The wind picks up when I walk out the main doors, freezing the tears on my face and cutting through my sweater. The cold wind and the leaden sky only make me feel worse. As if I didn’t feel bad enough, the weather is conspiring against me too. I wrap my arms around myself, hoping Jonathan gets here soon.
Everyone acts like it isn’t that cold yet, but I’m freezing. It’s only the last week of September, and the lows are already as cold as it ever gets in Denton in the winter. How am I going to survive November? Or January?
“Gabby.”
Jonathan’s voice fills me with warmth and pulls me out of my depressed thoughts on my performance and the weather.
I’ve been trying to make sure I get enough time for homework and practicing since Jonathan and I started dating a couple of weeks ago. And while I’ve managed to get all my homework done, I haven’t been practicing as much as I know I should. It’s easy to rationalize cutting short my practice sessions, knowing that he’s waiting for me to finish so we can go have dinner or take a walk around campus or watch a movie at his place.
I want to spend every free moment with him, but now I’m paying the price in terrible performances.
Without a word, I turn to him and bury my face in his chest. I need comfort right now more than anything.
His arms wrap around me. “Gabby, what’s wrong? Are you crying?” He pulls me back enough so he can look at my face. “What happened?”
I want to bury my face in his chest again but resist the urge. The concern in his voice is too real. I’m not going to torture him by making him guess why I’m crying.
Sniffing, I wipe away the worst of my tears and look away at the clouds gathering over the city visible from the hill that Marycliff sits on. “I played today in Strings Seminar. It didn’t go well.”
A quick glance his way shows his eyebrows coming down and his forehead wrinkling. “You didn’t perform well. That’s why you’re crying?”
I nod, wiping at my cheeks with my sleeve again. I’m not bawling or anything, but a steady stream of tears is leaking out, and I can’t seem to stop them now that they’ve been unleashed.
“What happened?” The question is soft, understanding, inviting confidence.
I glance at him again, then look down. “It was just an off day. I flubbed a few parts, missed notes, and then I got off from my accompanist. I never really managed to salvage it. I mean, we got back on eventually. But the rest of my playing was stilted and awful. Full of intonation problems. It was embarrassing and horrible.”
“Did anyone say anything about it?”
“My roommate said the first part was great, and one of the cellists told me that everyone has off days.”
“What about your teacher?”
“She told me I did fine and not to be too hard on myself.”
He pauses for long enough that I meet his eyes again. “That doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe you should take her advice.”
My mouth twists, and I shake my head. “I knew you wouldn’t really get it. What all that means is that I did exactly as bad as I think. I bombed today. I’m allowed to be upset about it.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”
The disbelief in his voice, and the condescension that it indicates, has my rage flooding through me, drying up my tears at last. Now I’m just pissed. “How would you know? You weren’t there. You didn’t hear me play. And don’t try to tell me you know what it’s like to mess up on stage. Even when you used to perform, if you played a wrong note, no one cared. Because you can just use autotune and smile pretty, and no one gives a flying fuck if you sound like shit.”
His arms drop from around me, and I can see his face shutter. His mask falling in place. I should stop. I know I should stop. But the words keep right on coming.
“And now? Now you just sit around and write songs on your guitar that you won't play for anyone. Ever. You tell me all about the high of the stage, but you don’t do anything about it.” I poke myself in the chest, hard. “I’m trying to. So leave me alone about it. And you know the real reason I sucked so bad? Because I've been spending too much time with you. Hanging out with you. Helping you with your songs. Instead of practicing.”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets, his jaw flexing, the wind tousling his hair. “Are you done?”
Blinking hard, I nod once and wrap my arms around myself.
His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. And another. I wince on the inside, preparing myself for him to end things between us. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. But I know it’s too little, too late.
“First of all, let’s set one thing straight. We never used autotune. My mother made us rehearse until we were perfect. Every. Time. I know exactly what it takes to perfect a song, get in sync with the other people playing, and make it look effortless. Maybe more than you do.”
