Ezekial watches the entire process, enamoured, like I’m performing some sacred ritual.
“Done.” I smile. “I’d usually blow dry it, but…” He’s staring at me, a soft furrow between his brows. I point to the dryer on the other side of the counter. “That thing.”
He doesn’t look, just keeps watching me.
I lean over, grab it, and aim it at my hair before switching it on. He flinches at the sound, stepping back.
“Shit—sorry,” I blurt, guilt surging. “I was just showing you. I do this.” I run the dryer up and down once, then switch it off. “Like that. But it takes a while, ‘cause my hair’s so long. We can skip—”
He takes it from my hand, staring at it like he’s assessing the threat level. Then hot air touches my skin and…
He starts to dry my hair. Now I’m the one staring.
I drink in every moment, because there’s no way the others will believe this unless I show them the memory. I barely believe it, and I’m the one living it.
Whilst he dries one side, I grab a wide-tooth comb and brush out the other.
Dark Ezekial learns fast; as soon as one side is nearly dry, he switches to the other.
Although we don’t speak, it’s actually… nice. Comforting. This simple act of taking care of each other on such a basic level. Without the need for words, just gentle touches.
When the dryer clicks off, he sets it down and looks over me with a softness I can’t quite name.
I twist towards the mirror behind us and smile. “Perfect.”
Turning back, I catch the faintest flicker of silver in his gaze. But then it’s gone.
I hop down, grab one of his large hands, guiding him into the bedroom and straight to the set of drawers before he can think to carry me again.
Thank both Goddesses there are actual clothes inside, because being in bed naked together would’ve been a challenge I’m not entirely sure we’d survive.
But then I spot them—the grey joggers. Yet another challenge.
“Here.” I turn, holding out those sinful joggers. He doesn’t take them. I let go of his hand and put them there instead. “Go on, put them on.”
He blinks at the joggers, then me.
I shake my head, lowering my voice. “No, don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m saying.” I point firmly to his legs. “Put. Them. On.”
Eyes on mine, he drops the pants. My gaze narrows, but he’s stepping towards me, like he’s about to grab me again.
I step back. “No, Ze,” I warn, voice firm. He stops. “I won’t touch you again if you don’t put them on.”
Did this fucker just grunt at me? Again?
I cross my arms, nodding at the pants now on the ground. “No pants. No touching.”
His jaw clenches. My arms stay crossed.
Slowly, he bends to get them, but never takes his eyes off me, and my smug little smile vanishes when his towel suddenly drops.
I swear my gaze only briefly flicks down. Barely a second.
But he notices, and the tiniest quirk of his lip has me glaring as he finally puts the joggers on.
Is it better than him being fully naked? No. No, it is not.
They do nothing to hide his very prominent bulge. They sit low on his hips, drawing my gaze up to his defined V-line. His abs, his chest, his arms—those shoulders—
