“Clippers? You mean—how short would you go?”
He shrugs. “To the scalp, so it’ll be good ’til summer.”
The thought of him buzzing off all his glorious hair, so there’s nothing but fuzz over a white scalp, makes me cringe.
“Not clippers,” I scoff. “That would be stupid.”
His gaze slides to my face. “Why’s that?”
“You don’t need to go that short. Call a salon in Boston. There are plenty.”
“I’m not driving to Boston for a haircut.”
“Then let someone else do it. Anyone can cut it for you, enough to get you by until your actual appointment.”
His gaze rakes over me. “All right. Cut it for me right now. You want it wet or dry?”
“Right now? Before dinner at Declan Heyworth’s?”
“Yeah. Wet or dry?”
After a beat, I say, “Wet. Don’t you want to know whether I’ve cut a man’s hair before?”
“Not really.” He removes his sweater as he walks toward the bathroom. After swinging the door closed, I hear running water.
He’s serious.
A couple moments later, he emerges.Shirtless.
His torso deserves to have entire erotic novels dedicated to it. Muscles on top of muscles that all flex and bulge as he moves. Along his right side there’s a large area of dark purple bruises. Apparently his nose wasn’t the only thing that took a brutal hit during the championship game. I wonder if any of his ribs are broken. If so, he’s extremely tough because he hasn’t complained. I like that in a man.
Bray once limped around whining all night from a stubbed toe. It annoyed me, which is probably sexist of me. The men in my family are macho, so I find it weird and off-putting when guys carry on about small injuries.
Sorensen’s bruising is extensive, so he couldn’t be faulted, even by me, for favoring that area. Extra points for grit, I decide.
He’s got some kind of Celtic Viking tattoo on his left shoulder. I’m not into heavily inked guys, but his works. It’s large, but not so large that it obscures my view of the underlying landscape. His muscles are definitely the main attraction as far as I’m concerned.
Sorensen takes a pair of scissors from the kitchen butcher’s block of knives and sits on the bench at the table, facing away from me. The table’s top is a single piece of wood that’s been sanded and varnished. The tree must’ve been massive, like its owner.
I study Sorensen’s back and the water beaded on his shoulders. A crazy urge to lick the water from his skin hits me hard and unbidden. Jesus, he’s got a gorgeous body.
Grabbing the scissors, I refocus on the task. Biting the handle of the scissors between my teeth, I gather his thick mane in my hands. Once I’ve got the hair clenched in my left fist, I use my right to cut across it. He has so much hair I practically have to saw through it.
Clusters of hair surround us in a half moon on the floor. As I set about creating a style from the remaining medium-length strands, I say, “You’d be crazy to cut too much. Plenty of women love long hair.” My fingers slide over his scalp, raising sections to clip.
When I finish the back, I brush off his shoulders and take a step back. “Turn to face me, so I can do the front.”
Once he turns, I step into the space between his knees. The scent of spicy soap and the musk of male skin drifts into my nose. Delicious. Licking my lips absently, I try to focus on the work. My fingers move steadily, clipping into the strands at an angle.
Backing up, I tilt my head. “How does it feel?”
“Lighter.” He runs a big hand through it.
I’ve left enough length that it skims his shoulders, but I’ve cut layers that frame his face rather than falling over it.
His light blue eyes lock with mine. “The beard, gone or not?”
My hand touches his beard, which is coarser than the soft hair on his head. “Why ask me?”
