I let out a dry laugh, my eyes darting to the door. “I should get out of your hair. You probably have a ton of appointments,” I say, angling to leave.
“I’ve actually canceled my bookings for the rest of the day.” He tugs on my overgrown strands. “Here. Let me fix this. You’re a mess.”
Something about the soft way he says it confuses the hell out of me.
“I don’t need a pity cut,” I say, my eyes dropping to his lips.
“This is not pity. Frankly, I could use something else to focus on.”
I don’t know what his angle is. All I know is that I’ll do whatever he asks as long as he keeps touching me.
Pathetic.
I let him direct me to his chair, trying not to think about how much I like it when he takes charge. He covers me with the drape and grabs the spray bottle. I have to bite my lip as he mists my hair, then combs it, the sound of the teeth pushing through the wet strands sending tendrils of pleasure down my neck.
Sectioning off a thin strip of hair, he starts cutting, and I wonder if anyone’s ever had an orgasm from ASMR alone.
“Uncle Raf always cracked us up with his trick shots,” I say, apropos of nothing. “He’d have us line up soda cans on the fence, then shoot at some piece of metal nailed to a tree—had the angle worked out so the bullet would bounce and hit the cans. And he’d always pull out these huge guns, way too big for him. We thought it was hilarious. He’s so small, but he never missed…”
I don’t really know what I’m asking, I just need to hear that slight roughness in his voice.
He nods, moving to the other side of my head. “I’ve seen him in action. He’s no joke.”
Shocked, I turn to look at him. “Really?”
His eyes widen and he steps back.
“Careful. I almost took off part of your ear.”
“Sorry, but…Uncle Raf is involved too? Really?”
He gestures for me to face forward again, and I comply. After a pause, he resumes the cut.
“I saw your uncle take out a very dangerous man from fifty yards away, under cover of darkness, on a windy night.”
He grins at me in the mirror, gesturing across the top of his head, as if to indicate where Raf shot the guy.
I wrinkle my nose.
“Are you okay?”
“I dunno,” I croak. “It’s hard to imagine Raf—sweet, funny Raf—killing people.”
Truett puts down his shears and runs his hand up and down my back.
“Breathe easy, Rahm. In and out.”
I quietly follow his instruction, swaying under his touch, wishing I could ask for a hug, but something tells me Truett isn’t the hugging type. Instead, I try to clear my mind, letting the soothing rhythm of his hand bring me back down to earth. After a while, the muscles in my back and shoulders loosen, and I sit up again.
Truett picks up his shears. “Do you want me to continue?”
I nod. Wordlessly, he goes back to cutting, his actions swift and precise. I asked him to update my look, so he’s going a little shorter on the sides and a little messier on the top. I like it.
I like it a lot.
He puts down the shears, ruffling the strands, eyeing howthey fall. Happy with his work, he uses a trimmer to clean up the back of my neck.
“Mind if I clean up your beard?”