I suck in a breath, but he doesn’t let me speak. He keeps going, eyes glittering and fierce.
“And if you haven’t been practicing? That’s on you, Gabby. Don’t blame me for your choices. I’ve told you more than once that I can wait for you to finish what you need to do. Yes, I want to spend all the time with you that I can. But I know you have homework and that you need to practice. I know what you do is important. I’m not trying to take that away from you.”
Covering my face with my hands, more tears leak out, and this time I don’t try to stop them. I can’t believe I said all that. “I’m so sorry. I—“
His fingers circle my wrists and pull my hands away, but I keep my eyes closed.
“Gabby. Look at me.”
I consider refusing, but give in when he says, “Please,” his voice a low rumble. He’s standing so close now that I can feel the heat coming off him, such a contrast to the wind at my back making me shiver.
When I bring my eyes to his face, the hard look is gone, though he’s still solemn.
“I never took you for a snob, though.”
Shaking my head, all I can say is, “I’m sorry.”
He sighs, wrapping his arms around me again, tucking my head under his chin. When I shiver again, he moves around beside me, his arm still around me guiding me to his car. “Come on. Let’s go. You’re cold, and you’ve had a rough day. Let’s go grab some dinner and watch a movie or something. Relax.”
Chapter Eleven
Jonathan
Gripping the steering wheel tight on the drive back to my place, anger and frustration still thrum through my veins. I take another deep breath, trying to calm down.
Logically, I know she lashed out at me because she was angry. She played badly, she was upset, and I made the mistake of downplaying her feelings. Lesson learned on that front.
Though part of me still insists it couldn’t have been as awful as she thinks. I know she has a tendency to sell herself short when it comes to her playing, her talent. Whenever I compliment her, she brushes it off and plays it down. Which irritates me, but I haven’t figured out how to talk to her about that yet.
But damn. The way she dismissed my entire musical output stings.
The fact that she’s right about me writing songs without intending to play them for anyone only adds to my irritation.
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s huddled in on herself, her arms wrapped around her, her posture hunched, her face steadfastly facing her window.
“Hey.” I keep my voice soft, wanting to diffuse this situation. What we have is still so new, and this was our first fight. I don’t like fighting. And I especially don’t like it with her.
She matters to me. Her opinion matters to me. And that’s why what she said hurts so much.
But she doesn’t look at me. She shifts in her seat, and I think she’s trying to wipe her face without me noticing.
“Gabby, come on.” At the next red light, I reach over and slide a hand down her leg. “Look at me, please.”
She turns to face forward, no longer angling her whole body away from me, giving me her profile and a quick glance. W
ith her sleeve tugged over her hand, she wipes at her cheeks again and sniffs. “I’m sorry.” Her voice is rough with tears. “I didn’t mean what I said. I was mad. And you acted like I didn’t have a right to be upset. And that’s not a good reason, and I talk too much, and I know that, and sometimes that means I talk without thinking first.” She clamps her mouth shut and shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says again.
I squeeze her leg, but take my hand away to make the left turn into my neighborhood. “It’s okay.”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s not. I know you work hard on your music. I shouldn’t have put it down like that. It wasn’t fair.”
Taking another deep breath, I nod. “Thank you.” Her apology this time helping more since it’s obviously not just a reflexive reaction to seeing me angry. She really is sorry.
We’re silent the last two blocks to my house, and I park on the street, taking the key out of the ignition before looking at Gabby. “You weren’t entirely wrong, though. I am writing songs with no intention of playing them for anyone.” She turns and meets my gaze, her big brown eyes still red rimmed and watery. I spread my hands. “I can’t help it, though. The songs come to me and they need to be written. I like performing. It’s amazing. But I can live without it.” I shake my head. “I couldn’t stop writing even if I wanted to.”
