The Sounds of Secrets

by Whitney Barbetti

  “The studio was supposed to be my sister’s.”

  He was quiet for a minute, staring at me. “But…” He rubbed his lips together in contemplation. “I thought the restaurant was your sister’s. The dance studio was yours.”

  My head fell back to the sofa cushions. “My grandparents intended the studio for Mal—remember, I said she taught me to dance. But she fell in love with the pub and wanted something like that. So,” I ran my tongue over my teeth, “I got the studio instead while she got the restaurant. And now, thanks to the sale of my studio, Ames can finally fund the renovations for the restaurant. My sister’s dream, come to life.”

  “So, are you telling me the studio wasn’t your dream then?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t think this was a very good secret, mostly because it wasn’t much of a secret. If anyone had ever asked me point-blank if I wanted to inherit a dance studio, my answer would have been noncommittal. “I didn’t ask for it. But they gave it to me, and what was I supposed to do? Complain about being given a piece of real estate with no strings attached?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  I lifted my head to look at him like he was crazy. “Are you serious right now?”

  He adjusted so he was sitting up too, looking at me straight. “Dead serious. They gave you your sister’s dream. You didn’t have to accept it.”

  “It’s not that easy,” I started before he interrupted me.

  “It doesn’t have to always be easy, Lots. In fact, the best things aren’t easy.” He patted me on the knee and then didn’t remove his hand.

  “It wasn’t easy selling it.”

  “Exactly. And now you’re going to go off gallivanting to the States. Find adventure. Fall in love.”

  “Why are you so hung up on this love business?” I asked him.

  “I’m not hung up.”

  I leaned against him, bumping into him. His arm came around my back, so I couldn’t pull away. “You keep bringing it up.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I’m doing a better job at keeping track of how many times you’ve brought it up versus how many shots I’ve had. Three. I think.”

  “You’ve had more than three shots.” He squeezed me and I settled my head onto his shoulder.

  “I’m not talking about the shots. You’ve told me, three times, that I’m going to fall in love in the States. And you’ve made it sound like the absolute worst each time.”

  “Wouldn’t it be, though?” Though he said it aloud, it sounded like a thought he’d meant to keep to himself, especially when his jaw clenched immediately after, when he looked away from me.

  I tried not to analyze his words too much—not that I could anyway, in my current situation of trying to make the floor stop spinning. It was a million times safer to be here, with Sam, than to try to focus on the world around us. But nothing about Sam was safe.

  “Why?” I asked, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

  His hand gripped my shoulder, jolting me to look at him. His gaze had grown more intense, more focused—and as he shifted his eyes to my lips, leaning in, I had to remind myself to breathe.

  And then his lips were on mine. Warm, soft, open. It amazed me that alcohol could numb me to my surroundings, to my own fear of being in his presence. But nothing, absolutely nothing, anesthetized me to the feel of Sam’s lips pressing against mine.

  I almost fought it—the wave of memory of our last kiss fell over me and threatened, like a riptide, to yank me from him. But his hands framed my cheeks, and I had no choice but to become compliant to him.

  He tilted my head, deepening the kiss, as a moan came from his throat. His breath fanned over my lips and I clutched at his shirt, desperate for this moment to not be like our last, desperate for him to remember who he was kissing, to see me.

  Which he did, when he pulled away and stared at me. “Lots,” he said softly, his fingers pressing me as if he wasn’t sure I was real.

  I searched his eyes—for regret, for confusion—for everything except what I saw, plain as day: desire.

  “Upstairs,” I whispered. This was my chance. Our chance. The last one we’d get.

  I watched him swallow, steady his breathing, before he nodded in agreement.

  “I’ll meet you upstairs,” he said, and then pressed his forehead to mine, closing his eyes briefly. My heart roared and my hands shook even as they still held his shirt. “What are we doing?”

