arches her brows hopefully when our eyes meet.
Eyes locked again, I lift my hand to cup her face and lean in to kiss her. Even after all the ways we’ve had sex, all the dirty things we’ve done, moving the earth together, I love kissing her. Making out with her is fun—I don’t need to turn every kiss, every touch, into sex. Kissing her now is sacred to me, because we’re in a practice room, at an old piano, in a music store I’m probably going to buy.
“As much as I love this.”
I don’t realize she’s moved until I feel her fingers in my hair.
“I want to hear you play.”
“Okay.”
