“Ye’re here so I can fix this mess of a coiffure. Who cut yer hair? A sheep?”
He’d managed to surprise her, and Rosie twisted in her chair to see his determined look as he lifted a delicate pair of scissors.
“Sheep are the ones sheared, dear Bull.”
He lifted a brow. “Ye look as if ye allowed a sheep to gnaw at yer head,dear Rosie. A sheep who already had a mouthful of cud. And was cross-eyed. And drunk.”
“Ouch.” She turned back around and arranged her shoulders. “Merida cut my hair.”
“She’s shite at it.” Bull stepped up behind her. “I thought artists had a better sense of style.”
Rosie opened her mouth to defend her cousin—which would be difficult, considering she didn’t actually believe the cut Meri had given her to be particularly flattering—but snapped her mouth shut when Bull’s palm landed on her head.
It was a gentle touch, just a way to tip her head forward and allow him access to the nape of her neck.
But in that moment, all of Rosie’s veins and arteries and nerve endings and spinal cord—allof the bits that made upher…rewired themselves. Because one moment she was sparring with Bull, and the next moment she’d turn to a sort of fookinggoopuddleas he held her still with that large hand.
When the metal of the small scissors—of course he’d have something like this on his dressing table, he likely did all his sartorial adjustments himself—scraped across her neck, Rosie shuddered.
And she was smart enough to realize it had far more to do with his touch than that of the scissors.
He worked in silence, the only sound the scissors snipping far more delicately than anything Merida and her mother’s embroidery shears could have managed. Rosie’s fingers curled into fists on her lap, trying to give herself a sensation to focus on, because she was afraid if she didn’t, she might just float away into the ether.
And then…
And then Bull’s fingertips brushed delicately against thenape of her neck, sending another shudder through her body.
“What’s wrong?” he barked.
She could barely breathe. “Ticklish,” she managed to mutter.
He grunted. “Ye were covered in little hairs.”
His hold on her head turned firm as he tipped her head back.Allthe way back, so she was staring up at him. This pose—half supplicant, half submissive—had her lips parting, her lids lowering in speculation.
Bull’s fingertips dug into her scalp as he moved to stand beside her, his eyes dark and unreadable as he stared down at her. His hips—his pelvis—were right at her shoulder. She could lean slightly to the left, brush herself against him. Would she feel his arousal? Did it arouse him to see her sitting like this, her mouth open…?
In curious experiment, Rosie drew her lower lip between her teeth then popped it back out again.
Bull released her abruptly and stepped back with a muted curse.
It was, judging from their history, something along the lines ofFor fook’s sake, Rosie.
She hid her smile as she turned forward once more, and after a long moment, he bent down to begin snipping at her hair again.
This was the most wonderful torture, to be teased and stroked without him having any idea how arousing it was. Mother had often stroked Rosie’s hair as they’d readtogether, even in recent years…but it had never made her feel likethis. Never made her feel as if every fiber of her being was focused on her scalp before jolting deliciously through her.
It was all Rosie could do to not groan aloud as Bull ran his thick fingers through her hair, fluffing it out as he snipped and cut.
Toad-spotted spunk-stockings, but this feltdelightful.
She was having trouble concentrating on anything but the pleasure of his touch, so when he spoke, it took her a moment to process his words.
“Ye must do nothing tonight to alert anyone to yer identity, ye ken?”
Rosie had to remember how to make her voice work.
Right. Inhale. Hold it. Try to swallow. Clear your throat. Ah, good. Words.
