A growl rises in my throat before I can stop it.
"The shaving kit is in the cabinet under the sink," I say. "Left side. Bring it to the counter."
I hear her moving. Opening the cabinet. The rustle of the leather bag being lifted. Her footsteps crossing the tile.
"There's a brush and a bowl," I say. "And the razor. The cream is in the red tube."
"Okay." Her voice is closer now. Right beside me. Close enough that I can feel her warmth. "I have it."
"Run the water. Hot. Fill the bowl about halfway."
The tap turns on. Water splashing into ceramic. Steam rising.
"Wet the brush. Then work it into the cream. You want it to foam. Thick."
I can hear the brush moving in the bowl. Rhythmic. Steady. The soft sound of bristles against porcelain.
"Keep going until it's thick enough to hold."
The sound continues. She's focused. Concentrated. Taking the task seriously.
"Now what?"
I hear her set the bowl down. Sense her standing in front of me. Close but not touching.
"Apply the cream," I tell her. "Start at my jaw."
She reaches up. I feel the brush touch my skin. Soft. Tentative. Like she's afraid of hurting me.
But she's too short. She can't reach properly. I can hear the strain in her breathing, the way she's stretching.
Before she can say anything, I reach for her. Find her waist. My hands span it easily, feeling the curve of her hips, the softness beneath her shirt.
I lift.
She makes a small surprised sound. Her hands go to my shoulders automatically, steadying herself.
I set her on the counter. Step between her legs. The towel brushes against her thighs. Bare skin against fabric.
"There," I say, my voice rough. "Easy access."
Her breathing changes. Faster. Uneven. I can feel the heat of her radiating between us. Can sense the way her body responds even though she's trying to hide it.
"Apply the cream," I tell her again.
The brush touches my skin. She starts at my jaw like I instructed. The cream is warm, slick. She works methodically, covering my jaw, my chin, up to my cheeks. Her movements are careful. Precise.
"More pressure," I say. "I won't break."
She adjusts. The brush moves with more confidence now.
"Good," I say. "Now the razor. It's in the kit. Black handle."
I hear her set down the brush. The click of the razor case opening. Metal sliding against leather.
"Hold it at an angle," I tell her, keeping my voice steady. "Not straight on. About thirty degrees. Start with the neck. Short strokes. With the grain first."
The blade touches my skin.