She nods. “I get that.” Her eyes examine my face again. “And I really am sorry, I—“
I cut her off with a shake of my head. “No more apologies. I get it. I know you’re sorry. I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have acted like a bad performance isn’t something to get upset about.” Reaching for her hand, I thread our fingers together. “I do know what it’s like to play like shit in front of people whose opinion matters to you. It sucks. And I’m sorry that happened to you today.”
Her eyelids fall, and she looks down at our hands, taking a watery-sounding breath. When she meets my eyes again, a new sheen of tears covers hers. “Thank you,” she whispers. And even though she’s almost crying again, something shifts between us. Like validating her feelings is all she needed all along.
I’m such a dumbass sometimes.
Of course that’s what she was looking for from me. Her friends and her teacher had already tried to make her feel better, cheer her up. Clearly it hadn’t worked. She just wanted me to hold her while she got all her sadness out.
“Come on. Let’s go inside.”
Once inside, she stands in the middle of the living room, her arms wrapped around her again. I leave her there while I put my things away, setting my keys on my dresser and my bag on the floor by my desk. When I come back in the living room, she turns to face me. Stepping in close to her, I let my hands run down to her hips, tugging her body against mine.
Even though my hands are on her hips, her arms have stayed wrapped around herself. Since she’s not moving away from my touch, I take her arms and guide them up to my shoulders. On her own, she wraps her hands behind my neck, her eyes coming up to meet mine again.
I give her a small smile. “There. That’s better, right?” She gives a little nod, and I bend my head to brush my lips against hers. I mean for it to be just a quick little kiss, but she presses into me, and I can’t pull away. Her lips are soft and warm and have the faintest tingle of peppermint that wasn’t there before. She must’ve swiped on some lip balm while I wasn’t looking. I don’t move to deepen the kiss, enjoying this small contact, hoping it’ll help her feel better. It’s already helping me feel better, more connected to her again.
When I break the kiss to guide her to the couch, she doesn’t resist, following me easily, a small smile on her face. Good.
On the couch, I wrap an arm around her and reach for the remote. “Want to find something on TV?”
But instead of agreeing, she inches closer, her hand going to my cheek, pulling my face down to hers. She initiated our first kiss, and God, the fact that she’s so willing to go for what she wants turns me on. I know she’s inexperienced, but she’s not shy.
Her tongue caresses my lower lip, and I open, sliding mine out to meet hers. Our mouths move together in a sensual dance that has me clutching her to me, my hand sliding under the hem of her shirt, needing to feel her skin. This wasn’t what I was expecting when I brought her over, but I’m sure as hell not complaining.
She presses closer to me in response. I help her across my lap, and her arms go around my shoulders, holding on. My hand is now flat against the bare skin of her back, her skin so soft I have to feel more of it. But she has too many clothes on, an open front sweater on top of a long sleeve T. Why didn’t she take off the sweater when we got inside?
Pulling my hand from under her shirt, I edge the sides of her sweater off her shoulders. She breaks the kiss this time, our eyes even with her on my lap. But she drops her arms, tugging the sweater the rest of the way off and dropping it on the couch next to me before leaning in to resume our kiss. With both hands splayed on her back under her shirt, I slide my fingers under the band of her bra. I don’t like that there’s still fabric in my way. Over my hands, against her skin, so much fabric everywhere. Edging the hem up her sides, I whisper against her lips, “Can this come off?”
Her head jerks back, and her eyes are now wide and surprised instead of hazy and dark. “Um, don’t you have a roommate?”
“Ben’s at his girlfriend’s. Shouldn’t be back for a while.”
Despite my reassurance, she seems to shrink back from me, even though she’s still on top of me. Her eyes dart around the room.
I let my hands slide back to her hips, her shirt falling down too. Giving her a little squeeze, I get her to look at me again. “We can go into my room if that makes you more comfortable.”