  “Shut up, Sam,” I whispered before I stood. It took a few seconds for me not to sway, and I walked away from him, toward the door that separated the pub from the kitchen, which led to the flat I shared with my family. Just before I passed through the door, I looked over my shoulder, seeing Sam sitting on the leather sofa, in between the throngs of people that still milled about the pub.

  He was looking straight at me, not a smile on his lips. But there was something in his eyes, something that told me he’d follow me like he’d promise.

  So, I gave him the smallest smile and disappeared upstairs before anyone could stop me.

  Chapter Six

  Once I’d made it to the stairs unseen, I bolted up them, losing whatever calm I’d possessed in walking away from him.

  I listened for my father when I was on the landing, but the faint blue light from his telly, under his bedroom door, signaled to me that he was fast asleep.

  The roar in my blood hadn’t slowed. In fact, it gave me purpose as I strode down the hall to my bedroom. The room was neat, tidy, with three suitcases piled on one side.

  I stopped in front of my dressing table, checking my reflection. My blonde hair had gone flat, so I fluffed it, but the little bit of makeup I wore was still intact. My eyes glided down, taking in the dress I was wearing. I wished, in that moment, that it was sexier.

  I scooped up my bottle of perfume and sprayed a little on my wrists, which I then pressed behind my ears.

  I was going to throw up from the nerves.

  No, I told myself. No throwing up. Not when you were expecting Samson to come into your room any second.

  But the feeling was so strong. I popped a mint from my bedside table in my mouth, rolled it around my tongue a few times, but the urge was still there.

  Oh, shit. Was this a mistake? Was inviting Sam into my room a big fat problem? I was leaving tomorrow.

  The printed itinerary, neatly stacked on my chest of drawers laughed at me. What was I going to do? I couldn’t let Samson come up here.

  My hands fisted in my hair as I berated myself for telling him to come. What was I thinking? I wasn’t some sexual nymph, skilled in the way Sam surely was. I wasn’t a virgin, but I hadn’t actually messed around with a bunch of guys.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  I walked to the door, pressed my palm flat to it. I’d lock it. Then he couldn’t come in. He’d walk away, and we’d forget this ever happened.

  Look how well that happened the last time you kissed him, my memory taunted me. Three years later, and you’re still wondering ‘what if.’

  There was no reasonable escape from this situation. And, if there was, there was no escape that would make me not obsess over the what if.

  It’d be okay, I told myself. Of course it would. Sex was nothing, right?

  But I didn’t even believe my own thoughts. My nerves battled with my own desire. I couldn’t process a single thing.

  I ran my fingers over my eyebrows or, what was left of them that wasn’t colored in, at least. I’d pulled so many out in the days leading up to the trip, needing some control over this impending trip.

  I trailed my fingers to the sides of my face, tugging on my earlobes to ground me, and then, in tandem, I pulled out a hair with each hand. The immediate relief was nearly as intoxicating as the alcohol I’d consume in how it numbed my fears.

  It would be okay.

  I took in a cleansing breath, looking around my room for anything potentially embarrassing.

  The blinds were open, so I closed them, leaving my room
in soft, muted grays aside from the yellow lamp that lit up my dressing table.

  My hand was on the back of the lamp to turn it off when my door creaked open.

  Samson stood in the threshold, nearly taking up the entire space.

  I switched the light off.

  It was only a few loud heartbeats before he said, “Turn it back on.”

  I hesitated.

  I couldn’t see him, but I heard the creak on the floor by the door. “Turn it on, Lotte.”

  Swallowing hard, I did.

  The room was illuminated again in soft light, casting shadows into the angles of Sam’s face—making him look exactly as he was: dangerous.

  He stepped further into the room without taking his eyes off of mine, and then he softly closed the door behind him.

  My butt was pressed against my desk, the edge of it biting into my skin. My nails dug into the soft skin of my palms as he approached me, and it was then that I felt the power that alcohol had had on me start to drift away. I couldn’t look him in the eyes, not when he was looking at me like a man intent on desire.

