Live Out Loud Page 8

  I trace my index finger over the discolorations, silently telling him that it’s okay. My grandfather had hands like Thor’s, always grease stained. I loved it when I got to tinker on cars with Papa. He didn’t know how to sign, but our relationship never felt strained because of it, not like with Mom and Dad. With Papa, he’d put me to work on a car, both of us getting our hands dirty. We didn’t need words, we communicated through the cars we restored. I miss him. It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten my hands dirty.

  I hope Thor understands; I like the way our hands look together.

  “Beauty and the Beast,” he says, moving his fingers over mine again.

  We touch, our fingers brushing and twining together, slowly at first, then more urgent, memorizing the feel of the other’s skin.

  The warmth inside my body ignites into a slow growing flame. My mind runs wild with thoughts of more skin-to-skin contact. He has no idea the affect he has over my libido. Dear lord!

  With his hands still on mine, I sign, “Play something?” I point to the guitar sitting beside him, so he’ll understand me better. Maybe that will take my mind off getting him naked.

  Cool your jets, Harper. You just met him.

  Sometimes, I really hate my voice of reason.

  Glancing at the guitar, he lets go of my hand, gently lifts Bobby off his lap and sets him on the floor, before grabbing the guitar off the mattress. Settling it in his lap, he positions his hands with such care, prayerfully.

  I rest my head on his shoulder and my hand on the body of the guitar, closing my eyes. I concentrate on the movement of Thor’s hand on the strings. Vibrations travel through my fingertips…into my palms…up my arms, and fill my chest cavity with the most glorious music. This is so different from standing near the speaker at a concert, or guessing song titles on the radio.

  The constant thrum of the guitar echoes in my chest, coupled with the rhythmic sway of Thor’s body beside mine. The bed rocks beneath us, hypnotic, sensual, and intoxicatingly intimate.

  His song is slow and lush, alive with heavy chords that cling to a faraway sadness. I wonder what the catalyst was for this song, why Thor felt compelled to write it. Whatever the reason, I’m touched that he’s chosen to share this part of himself with me.

  My analytical, science-minded brain makes the connection that his song is now a part of me; he’s given me a small piece of himself. When he composed the song, he drew inspiration from some private, deep place inside him. As he works his hands over the strings, he gives life to the music. Sound waves penetrate the air, traveling out in all directions, and pass through every object in the room, including me. Inside my body, the waves produced from his thoughts, his motions, his brilliance, become mine.

  Thor’s hand stills on the strings and the remaining sound waves flood my system. I refuse to open my eyes until every part of his sad story is safe within me.

  Our breaths move in sync, a subtle in…out…in…out…mirroring the rhythm of Thor’s song. My heart adds a percussive beat in my chest, I’m sure Thor can feel.

  Holy hell. Who knew feeling a guy play guitar could be so damn erotic? He hasn’t even touched me and I’m a raging ball of hormones.

  I don’t move. I’m not ready to give up the heady, lustful magic swirling around us. What I wouldn’t give to peel the guitar away from his chest and replace it with my body.

  Check yourself, Harper. Not so fast. My celibate conscience signs in my head.

  Not so fast? Why the hell not? My inner vixen snaps in response.

  I want to side with my vixen, in her defense, it’s been a damn long time. But, my rational side knows it’s best to take things slow with Thor. The language barrier aside, our lives are complicated right now. The last thing I need is to be hopping into bed with a guy I just met. I do not have the time or energy to nurse a broken heart and jeopardize everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve.

  Thor shrugs and my head rises with the motion. I take my hand off the guitar and sit up, giving him an embarrassed, uneasy smile. God, if he knew what I’d been thinking. I shudder at the thought.

  “Want to give Lizzy a try?” He pulls the guitar away from his chest and slides it across his lap, holding the guitar out to me.

  I’m pretty sure he said a name…Lizzy, maybe? Did I read his lips right? When he first got here, I showed him the letters of the alphabet. I form the letters with my fingers, slowly, hoping he remembers. “L-I-Z-Z-Y.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Thor rubs his hand affectionately along the guitar’s neck. “When I was a kid, I was obsessed with Saved by the Bell. Everyone loved Kelly, but I couldn’t get enough of Jessie. Then, when I was thirteen, I saw Elizabeth Berkley in Showgirls. That was it. I was a goner. Named my guitar after Ms. Berkley. Trusty Lizzy, here. She’s been with me through a lot.”

