He didn’t react; he must have been exhausted.
Brave when he wasn’t watching, I pushed onto my elbow to get a better angle, then kissed the same path my fingers had taken. He smelled like laundered sheets and hints of sweat.
My fingers had wandered down his chest while I wasn’t paying attention. Through the thin shirt, I explored hills and valleys of muscle, relaxed while he slept. I discovered the plains of his stomach and lifted his shirt to the bottom of his ribs, finding smooth skin, warm with sleep. He moaned.
I froze. “Are you awake?” Barely worthy of being called a whisper.
Muscles tensed beneath my questing fingers. “I am now.”
My face might have been on fire as I withdrew, but it was dim enough—I hoped—that he couldn’t tell. “Sorry.”
He dragged in a shuddering breath and gazed at me for a long moment. “I wasn’t expecting that kind of wake-up.”
“You didn’t think I’d still be here?” I could have gone back to my room, but he’d been so warm and—
“No, I’m glad you were here.” He pushed himself up, covers swishing around his legs. His shirt slipped back down, settling askew on his shoulders, and his smile was warm and shy. Boyish. “I like seeing you first thing.”
“Oh, good.” I doubted it was possible for my face to burn any hotter.
“Just the way you—” He dragged his fingertips from my shoulder to my wrist, making me shiver. “I didn’t realize we were doing that now.”
What? Touching? We touched all the time. Or maybe I’d ventured into one of those places I didn’t know about, just wanted to. Well, this time had been different: he’d been sleeping, which might have been a little creepy of me, but I doubted that was it. My hands on his stomach, though…
My own stomach muscles tightened when I remembered the way he’d caressed me during the masquerade. Tickling. Tingling. Deeper. “Oh.” The word came as a breath. “I think we should. Be doing that now, I mean.” Maybe right now.
His smile grew slowly, as if he knew my thoughts. I sort of hoped he did. “Did you sleep well?” he asked instead.
“Yes.” I scooted to the edge and let my legs dangle off. My toes brushed the floor as I gazed around at the bookshelves and old instruments crowding his bedroom. As long as I kept my back to the exterior wall, it was a safe room, all dimness and comforting things. Music. Sam. “Your bed is softer than mine.”
Sam chuckled and sat beside me. “They’re exactly the same.”
“They are not. Yours is better.” I didn’t really want to argue, but little bickering neither of us would take seriously—I knew how to deal with that. It was easier than asking him to show me what else we were doing now. I could barely think those words, let alone say them.
“Very well. It is better.” His mouth grazed my cheek. “When you’re with me.”
Eventually, my skin would stain red. Permanently. “Do you think it’s still snowing?”
“Sounds like it. Can’t you hear?”
I held still, listening as hard as my ears could manage. “It sounds like settling. Breaths drifting and sighing. The quiet groan of trees and roofs as they bear more weight.”
“Yes.” Covers hissed as he scooted closer and wrapped his arm around my waist. “I love that you hear it, too. That it sounds the same to both of us.”
I did, too. “I want to learn everything, Sam. All about music, every instrument. I want to compose things I hear in my head at night—things that aren’t yours or anyone else’s—and I want to find a way to mimic the sound of snowfall.”
His fingers twisted in my sweater, drawing my gaze to meet his wide, dark eyes.
“Maybe you want to do it alone,” I whispered, “and I understand if you do. But if you’ll accept, I want to help you rebuild everything that was in the parlor.”
He kissed me, warm and hard enough to make me dizzy, but his arm around my waist stayed; he didn’t let me spin away. “I love you.” It was his voice, but his lips rested against mine so my mouth made the shape of the words.
“I wish I could tell you that, too.” My heart thudded too quickly. “Whenever you say it, I feel so good and happy. But guilty for keeping the goodness to myself.”
“That’s not how it works.” He kissed me again, as if the act would force me to accept his way of thinking. “Besides, I can wait.”
Another benefit of being ancient: immeasurable patience.
My feelings were deep and overwhelming and confusing, but at the same time the emotion filled me with a sense of belonging. This boy. This soul. We were tied together with something stronger than anything physical. With him, I was not a soul asunder.