  He looked around my room, and I wondered what he was thinking. I’d taken care to make it more grown up, more me, but it still held touches, like the light pink lamp on my desk, decorated with a group of fairies on the shade, that echoed my mother’s effect. He had a cup of water that he set on the vanity, just feet from me, but instead of coming closer, he turned.

  I fisted a hand to my stomach in a miserable attempt to calm it when he stopped at the foot of my bed. He spread one hand on the quilt and pressed it there.

  “You asked me up here,” he started. “Why?”

  I cleared my throat, knowing my voice would be weak otherwise. “Because.”

  One side of his mouth lifted in smile, making him seem somehow more threatening. “So articulate when you’re drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk,” I insisted, but didn’t step away from the desk.

  “I have my doubts about that.” He lowered himself until he was sitting at the foot of my bed. He patted the quilt in invitation, but he looked completely unthreatening now.

  Confused, I took small, measured steps to the bed. When I stopped just short of sitting beside him, he looked up at me.

  “What?”

  I furrowed my brow. “Why are you here?”

  “You asked me to come here.” He breathed out deeply. “Why? You’re leaving tomorrow, Lotte.”

  I licked my lips. “I know.” I cleared my throat again. “That’s partly why I asked you here.” Reluctantly, I sat beside him.

  “Lotte…” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. When he turned to me, one lock of hair was curved over his forehead, its ends pressing against his eyebrow. “I’m not sure what to do here.”

  It was pathetic how quickly embarrassment flooded my cheeks. “If you don’t want to be here, you can leave.”

  He laid his hand on my arm. “It’s not about me wanting.” He was looking down at where our skin touched. “That’s … that’s not the issue.”

  “Then there is no issue.” But I still couldn’t breathe easily.

  “I hate to ask this,” he said. His eyes closed for a second. “But … are you a virgin?”

  The color of embarrassment in my cheeks must have deepened at his question and I stared at his hand on my skin. “I’m not a virgin.” I chewed on my lip as I contemplated what to say next. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes had opened again. “Samson, are you a virgin?”

  He laughed and groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. “Jesus. Okay.”

  I flipped my arm over so I was palm up. “Were you really worried about that?”

  “Of course I was, Lotte.” In a gesture of tenderness I was unaccustomed to, he brushed the hair from my forehead. “The way the light glows behind all this white hair, you look innocent. Pure.” His eyes met mine, warm brown shining at me. “Like a halo.”

  “I’m not an angel.” In a move that was inspired by no small amount of fear, I lifted my hand to wrap around his bicep. “And I’m not a child.”

  “Oh, I’m aware.” He looked at me with this inexplicable tenderness in his face; his mouth soft like it belonged to a poet. “You look beautiful, backlit like this. Like a painting. Delicate, but the set of your jaw shows strength.” His fingers followed his words, dragging along the line of my chin. “You have Botticelli eyes,” he said softly. His thumb grazed the curve of my bottom lip. “Sensual lips.” His hand gripped my chin and he leaned in, just brushing his lips against mine. Softly, slowly, savoring. I heard a sharp intake of breath release from his mouth. “This is what you want?”

  We were held in a suspended silence for several long moments as I tried to summon all my strength, to make the Lotte of tomorrow happy for grabbing onto the one thing she’d wanted.

  In answer, I shifted against him so that I straddled his lap, and circled my arms around his neck, deepening the kiss.

  His hands pressed against my back, holding me so close to him as we kissed, and kissed, and kissed.

  I’d imagined this moment a hundred times, in a hundred different scenarios. I’d expected to be afraid, to be trembling, but I wasn’t. His arms wrapped securely around me, his fingers pressing into the flat muscles of my back, had a kind of grounding effect on me.

  He pulled back, hands diving into my hair, eyes heavy lidded and filled with enough heat that I felt it fill me too. He leaned in again, peppering soft, sensual kisses, tugging on my bottom lip with teeth, as his hands cupped my head. Keeping me completely still to do what he wished.