  “S-A-V-E-D B-Y T-H-E B-E-L-L” Thor watches my hands. Concentration lines his face as he puts a letter to each shape.

  Raising his hand, he fumbles over the letters, but manages to fingerspell, “Y-O-U B-E-T.” He nods, his right eyebrow drawing up. “Best show ever,” I read on his lips.

  This man is full of surprises. I would have never pegged a rough-around-the-edges, brooding rock star for a Saved by the Bell fan. And the fact that he’s putting forth a genuine effort to communicate with me, in my language, it’s too good to be true. What’s wrong with him? He’s too perfect.

  And that’s a problem, why? my inner vixen chimes in. Let’s find out just how perfect he is!

  Good, Lord. I’m in trouble.

  After the Saved by the Bell revelation, I want to know more about him. Favorite ice cream…vacation spot…dogs or cats…yoga pose…everything. “What else do you like?” I sign, mouthing the words, hoping he understands.

  “What do you want to know?”

  Over my shoulder, I glance at my nightstand, grabbing the notebook and pen lying there. Slipping the cap between my teeth, I bite it off, letting it drop to the page as I write. Favorite hockey team?

  Thor takes the pen and starts to write. St. Louis Blues, if I had to pick. Not much of a hockey fan. Love baseball, though. Go Cards!

  No hockey?  Taking my eyes from the paper, I look at him, sticking out my bottom lip. I love hockey! Go Bruins! Any pets? What’s your roommate like? Favorite family vacation? The questions flow from my brain and onto the page like the ink from the pen. Flipping the notebook around, he reads, yanking the pen from my hand.

  As long as you’re not a Red Sox fan, we’re chill! Never had any pets, parents said they couldn’t afford it. Now, my landlord doesn’t allow pets. But, I’ve always wanted a pig. One day, I’m getting me a pig and I will name him Yum. My roommate is Griffin Daniels. He’s cool, like a brother.

  Pen still poised at the paper, Thor stops writing. His little finger plucks at the spiraled wire like it’s a guitar string as he formulates his thoughts.

  Keeping time with my heartbeats, he pauses for two handfuls.

  Not the vacation kind of family. You go on a lot of vacations?

  He hands over the notebook. His vague answer and change of subject aren’t lost on me. I recall his words from last night: Mom’s great…Dad’s an ass. I have a feeling the clocks on his arms have something to do with his dad as well. So mysterious, Thorin Kline. Relax, open up a bit. Let me in.

  Like a kid that knows where all the Christmas presents are hidden, but still hasn’t peeked, curiosity gnaws away at me. I’m tempted to press the issue, wanting so badly to know more about his childhood, the years that shaped him into the man he is today. But, the look on his face has me biting my tongue and swallowing that curiosity. He went from easygoing and laid-back, to brooding and distant faster than a 1966 Ford GT40 goes from zero to sixty.

  Taking the pen, I respond. A pig named Yum? That’s ridiculous and weird! My parents and I used to go to Hilton Head every year. They have a condo there.

  “Yes. A pig is ridiculous and weird. That’s what makes it awesome.” He nods, winking. “Want to give Lizzy
a try?” He holds the guitar out to me, effectively squashing any more family talk. Got it, Thor. Family, a touchy subject. Believe me, I completely understand.

  I give a little nod, reading his lips.

  Leaning forward, Thor shifts his body so we’re facing each other, and passes the guitar over, flipping it so the neck is in my left hand. It didn’t occur to me until this second that he was playing upside down to accommodate his left-handedness. I lock my eyes on his and mouth my words, “Why do you play upside down?”

  “I saved every damn nickel I had for Lizzy. When I bought her, I didn’t know that it was a right-handed guitar. Didn’t know guitars were made differently for righties and lefties. But, I checked out guitar theory books from the library and taught myself everything there was to know about being a guitarist. When I found out Jimi Hendrix played his Stratocaster upside down and restrung backward, I knew I could make Lizzy work for me. And there was never really any question that I would take Lizzy back to the store. That wasn’t happening. I’d already grown fond of her.”

