“Uh, sure. Go ahead.”
Coming around to the front, he pumps up the chair, stepping between my knees, leaning in to trim my facial hair, which is scruffier than I realized. He’s focused on the job at hand, expertly shaping the overgrown mess into something that defines my jaw and cheekbones.
When he carefully runs the trimmer up the front of my neck, I hold my breath. When his soft exhale tickles my chin, it’s all I can do to not beg for him to kiss me. Fuck me. Hold me until all the world is right again.
He’s a complete professional, of course, and it only takes him a few minutes to transform me from a slob to a social media prince, as he likes to put it. Grabbing the fluffy brush and some powder, he dusts the hair off my neck and shoulders, then snaps off the drape.
I stay in the chair, though, not wanting to leave, not knowing what to say. When he leans in to finger style the front of my hair, I mirror his inhalations and exhalations.
Just keep touching me.
“You are frustrating as hell, you know that?”
I startle at his words and snap to his whisky eyes in the mirror.
“Wh-what?”
“It’s annoying,” he says, standing away from me. “You follow me everywhere, add tracking devices to my car, and I can’t even be mad about it.”
“Silas is the one who told me to follow you. Said I might figure out why you rejected me.”
“He’s your cousin, right?”
I nod.
“He sounds smart.”
My heart falls to the bottom of my stomach. “Yeah. He’s more your type of smart. He’s better at being discreet.”
True shakes his head. “Nah, that’s not my type.”
“Oh.”
The unasked question hangs between us. When he doesn’t clarify, I let my chin drop. Truett steps between my legs again.
“Hey,” he says, his tone confusingly soft.
When my eyes find his, he smiles, fucking distracting with his artistically mussed hair and perfectly untidy beard scruff.
“Ask,” he orders. “Ask me about my type.”
“Twinks and bad boys,” I answer, speaking to his chest. “I’ve seen your social media.”
He shakes his head. “Stop assuming and ask the damned question, Rami.”
Okay, fine.
Pursing my lips, I give him my most insolent look. “Tell me, True. What’s your type?”
His eyes drift to my mouth before finding my gaze once more.
“Good boys with daddy issues.”
I suck in a sharp whimper, immediately surrendering any pretense of cool.
He sends me a wink, then pulls me out of the chair, taking my mouth in exactly the way I’ve been wanting him to for weeks.
It’s by far the best fucking kiss I’ve had in my entire life. I’m an emotional mess, and I don’t know up from down, but I do know this: Truett Valentine kisses like a man on fire. Before my brain can engage, he crowds against me, pressing every inch of his body against mine. I whine as his trapped erection brushes against my own.