  I bunched the fabric at his waist in my hands, wishing for fewer layers. My skin was a million degrees, growing hotter by the second. As if he could read my mind, he leaned away to tug his shirt off over his head.

  I took a deep, shuddering breath, my fingers gliding over all that exposed skin. I’d seen him shirtless a few times, but never this close, and never had I been able to touch him.

  I leaned forward and placed a kiss over the line of his shoulder. It’d been an impulse, one that instantly made me unsure. Turning my head, I met his eyes. He was staring at me under long dark lashes, as if he was daring me to continue.

  My hands explored some more, gliding over all that taut muscle, in the curves and valleys of them, until they linked behind his neck, fingers digging into the base of his skull.

  He closed his eyes briefly, but when he opened them again, they were so dark they were almost black. I’d never had a man look at me like that. All my previous experiences had been in dark rooms with muffled words, with less hands and no eye contact.

  The intimacy wasn’t in the amount of flesh we exposed, it was in this—his eyes searching mine. I dragged my thumbs over the sides of his neck. He had the body of someone who played contact sports, but he slung paint instead of a rugby ball.

  I was aware of the dichotomy between us, his warm olive skin under my pale fingers, his broad shoulders and tightly-bound muscles versus my slender, dancer limbs.

  He pulled my hand from his chest and held it up so the light hit it. He watched it, fascinated, turning it in the light while the shadows danced across it. “Beautiful hands,” he said softly, and then brought my palm to his lips. Meeting my eyes, he pressed the softest kiss right to its center.

  Forget what I’d said about not being nervous. That one simple act made me glad he still had an arm around me, or otherwise I might’ve trembled right off of his lap.

  With his eyes still on mine, he moved his lips down my palm to where it met my wrist. Gently, he nibbled a little on the skin there, and I squirmed on his lap from the sensation.

  A wicked little smile spread across his lips from my reaction, but he kept moving, placing soft, slow kisses along my inner arm until he met the inside of my elbow.

  Carefully, but confidently, he lifted my arm so that I wrapped it around my head. He leaned in like he was going kiss my mouth again, but his lips detoured to my jaw, pressing gentle kisses along the curve of skin there all the
way to my ear.

  I tipped my head back; the sensation was incredibly stronger here, as if he was giving a direct hit to all my nerve endings. His hand tangled in my hair again, and he pulled my head to the side so he could nibble on my earlobe. One hand pushed my hair away from my face, and I let out a breath that didn’t feel like it even belonged to me. My body didn’t feel like it belonged to me. He knew where to touch, where to kiss.

  He kissed behind my ear and down my neck, alternating between sucking on my skin and nibbling. The differences in the two feelings made me grow hungrier for more of him, more of every part of him.

  His hands trailed across the straps of my dress before easing a finger under one, and rubbing along the skin it revealed. He tipped my chin so that I was looking at him as he pulled the strap down, away from my skin.

  I tugged my other strap so that they both hung slack, and when I shifted on his lap, the entire top of the dress slipped down over my breasts to gather at my stomach.

  He watched my throat as I swallowed. I was wearing a pretty simple strapless bra, certainly not prepared for this to have happened. But he didn’t look even the least bit disappointed. He dragged over the curves of my breasts to where they were hidden in my bra.

  “Stand up.” Though he said it softly, it felt loud, like a command that boomed right into me.

  As gracefully as I could, I slid off of his lap to stand, and the dress pooled at my feet, leaving me clad in my knickers, bra and low heels.

  His smile returned to his face, once again making him appear more dangerous than when he was serious. He stood up off the bed, approaching me, and out of instinct I backed up until I was against the wall.

  He dragged his hand down my front, his warm hand such a contrast from the cool of the air. I knew my stomach quivered when he splayed his hand over my lower belly, but I tried to steel my spine.

  His hand glided back up, over the center of my bra, one finger trailing up my neck until it landed at my chin, which he lifted to drop a warm kiss to my lips. He hummed against my mouth for a minute and my arms wrapped around his neck to keep him from moving away.