He’s washing my hair.
Dark Ezekial.
Lock-him-in-the-pit Ezekial.
Is washing. My. Hair.
I’m so stunned I almost miss his expression shifting with slight concentration. The way his dark eyes narrow as he tries to cover every stand.
Then he starts to massage my scalp.
Oh.
Dear.
Holy.
Goddesses.
This man knows how to use his hands. His fingers press and caress in ways I didn’t know my scalp could be touched. It’s borderline spiritual.
By the time he’s done, I’m swaying on my feet, eyes shut, breaths uneven. When his hands leave my hair, I almost cry that it’s over… but it isn’t.
He begins washing everywhere else.
He’s not being sexual. Not exactly. Even when his palms skim gently over my breasts, between my thighs, his touch is careful and delicate. Not meant to intentionally arouse.
But I am aroused.
Very, very aroused.
If he decides to stay between my legs for longer than strictly necessary, I’m honestly not sure I’ll have the resolve to stop him.
Thankfully—or not—his touches stop, and the spray rinses the lather away.
When his hand cups my cheek, gently lifting my face, my eyes flutter open.
His are still so dark, but the terror is fading.
“Out,” he murmurs, mimicking me, though the word is grittier and less sure.
I huff out a soft laugh, but do as he says, stepping out and quickly grabbing a towel, wrapping it around me and tucking it in at the top. Ezekial watches me take another towel, step closer, and lift it slowly to his chest. I dab away the water, studying the black lines embedded in his skin, noticing the way they shift beneath my touch.
I must pause too long, because his fingers curl around mine, guiding them in small circles, a silent instruction to keep drying. His dark eyes stay fixed on me, almost pleading. It’s… kinda sweet.
I smile softly and stretch onto my toes to reach his shoulders, a strained groan slipping out when I still can’t quite—
He scoops me up and sets me gently on the counter by the sink. I let out a small laugh, but he’s already guiding my hand, pulling it up over his shoulder. I’m fairly sure he could dry himself at this point, but…
When I’ve finished what I can reach, I toss the towel over his head and ruffle his hair. I’ve never dried a man’s hair before, but Ezekial doesn’t object, so I guess it’s fine.
When I ease the towel away, he’s staring—first at me, then at my hair, watching the water drip from the ends.
He grabs another towel and tosses it over my head—
“Wait!” I squeak, pulling the towel off. “If you do to my hair what I did to yours, I’ll never get the knots out.”
I quickly show him, wringing out the ends into the sink, then clamping the towel along my hair and working upward, pressing gently to draw out the excess.
