“Lift up,” I say, and she does. I unhook her bra and slide it down her arms.
“You too.” She grins and pulls at my purple shirt. “It’s only fair.” I tear it off, my bra following quickly. Our skin presses together. Curves and planes, light and dark, an amazing sort of sameness mingling with all the differences.
She releases a long breath, or maybe I do, because being together like this is such a relief. I glide my fingertips up her thigh. She huffs out a gaspy laugh, so I do it again and soon we’re both breathing heavily but sort of laughing at the same time, and the whole thing is just so right, it feels almost wrong.
The thought intensifies my touch, which encourages hers, and soon there’s no more talking. She rolls over so she’s hovering above me, her fingertips light, her mouth warm, a glint of wonder in her eyes. I’m totally aflame. That’s the only word for it. Red and crackling and hot. As she touches her mouth to mine again, her hand drifts south and flicks the button of my denim shorts free.
“Okay?” she asks, pausing.
I can only nod, and the zipper zurps downward.
“I want to take care of you, Grace,” she whispers, her voice trembling a little.
“You are. We don’t have to do anything else for that to be true.”
She inhales a shaky breath. “I know.”
“You’re nervous. We can stop—?”
“I don’t want to stop. I . . . I know I’m not experienced with this stuff, but I want to be with you. I want to take care of you this way too.” She holds my gaze, her teeth pressing over her lower lip. “Can I try?”
All I can do is nod, my throat tight with tears—?the best tears that have ever threatened to fall. I feel totally undone. Again. Something knotted and hard and perpetually pissed off and nervous unravels inside me.
She slides off my shorts. When she starts to lie down, I hook my finger under the hem of her own shorts, tugging a little. Her brows lift and I tug a little harder until she laughs and wiggles them down her legs. They get caught on one ankle and she shakes her foot, sending them flying across the tiny room.
“Oh my god,” she says, lining up her body next to mine and pressing her mouth against my shoulder. “Are we really doing this?”
“I think so,” I say, huffing a laugh. Eva actually giggles, which just makes me laugh harder.
But soon the laughter fades, our shaky breaths the only sound remaining. Her fingers glide over my skin and down my stomach and between my legs, over my underwear. I inhale sharply, my entire body igniting in a way it never has before. I’ve experienced this plenty of times with Jay and a couple other guys, plenty of times alone, but nothing can compare with this, with her.
I bury my hands in her curls, holding on as her fingers slip inside my underwear and touch me. Her mouth is on my neck, then my lips, but not for long because I can’t breathe, can’t share breath. She presses her face to my hair, lips against my ear. My stomach tightens in all the best ways, and soon I’m touching her, too. Our hips seem to reach for each other, hungry for contact, for movement and feeling. It’s not long before I can’t tell the earth from the sky, can’t even remember my own damn name.
There’s only her. Only this.
Soon my world goes white, every nerve in my body firing down to the very tips of my fingers. Her touch slows and stills, but mine remains with her until she tenses and shudders against me too, my name a ragged whisper on her lips. We stay pressed together, both of us trying to get air into our lungs again.
“Wow” is all I can get out.
She laughs. “Yeah?”
“Um, yes.”
She presses her face to my neck. “I was worried I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“You knew enough.”
“You did too.”
“Oh, I know.”
She bites down on my shoulder a little.
“Hey, now!” I say, arcing away from her, but pulling her with me because our legs are tangled together.
“That was a big wow for me, too,” she says quietly when we’ve settled again.
“First time in a girl’s pants?” I ask teasingly. “And first time with a girl in your pants. Lots of girls in pants going on here.”
She laughs and props herself on her elbow. “I really can’t believe that just happened.”
My stomach does a little anxious flip. “Like, good can’t believe it?”
“Yes,” she says, sliding her mouth over mine. “So good.”
Later we curl up side by side on the bed, still naked and happy, and eat peanut butter right out of the jar.
“Happy birthday,” I whisper into her ear.
And I know I mean it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
TWO DAYS LATER, LUCA FINDS ME AT THE BOOK NOOK. I’ve been sitting here for a good half-hour, staring at the keys, the music, my hands. Not playing. Every now and then, Patrick clears his throat dramatically. Eva’s nestled in one of the upholstered chairs by the front window watching YouTube videos of this famous ballet dancer Misty Copeland. She gets up every five damn minutes and wanders around the store, tossing me a smile like she’s casually browsing instead of making sure I’m still alive.
This goes on and on until Luca’s shaggy head appears in the storage room doorway. I watch him as he hovers, my eyes never leaving his.
“Hey,” he says, sitting down next to me on the piano bench.
“Hey.”
“Not playing much today?” He gestures toward my still-closed music books.
“I can play without them.”
“Yeah, but you’re not. And you never play without them for important pieces. Aren’t these important pieces?” He flicks the edge of my Schumann book.
“Did you come to harass me about the audition or talk?”
“Don’t you know me at all? Both.”
He grins and nudges my shoulder and I nudge back, and that’s when I know we’ll be okay. We’ll always be okay.
“I’m sorry, Gray.”
“About which part?”
“All of it. It’s been hard, adjusting to Eva in the house. Not because we don’t want her there. It’s just . . . Mom’s always trying to help her, you know? And, I’m sorry, but Maggie—?”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You said that already.”
“Because I mean it. I wish things were different. For you, for Eva.”
“I would never let Eva get hurt, Luca.”
“I know you wouldn’t mean to. But you don’t see clearly when it comes to Maggie. You know you don’t. And she’s your mom, so I don’t blame you for that. But look at what’s going on, Gray. You’re living in a crappy motel room. Again.”
I look away, embarrassment filling me up like wet concrete poured into a pothole. My throat starts to ache, threatening tears. “You know what’s weird?”
“The way Patrick keeps peeking through the door? He’s freaking me out.”
I laugh and wipe at my eyes. “He feels very invested in my playing. If I’m quiet for too long, he clears his throat or just point-blank lectures me about how practice makes perfect.”
“Or he heard you’re living at the Lucky Lobster and he’s rubbernecking.”