Wild Reckless

“I have…been playing, that is,” I say.

“And college?” he asks, his fingers still trailing along my arm, their pace slowing, but his path moving higher, closer to my shoulder and breasts.

“I don’t know. My dad’s probably moving back in, so I definitely want to leave. But I just don’t love the idea of studying music anymore. Besides, my showcase is Saturday. I’m not even ready, so I think I’ll just bail,” I say, my mind just now wrapping around the fact that Saturday is the day that’s been circled on my calendar for nearly a year. Saturday. I’d nearly forgotten.

“You should still go,” he says, his hand slowing down, his fingers flirting with the idea of moving more, of touching me intimately.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, not thinking about the piano now at all. Instead, thinking about where Owen’s hand is going, what move it will make next, how alone we are, and how hot my skin feels.

I roll into him more, tilting my chin up slowly, hoping to find him waiting for me. His smile is tight and his eyes are trained on mine, the feel of his muscles beneath me, and around me, growing more rigid.

“Play something for me,” he says, and I pull my brow in. “I mean, we don’t have to go over to your house, just tap your fingers on me. I love watching your hands when you play.”

I think about it for a few seconds, closing one eye and looking at him, judging whether on not he’s serious. When I realize he is, his smile on me expectantly, I sit up, pushing off his stomach, and inducing a grunt as I knock the wind from him a little. “Sorry,” I wince.

I straddle his upper legs, well aware of how close I am to the rest of him, then lean forward and place my palms on his chest. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt that’s thinning and has a hole in the center of the chest. The thin, smoothness of the fabric grips at him perfectly, and I force myself to pretend he’s my keyboard when all I want to do is roam my hands along his curves in slow, smooth motions.

Closing my eyes, I rap my fingers a few times over his skin, feeling his stomach muscles tighten.

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “Tickles.”

Opening my eyes again, I smile, then stretch my fingers out, just as I would when presenting to the piano. “Okay, so if I were to go to my audition, I’d probably play this, along with one or two other songs. I’m a little rusty, but since you can’t really hear the notes…” I stop mid phrase, lowering my gaze to my hands from his eyes, trying to concentrate on nothing but my tapping, the flexing of my fingers. I play Rachmaninoff, the same piece I played for Willow, and I let my fingers dance over Owen’s chest, only glancing up once or twice to catch his grin as his eyes follow every movement I make. I swore I’d never play this song again, but this doesn’t count—there’s no sound.

When I finish, I press my palms flat, then smooth out the tiny dimples left behind in the cotton of his shirt. I feel a little foolish having just played air piano on Owen.

“That was fucking phenomenal,” he says, and I laugh instantly.

“Shut up, you couldn’t even hear anything,” I say, and he reaches to grab my wrists, shaking them against him once or twice.

“Didn’t have to. I felt it. How do your hands move that fast? That shit’s crazy,” he says, rolling his grip down to rub my fingers then back up my arms again, locking me to him.

“Thanks,” I say, biting at the corner of my lip.

My breath exhales in a stutter, my palms growing hotter against Owen’s chest the longer he holds me to him—the longer I look into his eyes. After a minute, he slides his hand from my arms to my thighs, running up my leggings until his hands cup my ass and he drags me forward.

I lean toward him as I move, coming to rest above him, feeling how hard he is through his flannel pajama bottoms, the heat searing from him and directly into me. His eyes never leave mine, and his hands move in fractions of an inch at a time, slow and calculated, until he pulls me down against him harder, making sure I feel everything he is feeling right now.

There is no mistake about what he wants. And his eyes, his smirk, his face…there is just the right amount of darkness in him. And I want it too.

“Remember when I asked you if you had a problem with sex, Kensi?” he asks, his voice gravely, deeper than normal. His tongue is resting at the edge of his teeth, like a serpent waiting to tempt me into sin, his lip curled just enough.

“Yes,” I whisper back, my voice giving out, my breath stopping at the sensation of feeling him throb beneath me, my own body reacting, growing warmer…wetter. The first time we had this talk, it was confrontational. This time is different. This time, it’s foreplay.