  Wow. How talented is this guy? Yet another thing about him that blows me away. “Isn’t it hard to play upside down?”

  Thor shakes his head. “Nah. Learning to play the guitar, and later on the piano, came easily to me. Had school been that easy, I might have gotten better grades.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. What you did is pretty brilliant.” Thor smiles, warmth radiating from his blue eyes, like the compliment was the sun peeking out from behind the winter clouds after months of cold, gray skies—that first hint of spring.

  Focusing his attention on my strumming hand, Thor’s long fingers graze over my skin, positioning my fingers on the strings over the sound hole. His hand is massive on top of mine. And hot. Heat flares through me, and I’m trying my level best to keep my mind on the guitar and not what it would be like to have his strong hands paying attention to my more sensitive parts.

  Thor scoops my left hand into his palm, carrying it to the top of the guitar’s neck. I wrap my fingers around wood and metal strings, and steal a glance at Thor’s face. Busy placing my fingers over the correct strings, his features contort in a mask of heavy concentration. Lips parted, the tip of his tongue is pinched between his teeth. Completely absorbed in teaching me how to play guitar, he has no idea how adorable he looks right now.

  A smile creeps to my face, and his eyes flick to mine just in time to catch me staring. Licking his lips, he smiles back at me, adding a panty-dropping wink. Adorable? I meant smoking fucking hot. Gah! He’s got me so off my game.

  “Ready?” he says.

  I nod, pulling in a deep breath. I am so in over my head.

  Thor holds up his arms, mirroring the position of mine. I can’t help but notice the way his inked biceps tighten, stretching the fabric of his black Beatles T-shirt. I am the worst student ever. But, in my defense, I’ve never had a teacher like Thorin Kline.

  Shaking his right hand, which corresponds to my left, he lifts his fingers, then pinches them to his palm, gritting his teeth, the cue for me to squeeze my fingers, I assume.

  Pressing down hard on the strings, I cringe, and yank my hand away. I look down at the indentions the strings made on the pads of my fingers. The neck of the guitar falls to the crook of my elbow, as I sign around it, “Damn, that hurts!” For as little as they are, those strings pack a vicious bite.

  Thor’s eyes are wide with concern, and I catch one word of his sentence, “…okay?”

  I shake my fist, “Yes,” knowing he understands this one, but continue my thought out of habit. “Wasn’t expecting the strings to pinch like that.”

  Thor pulls his eyebrows together and shakes his head, using one of the signs I taught him last night. “What?”

  The throbbing in my fingertips is gone, replaced by a pleasurable thump in my chest. There’s no doubt Thor is hot. He could be doing a Sudoku puzzle on a Sunday afternoon and still ooze sex. But every time he communicates with me in my language, that tips the scales from hot to scorching. I will never get tired of that as long as I live.

  Cradling Lizzy, I pick up the pen. You didn’t tell me that Lizzy bites! You must have fingers made of steel.

  Thor flips the notebook around and shakes his head, shoulders bouncing with laughter. Rubbing a hand along his stubbled jaw, still smirking, he holds his hand out for the pen. The more you play, the more callused your fingers get. Can’t feel a damn thing with mine.

  He gives me a second to read before circling his fingers around my left wrist. With a gentle pull, he brings my hand closer to his body, and turns it over, palm up. Supporting my left hand in his, he traces a gentle path from my inner wrist, upward, the tips of his fingers tickling over my skin.

  My fingers twitch. Sensory receptors fire at will, and a blaze of sparks ignites my whole body. Closing my eyes, I give myself over to my sense of touch and Thor’s skillful hands.

  Goose bumps rise on my arms as his languid journey transitions from my palm to my fingers. The steady, delicate pressure of our skin-to-skin contact dissolves into a concentrated point of warmth on each of my fingertips.

  Gasping, I feel the scratch of Thor’s unshaven face pressing against my palm. He pauses for a beat, his lips meeting my pulse point. My heart gives away all my secrets, a loud, thumping scream against his mouth.

  Exhaling, I relax against the headboard, giving myself over to him. My breaths come short and quick. I can’t hide the way he makes me feel. I don’t want to hide from him. His lips open and close on my skin, and the tip of his tongue dips into my palm, tasting its way upward, where he places a soft kiss on each of my string-bitten fingers.

