He narrows his eyes at me, but there's no heat behind it. "Hilarious."
"Give me your hands," I demand, patting my lap. "I'll do yours first."
Ramsey sighs dramatically but doesn't resist as I shake the matte black polish. "Fine, but don't fuck them up."
I roll my eyes and get to work, carefully applying the black polish to his nails. His hands are strong, clean, and with neatly trimmed nails. Not that I'd ever tell him that because he’d never let me live it down.
"All done," I announce after finishing. "Now it's my turn."
I wiggle my toes expectantly, and Ramsey grabs the pale blue polish he picked out. He pats his lap, and I swing my legs up, resting my feet on his powerful thighs.
His thumb presses against a fresh blister, and I wince. "Sorry they’re so gross."
"Shut the fuck up," Ramsey says, his voice surprisingly gentle despite the harsh words. "Your feet aren't gross. They're powerful. Strong." His fingers massage my arch, sending shivers up my spine. "These feet tell stories, baby girl. They show how hard you work, how dedicated you are."
I swallow hard as his thumb presses into a sore spot, the pain-pleasure of it making me bite my lip. "Still ugly though."
"Nothing about you is ugly," he says firmly, opening the polish and starting on my big toe. "Not a single fucking inch."
The way he says it, like it's an indisputable fact, makes my chest tight. I watch as he carefully paints each nail, his massive hands surprisingly delicate with the tiny brush. His face is screwed up in concentration, the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips.
"You have always been weirdly good at this," I observe as he finishes the first foot without a single smudge.
"I'm good at everything," he says without looking up, already starting on my other foot.
When he's done, he blows gently on my toes, his breath warm against my skin. Something hot and liquid pools in my belly at the sensation.
"Your turn," I say, maybe a little too quickly. "Facial time."
Ramsey groans but doesn't fight me as I pull out the charcoal mask. "This shit better not stain my beard."
"It won't, you big baby." I squeeze a dollop onto my fingers. "Close your eyes."
He complies, his face relaxing as I start applying the cool mask to his forehead. His skin is warm under my touch, and I find myself lingering longer than necessary, tracing the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones.
"What?" he asks without opening his eyes, clearly sensing my hesitation.
"Nothing. Just..." I swallow. "You have good bone structure."
One eye cracks open. "Are you hitting on me, star?"
"Shut up and let me finish." I smear more mask over his nose, maybe a little rougher than necessary.
When I'm done, Ramsey looks ridiculous—his sharp, dangerous face covered in gray goop, only his eyes and mouth visible. I snap a quick picture before he can protest.
"Delete that," he growls.
"No way. This is going in the blackmail folder with all the others."
I set my phone down and apply my own mask, enjoying the cooling sensation on my skin. We sit in companionablesilence; the TV playing some mindless reality show in the background while our masks dry.
"Ten minutes and we can wash these off," I say, settling back against the couch cushions.
Feeling restless, I grab my dance notebook off the table and take my pen out of the binding.
"What are you doing?" Ramsey asks, glancing over as I flip to a blank page.
"Something I should have done a long time ago." I tap the pen against the paper, thinking. I chew on my pen cap, staring at the blank page.
