I closed my eyes. “This feels so good.”
“It’s supposed to. It’s called love and hydration.”
I didn’t know much about hydration, but I was certain I’d never been loved like this before.
This is what I’ve been missing in my life. . .
A gentle tug brought me out of my thoughts. She was working the foam through my hair, finger-combing it through with meticulous care that I'd never experienced.
Her fingers brushed against my scalp once, twice, three times and I found myself leaning into her touch, my body begging for more, my cock twitching over and over.
I grunted, and my lids dropped low.
“Okay. Now you’re good.” She moved her hand away.
“No. I’m not good. I need more of that.”
“More of what?”
“Whatever you were doing.”
“Kenji, I am trying to get out of this damned shower and you are trying to keep us in here.”
I grumbled.
We rinsed our hair together beneath the steam and water, trading quiet laughter and soft touches. By the time we stepped out, her brown skin glowed and my hair—so rarely treated with such care—felt light and alive.
After handing me a towel, she wrapped herself in one too, and placed another around her head. “Now give me some more time because I have to do more.”
“More? You already washed your hair.”
She grinned, tightening the towel at her crown. “Oh, baby. The wash was just the beginning.”
“Was it now?” I had no idea what was coming next, but I’d already decided one thing—whatever ritual this was, however long it took, I was staying right here to watch every second of it.
Chapter nineteen
The Temple of Her Hair
Kenji
With that, my Tiger went to the other side of the bathroom and spread out her tools across the vanity in a careful lineup: odd-looking combs, oils, other bottles full of good-smelling products, clips, tiny gold cuffs.
Then she sat down and started.
Curious as I was, I leaned against the doorframe in my towel and crossed my arms over my damp chest.
I just. . .couldn’t look away.
There was something strangely captivating about the seriousness she gave it, coating her hair in some other mixture and fingering the strands.
I had thought all of this was going to be aten-minute situation.
I was wrong.
But after thirty minutes, I stopped caring about the time because I realized I wasn’t waiting for her to get ready anymore. . .I was witnessing the beauty of our differences.
Over and over, she parted her hair with a small comb, each motion confident and careful. The sections she created were exact, clean lines across that crown of coiled texture.