  On my pinky, he kisses, increasing the pressure infinitesimally, pulling the tip into his mouth. His tongue licks across the pad of my little finger, sending a jolt of wanting right between my legs.

  At the rush of cool air on my skin, I open my eyes, and see Thor watching me, a sinful grin on his face. He brushes a few disheveled curls from the side on my face, his fingers grazing my cheek in the process. “You are…”

  Shit. I didn’t catch that. The end of his sentence is lost to the lipreading graveyard. “I’m what?” I sign.

  I watch his mouth, his beautiful, enchanting mouth, but it remains still. Instead, he reaches for the pen and paper. You are incredible.

  My heart beats double-time and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. I’ve been called many things over the years, never incredible. I shift my shoulders, uncomfortable with such a lovely compliment, allowing my hair to fall in my face.

  Thor shakes his head, his eyebrows pulling together so a small vertical crease forms right between his eyes. Bringing both of his hands up, he pushes back my hair, resting his palms against my cheeks. “Don’t hide,” I read on his lips.

  Leaning over, the guitar pressed between us, he kisses me. Nothing like last night, where we both wanted to devour each other. This kiss is soft, vulnerable. With each shared breath, the walls we’ve constructed to protect ourselves start to crumble. The tips of our tongues meet between our parted lips and take up a slow dance at the boundaries of our mouths. He tastes like mint and tobacco—the boy next door and bad boy all at the same time.

  His hands push back into the tangles of my hair, giving him more leverage. His lips vibrate against mine. A groan? Did he say something? He presses harder, sweeping his tongue into my mouth, his tongue caressing mine. I curse the stupid guitar on my lap, separating our bodies.

  I want more, and I’m not prepared when he pulls back.

  Leaning his forehead against mine, our shoulders heave in unison…up…down…up…down…

  I can feel his light blue eyes on me, but I’m afraid to look. Why did he pull away? What will I see on his face? Doesn’t he want this?

  Unable to resist their pull any longer, I lift my eyes to his. Lust, mingled with a heavy of dose of tension stares back at me. Laying his palms against my cheekbones, he presses another delicate kiss to my mouth, and lets go.

/>   Thor’s lips move as he turns his head away from me. I’m not meant to see the words on his lips, but I catch them anyway, “Why now?”

  Rejection and embarrassment fall like a brick in my gut. Maybe I misunderstood everything going on between us. And with this realization, I know I’m already invested. Dammit! That wasn’t supposed to happen. This—Thor and me—isn’t in my plan.

  I tap his shoulder, scared of what I’ll see in his eyes when he looks at me. Lifting his chin, he turns his head, locking an expressive gaze on mine. I just wish I knew what his expression meant.

  Sliding the guitar off my lap, I lay it beside us on the bed and pick up the notebook. Why now? What does that mean?

  His lips move over the words I wrote. I search his face for clues to what’s going on inside his head, but he gives nothing away. Pushing back, Thor leans against the headboard and pats the mattress beside him. I turn my body around, so we’re shoulder to shoulder. Yep, this is easier. Getting lost in the crystal depths of his eyes probably isn’t the best plan right now.

  Thor takes the notebook from my lap and I hand over the pen. He writes fast, choppy little letters, nothing like my big, loopy cursive. One sentence jotted at the top of the page, he turns the notebook around. He didn’t need to; I read the words as he wrote.

  I’ve never met a woman like you, Harper.

  My stomach twists in knots like it did last night. “What do you mean?” I shake my head, signing, forgetting again that he doesn’t understand me. Pulling the notebook from him, I take the pen too, and underline what I previously wrote, several times to make my point.

  I look up just in time to see him close his eyes and rest his head against the headboard. I’m at a loss. Trying to get a read on Thor’s body language is like trying to read a doctor’s signature on a script, impossible. So I take advantage of the situation, and let my eyes roam over him. With anything I don’t fully understand, I’ve learned that serious study is the best way to glean knowledge.

  My eyes trace the contours of his creased forehead. Worry lines? Tension? I wish I knew what he was thinking. Why the worry? Tonight is supposed to be easy and enjoyable, a chance to get to know each other better. At least it had been, up until now. I want to smooth away his stress written in the creases on his forehead, to lighten his mood.