Her tongue sliding over her lips has me thinking about other places I’d like her tongue and her lips, and even though my cock is twitching in my pants, I hold still, waiting for an answer. But she nods, sending a flood of relief through me. “Yeah. Let’s go to your room.”
Even as she stands, I don’t want to take my hands off her. With a hand on her waist, I guide her in front of me toward my room. She moves away from me as I close the door, watching me, but making no move toward the bed. Knowing I want to feel her skin to skin, I pull off my T-shirt, dropping it on the floor before sitting on the bed and scooting back so I’m leaning against the pillows bunched against the wall.
I hold out a hand to her. “Come here, Gabby.”
She bends forward, placing her hands and knees on the edge of the bed, the wide neck of her shirt dropping open, giving me a view of her perfect little breasts nestled in a black bra. Sadly, she straightens, walking toward me on her knees. Once she’s close enough, I guide her so she’s straddling me, her body pressed against mine.
So many times I’ve imagined this since we met, even more since we started dating a couple of weeks ago. Her over me. Her under me. Her hair spread on my pillow, and her face as she comes. But I’ve been patient. Not wanting to push her for more than she’s ready to give.
My fingers find the hem of her shirt and slide it up again. This time she sits up and lifts her arms, helping me take her shirt off. Whether it’s the fact that we’re in my bedroom with the door closed, that I went first, or both, she’s no longer hesitant about getting undressed. And she doesn’t object when I pull her close and kiss her, my hands sliding to the hooks on her bra and undoing them. She pulls her arms out of the straps and tosses it away before pressing her chest to mine. Her tight little nipples rub against my chest. The soft give of her breasts, the silk of her skin—it’s heaven.
She’s slim and small all over, her olive skin making me think she has some Mediterranean heritage, Italian maybe, given her dark hair. With her straddling me like this, I can’t help myself. My hands drift to her hips, and I hold her steady while I grind against her center. I can feel her heat through our jeans, and I want more of her so fucking bad.
After that one move, my attempt at relief only making the problem worse, I force myself to
stay still. Instead, I wrap my arms around her, holding her close while I delve my tongue into her mouth.
When her hips move against me, just the slightest amount, I think it must be an instinctive reaction to the way I’m kissing her. But then she does it again, harder, and I know it’s deliberate. Jesus fucking Christ, she wants this as much as I do.
I push up against her again, gentling the kiss at the same time. “I want you, Gabby.”
Her dark eyes are heavy with lust as she takes me in, and she answers in a whisper. “I want you too.”
With my hand in her hair, I take her mouth again. But I don’t keep her on top of me for long. Wrapping my arms around her and rolling to the side, I ease her down next to me, laying her back on the pillow while still kissing her, and giving myself more access to her body. I stroke one hand down over her soft skin, letting my fingers trail across her breasts and down to her waist. When my lips close around her nipple, she lets out a gasp and arches up, pressing herself further into my mouth.
I spend time on her breasts, paying them equal attention, not moving on until she’s panting and squirming. Then my fingers find the button of her jeans, and I lift my head, my eyebrow raised in silent question. At her nod, I tug on the denim, the button pops free, and I lower the zipper. My hand slides easily under the denim, but I stay over her panties. For now. Keeping the pressure of my fingers even, I massage her mound, tickling the insides of her thighs a little.
She spreads her legs further, encouraging me without words, and she tugs my face back to hers. I nip at her lips as my index finger slips under the elastic, pushing her panties to the side, finding her slick and ready. All for me.
The need to possess her takes over, and I break away from our kiss, moving down so I can get the rest of her clothes off. I need her. Now. I don’t want to wait any longer.
“Lift up for me.”
Her eyes never leave my face as she does as I ask, her hips raising so I can tug her pants and panties off. These stupid skinny jeans, which look fantastic on, are a pain in the ass to get off. I end up turning them inside out as I peel them down her legs. But I don’t fucking care. I’m just ready to find the promised land.
Double Exposition (Songs and Sonatas Book 1) Page 7
